Robservations: Twas the day after Christmas
Once again, for the second straight year, my apologies to Major Henry Livingston Jr. (1748-1828), the original author of this piece:
‘Twas the day after Christmas, at the office downtown,
Not a writer was writing; no one was around;
Except for those two who treat gyms like apartments,
your own friendly neighborhood sports department;
———
While other reporters were snug in their beds,
with two straight days off dancing ’round in their heads;
Ol’ Dale in his Ford truck, and I with a Dodge,
were covering tourneys, Overton and Warren Lodge.
Does the hoop ever end? Does it ever slow down?
Not as long as Ann Eades and Chris Turner are around.
And our friend Crusher Morris, not to be out-done,
holds a four-day event full of basketball fun.
———
So with guts full of turkey, away we both flee,
to cover those holiday hoops, don’t you see?
And where are those other reporters, you muse?
Are they out on the job, filling pages with news?
Or maybe they’re home, their new presents arranging,
Except for those few that they feel like exchanging;
———
I wonder if they care enough about you, the readers,
to leave their recliners, their TV’s, their heaters;
“Hey, Sherrill! Hey, Johnson! Hey, Stewart and Stover!
How ’bout Clark, Hobbs and Howard? Would they all come over?
To the Christmastime gyms! To the holiday hoops!
Come give us a break! Can’t you see that we’re pooped?”
———
But just at that moment, when I’d had my say,
I saw our head honcho was heading my way;
With a glare in her eye, and a grin on her face,
she pulled that big van up in front of the place.
She was driving so fast, I thought “please don’t you wreck, man.”
And as she bailed out, I knew it was Pat Zechman.
———
Now I hoped against hope that she was not angry,
because her bad side is where you don’t want to be;
But she smiled at us sports guys, and gave us a wink,
Opened up the Sun drop machine, offered a drink;
and with a touch of her nose, and a nod of her head,
she said “fill up that section, or you guys are dead!”
“Cover those games, and fill all of your space,
Now head for the door, get out of my face!”
———
So off we both went, and still we keep going,
to catch every ballgame, unless it is snowing;
And we know that the newsies might not lend a hand,
But we still try to see every game that we can;
Because we both have learned if we stay in our homes,
or try to fill sections with these silly poems;
Then the lady in charge, our own Mrs. Z,
will put coal in our stockings, first Dale, and then me.