All week, I've been calling HOCR my Christmas. And, much like Christmas, on the eve of the event, I am too excited to sleep. So...I wrote this.
'Twas the night before Charlesmas, and all through the town, All rowers (but lightweights), were scarfing carbs down Their boats were all strapped to the trailer with care, In hopes that by morning, they still would be there. The coxswains were nestled, all snug in their beds, While visions of course turns danced in their heads. And Mahe in his boxers, and I in my jammies Were nice and relaxed after massaging our hammies. When just past BU, there rose such a clatter I sped to the basin to see what was the matter. Away to the river, I flew like a Masshole, And was lucky to miss all the cops on patrol. Parking at DeWolfe, I gazed out at the water, And thought of my race, and the boats we would slaughter.
What I saw made me double take once, then again, 'Twas a Filippi shell and eight strapping oarsmen. With a tiny old coxswain, so lively and quick, This being Charlesmas, it must be St. Nick! Getting his point, he aimed a bit south, He barked and he shouted and foamed at the mouth: "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer Vixen! On Comet, on Cupid! on Donner and Blitzen!" Recognizing the names as those of reindeer, Who'd name their kid 'Dancer' was not very clear. I saw them clear puddles dashing toward the start line, Their timing was perfect, their form was divine.
Through their first 20, they advanced with finesse Yearning to follow, I stole a wakeless.
So 'round the first corner, the Filippi flew, The eight muscled oarsmen, St. Nicolas, too. We were under the Western Ave bridge in a flash, Listening closely, I could hear the backsplash. They knew I was there, but seemed not to mind. They stuck to their task, their nose to the grind. Through the Powerhouse Stretch, St. Nick called for more, "More power, more speed, start bending that oar!" Around the Weeks turn, performed with such grace Without losing rhythm or slackening pace Then after Lars-Anderson, in the lamplight of Storrow, I examined the fat man the crew had in tow. Not aerodynamic, to put it politely His 'bowl full of jelly' was rather unsightly But his twinkling eyes held a gaze so austere It was hard to imagine this was a man of such cheer But focused, he was, like the rest of the men, As they soon would approach that hellish last bend.
"Harder on starboard, pull high on port, Starboards to crank it! Ports, go a bit short." Now out of the turn, the rest was a breeze, The shell was soon righted with deft expertise Straight shot to the finish, they charged like a bull, The cox screamed to the mic, "JUST F-ING PULL!" They screamed cross the line, exhausted but pleased At the new Charles course record they knew they had seized Though no one would know what they did there that eve A nod from St. Nick tempted me to believe And I heard him exclaim, as they rowed out of sight, Merry Charlesmas to all, and to all a good night!