‘Twas the night before the Super Bowl, when all through the plain, not a camera was snapping, no mics in the stands.
The helmets were hung by the lockers with care, for the equipment manager to polish with flair.
The players were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of Super Bowls danced in their heads.
And coach with his playbook, and I with my plays, were planning on putting the other team in a daze.
When out on the turf there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my desk to see what was the matter.
Away to the field, I flew like a pass, ran through the doorway and onto the grass.
The moon, on the crest painted on our midfield, gave great illumination to our team’s sacred shield.
When what did my mystified eyes seem to see, an unbeatable team playing in front of me.
With a quarterback tossing so perfect a throw, I knew in a moment his name must be Joe.
More rapid than lightening, his teammates they came, and he huddled and tapped them, and called them by name:
“Right, Jerry! Left, Irvin! Bus, straight through the line! Block, Munoz! Guard, Ogden! Gates, a catch would be fine!
To the midfield line! To the red zone, we go! Now run for the end zone, a touchdown I’ll throw!”
As practice balls before the big game fly, when players are warming, they launch through the sky.
So, into the end zone, the players they flew, high-fiving and dancing, with Super Joe, too.
And then in a moment, I heard a coach’s voice, “Bring on the kicker, one point is my choice!”
I blinked my eyes, and turned to stare, as sure-footed Anderson was jogging out there.
The coach was dressed in a suit, well tailored and pressed, his spectacles on, I was truly impressed.
A fedora he held loose in his hand, his bearing made clear this was no common man.
His eyes, how they crinkled! His face looked so merry, his winter complexion was red like a berry.
His generous mouth was split into a grin, you could see he was a man who was ready to win.
The end of a cigar he held firm in his jaw—a living rendition of the pictures I’d saw.
He had a kind face, yet a gamer’s visage, and I drew in my breath; I was totally awed.
He was forthright and brilliant—a hero to all—with him behind me, no way I could fall.
With a nod of his head, and a wink of his eye, I knew I’d succeed just as long as I try.
He said nothing more, as he turned to the game, congrats for the players as toward him they came.
And raising his arms in game winning glee, and grinning so wide, as the team lifted he.
They carried him off in victory celebration, as silence once more filled the ears of the Nation.
But I heard him proclaim as his wishes he rendered, “The harder you work, the harder it is to surrender.” *
*Quoted from a speech given by Vince Lombardi