The night before the MAC title game

'Twas the night before the MAC title game, when all through the UB Stadium air,
Not a creature was stirring, not even Alex Zordich's hair;
The jerseys were hung by the lockers with care,
In hopes that Jeff Quinn soon would be there;
The Bulls were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of the title danc'd in their heads,
And Danny White in his 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's attack -
When out on the field there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bleachers to see what was the matter.
Away to the turf I flew like a flash,
Hopped the banister, and opened my recorder in a dash.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to Victor E. Bull below;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature old coach, and 11 gigantic defenders,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Lou Tepper doing a trick.
More rapid than Golden Flashes his Bulls they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and call'd them by name:
"Now! Mack, now! Skinner, now! , Bean and Redden,
"On! Najja, on! Lester on! Brim and Houston,

"Go!" Way, go! Bachtelle! Go on Sokoli;
"To the top of the end zone! to the top of the haul!
"Now pass rush away! Run stop away! Stampede away all!"
As sweat leaves before the wild Buffalo fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, they become a tough guy;
So up to the stadium-top the Bulls they flew,
With the sleigh full of big hits - and St. Quinn too:
And then in a twinkling, I heard on the suite
The prancing and pawing of each humongous cleat.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Through the offensive line Mack came with a bound:
He was dress'd all black, from his head to his toe,
And his clothes were all tarnish'd with blood and dirt though;
A bundle of trophies was flung on his back,
And he look'd like a behemoth just opening his pack:
His eyes - how they pierced! his facemask how chilling,
His forearm like a brick, his biceps how distilling;
His droll little mouthpiece was foamed up like a dog,
And the fade of his hair was cleaner than fog;
The laces of a football he held tight in his clasp,
Then in came Quinn, his head in a gasp.
He had a broad face, and a little round belly
That shook when he laugh'd, like a bowl full of jelly:
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laugh'd when I saw him in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke many a word, but went straight to his work,
And fill'd all the playbooks; then turn'd with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose
And giving a nod, out the tunnel he rose.
He sprung to his sideline, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all ran, like the down of a thistle:
But I heard him exclaim, ere he escaped out of sight -
Happy Championship to all, and to all NYBI!

email: owen.obrien@ubspectrum.com