Whitecaps: The Night Before Christmas

With great apology to Clement Clarke Moore - and Ben Massey....

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through BC Place,
Not a Whitecap was stirring; there were no cleats to be laced.
The jerseys were hung in the dressing room with care,
In hopes that a full roster soon would be there.

The management committee were all snug in their beds,
While visions of CCL titles danced in their heads.
There was old Kerfoot, Mallett, Nash, and the Duze,
Who'd climbed under the quilt for a long winter's snooze.

When from out on the pitch there arose such a din,
It sounded like someone had fractured their shin,
To the front of the skybox I raced like rocket,
Sure that a limb had been wrenched from its socket.

The glare of the lights off the FieldTurf below
Filled BC Place with a heart-warming glow
When what to my bleary old eyes should appear,
But Dailey and Szekeres - enjoying 80-proof cheer.

Dressed in their Caps gear, which really looked slick,
They dribbled through cones, and did it damned quick!
From the south tunnel more footballers came
Both Mark and Jon whistled, and called them by name.

Now Corrigan!, now Andress!, now dhun and PLarue!
Now Calgaryrik!, now Alcibiades!, now Phinney and Massey, you too!
To the top of the box, to the back post and near,
Get your heads on those crosses - without any fear.

Like stallions on steroids, they galloped full speed,
To put balls in the net, they needed practice indeed.
Then it was dribbling, they worked on at pace,
Until one of our staffers fell flat on his face.

Back up in the skybox, I heard a knock on the door,
I'd just cracked a cold one, and was ready to pour.
With a mouthful of Cheetos, I stood up with a mutter,
It was probably Spike, that blue-feathered nutter.

Opening the portal, my fears were compounded,
It was Valentine and Spike - and in they both bounded.
Right past the shrimp plate, and beyond the pâté,
And straight to the wet bar they both made their way.

"Oh, what the hell...," I remember myself thinking,
They're better off sitting, if they're going to be drinking.
Glancing back down at the field far below,
I could see one of the players putting on a fine show.

First a Rabona, and then some great dribbling,
A Cruyff and a nutmeg started some quibbling.
I couldn't make out his name, but he wore number 10,
He made someone look like a pylon, I think it was Ben.

Then Valentine beside me let out a great bellow,
Directed down pitchside to that talented fellow.
"Lionel!" he yelled, with a wave and a grin,
Spilling some contents of his tonic & gin.

Number 10 stopped dead, and slowly turned round,
"Chalkie, my man!" came the reply from the ground.
I couldn't believe it was Messi, yet it was true,
Wearing the Caps colours - the white and the blue.

First clapping our way, and then all around,
He trotted off pitch, and to the edge of the ground.
And into the tunnel Lionel Messi did stride,
He glanced back,  with a glint in his eyes.

He slid into his Gallardo, then fastened the buckle,
And peeled out in a smokeshow that made everyone chuckle,
But I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight:
"Merry Christmas to all, you guys are alright!"

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