Following Sunday's holiday miracle at the New Meadowlands, a family of lifelong Eagles fans living in California, Florida, and Jenkintown, Pa., collaborated to create this new Christmas classic:
The Week Before Christmas
Written by Daniel Twer with Kevin Twer & Doran Twer
'Twas the week before Christmas, and up in New York
The Eagles were done, they'd been stuck with a fork
Down by three scores--barely eight left to go
The loss to the Giants would be a huge blow
The fans had been moaning, they wept and they pled
Hope for just Wild Card all that danced in their heads
And I in my tee shirt, and green Eagles' cap
Wondered aloud 'bout that three-quarter nap
When out on the turf, there arose such a clatter
I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter
Away to the TV, I flew like a flash
Then I started to shake, and then started to thrash
The moon on the crest of that pitiful field
Showed glimpses of Giants beginning to yield
When what to my wondering eyes should soon gleam
But a touchdown, and score: 31-17
With a man at the helm, so lively and quick
I knew in an instant, it must be St. Vick
More rapid the Eagles' yardage it came
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name
"Now Celek, now Maclin, now Avant and Jackson
You must give your all, and play up to the max-mum
To the top of the standings! Don't falter. Don't stall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Score, we must all!"
As dry leaves that before a wild hurricane fly
When they meet with no obstacle as they go whizzing by
So toward the end zone, the Eagles they flew
With St. Vick, their leader, feeling brand new
And then, in a twinkling, I heard such a roar
Onsides recovered; could we reach 24?
As I drew in my head, and I turned up the sound,
Into the zone St. Vick dashed with a bound.
He was dressed in his uni, adorned with a seven
Taking his fans one step closer to heaven
He wouldn't be tackled, would not take a sack
Was it real or a dream? Could they really come back?
His eyes, how they twinkled, his dimples how merry
Directing the offense to score in a hurry
As he cocked his left arm drawn up like a bow
A strike to J. Mac for the game-tying blow!
Then I spied big old Andy, play sheet stuck his teeth
With a headset encircling his head like a wreath
Standing tall with broad belt o'er his huge rounded belly
From too many meals at the stadium deli
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf
He would win this damn game, in spite of himself
With a wink of his eye, and a twist of his head
He'd given the Giants something to dread
It was Jackson whom Andy'd sent straight to his work
And make gruff coach Coughlin look even more of a jerk
He stood for the punt, his head slightly askew
He fumbled, recovered, and down the field flew
And what to my wondering eye should appear,
But a miniature man breaking into the clear!