This is my pre-game contribution, hope everyone enjoys it. Special thanks to Left Hand Milk Stout:
Twas the night before The Game, when all through the den
Not a person was sitting; everybody would stand
The memories were hung over the flat screen with care,
In hopes that the kickoff soon would be there;
The families were nestled all snug in their threads,
While visions of the Sugar Bowl danced in their heads;
The wife in her snuggie, and I in my hat,
Were getting pumped up to beat the players with tats,
When on the TV there arose such a chatter,
I sprang from the recliner to yell “What is the matter?”.
All over the room I flew like a flash,
Screaming and yelling “Kirk Herbstreit's an ass”
The moon reflecting on the grave of great Bo
Gave the lustre of mid-day to the Big House below
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a defensive coordinator and coach others fear
With a defense like past that helped us evoke,
I knew in a moment it must be Coach Hoke
More rapid than Denard his players they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Kovacs! now, Demens! now, Morgan and Ryan!
On, Countess! on Gordon! on, Van Bergen and Martin!
To the top of the Big Ten! To a BCS bowl!
Now blitz away! blitz away! blitz away, go!"
As dry leaves that before the wild game fly,
When they meet with a Buckeye, mount to the sky,
So up to the edges the backers they flew,
With an effective scheme and confidence too
And then, in a instant, I heard on the tube
The thrashing and mashing of their running back Boom.
As I pumped both my fists, and was turning around,
Down the sidelines the Coach came with a bound.
He was dressed in short sleeves and all covered in sweat,
And he'll never wear red let us all not forget
A mangled up headset lay down on the ground
As he looked like a coach who was making them proud.
The end of a donut he held tight in his teeth,
It was plain with no sprinkles and looked like a wreath
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he yelled like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly good coach,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
Many points of his finger and twists of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the press boxes; then turned with a jerk,
And pointing his finger with the audience in tow
Gave a quick nod as they yelled “Beat O-H-I-O”
He sprang to his team, to the guys gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, after victory's delight,
"THOSE WHO STAY WILL BE CHAMPIONS, and to Ann Arbor good night!”