Happy Christmas to all, Lord Stanley’s in sight
BRIAN ACKLEY Political Columnist
With apologies to Clement Moore, this version of his 1823 poem speaks to the holiday desires in Western New York.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, still early in the season, the wins they were stirring, one man knew the reason.

The sanitary stockings were hung by the lockers with care, in hopes that some hardware soon would be there.

Soupy was nestled all snug in his skates, While visions of last spring are something he hates.

With Briere in his helmet and Drury, his cap, there’d be no settling down for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the rink there arose such a clatter, Tom sprang from his box to see what was the matter.

Away to the Plexiglass he flew like a flash, tore open his checkbook and threw around cash.

The moon on the breast of the lake-effect snow gave light to a logo; it’s a slug! Oh no!

When what to our wondering eyes should appear: A Zamboni with one savior, his name was Regier.

But in back was the driver, so lively and tough, I knew in a moment, it must be Saint Ruff.

More rapid than eagles, his scorers they came, He blew on his whistle and called them by name: “Now Maxim! Now Jochen! Now Pommers and Roy! On, Marty and Millsie On all of you boys! To the top of the crease! To the top of the wall! Now score away! Score away!

Score away all!”

As dry leaves that during the Canes series did fly, the obstacles kept mounting, Jay’s leg made us cry.

So to the next season our heroes did race, with a sleigh full of high hopes, the coach he kept pace.

And then in a twinkling, he got hot and itchy, From the prancing and pawing of a villain named Hitchy.

As I drew in my head, I thought how ‘bout them rookies, Even they go top shelf where mama hides cookies.

He was dressed looking natty, from his head to his foot, his work sometimes dirty, like from ashes and soot.

Our bundle of dreams he had flung on his back, he looked like a head coach sitting atop of the pack.

His eyes how they twinkled, his dimples how merry, A U.S. team in first place? Take that good ol’ Don Cherry.

His droll little mouth, was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.

The point of that whistle he held tight in his teeth, His success encircled his team like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a brave daughter Maddie, As well as he coaches, his proudest role is as daddy.

Not chubby, not plump, a right jolly old soul, We cheered when we heard him again say, “No Goal!”

A wink of his eye and a nod of his head

Soon gave us to know we had nothing to dread.

He spoke to his players, then all went to work, They filled all the seats, Habs and Leafs they did lurk.

In a snap of his fingers, his style did change, An exciting attack is what he’d arrange.

They sprang into action, his team scary good, Away they all practiced, like true champions should.

But we heard him exclaim, and prayed he was right, “Happy Christmas to all, Lord Stanley’s in sight!”

(Brian Ackley is a columnist for the Weekly Independent Newspapers (WIN) of Western New York. WIN is a consortium of 19 community based weekly newspapers in Erie and Niagara counties with a combined paid circulation of 75,000 homes, providing collaborative advertising and editorial support for member publications. For more information on WIN, or to provide feedback on this column, visit our Web site at www.wnynewspapers.com. Opinions expressed here are those of the author.)