’Twas the Night Before Christmas Along the Stateline

’Twas the night before Christmas, along the Stateline,

Twelve coaches went quiet—at least those who lied.

The Xbox went dark, the group chat went still,

Though everyone swore they were “done… for real.”

The Gazette slowed down, the columns on pause,

No Blouse metaphor stretching a single yard’s cause.

Groller refreshed Twitter, displeased as can be,

Another late kickoff—this can’t possibly be.

In the booth sat Horak, mic set just right,

With Hultgren beside him, island magic in sight.

They waited in silence, knowing full well:

This calm never lasts once the games start to tell.

Rivalries lingered, unspoken but loud,

Old insults hung heavy, never disavowed.

Hammerstone heard “loser” echo once more,

Bad Grant stayed committed—he doubled down more.

Out west in Boise, where blue turf runs true,

Devin Grade slept soundly—his Broncos still number one, too.

For Maddux Madsen, the king of the land,

Had torched every defense, command in his hand.

Chad Gruver reviewed one last clip,

Lucky Sutton slicing zones, defenders all tripped.

The RPO perfected, a thing of pure art—

A handoff? A keeper? A dagger to hearts.

Cummings, meanwhile, refused any rest,

Air Raid diagrams spread over chest.

Drew Mestemaker launching spirals on repeat,

As corners backed off, already conceding defeat.

The bald heads reflected the soft Christmas glow

—Horak, Chad, Wilkins—experience shows.

No need for excuses, no hair left to hide,

Just scars from past seasons and stubborn-held pride.

And upstairs came footsteps, a sigh, then a stare

—“are you all autistic?” floated down the stairs.

Wives unimpressed by fourth-down debate,

By “one more drive” turning terribly late.

They tolerated stats, the drama, the noise,

The emotional swings of fully grown boys.

As midnight approached, one truth held the night:

This wasn’t just gaming—it mattered outright.

Through rivalries, egos, and competitive fire,

Stateline Elite only rose ever higher.

So here’s to the chaos, the grudges, the flair,

To bald heads and hot takes and coverage unfair.

To rivalries loud and controllers destroyed—

To Saturdays filled with grown men overjoyed.

May your reads be clean and your sticks be just right

And may your wives forgive you…

…just not tonight.

— S.J. Eustis