Twas the night before kickoff and all through the league,
Not a player was tweeting, not even McAfee.
The jerseys were hung in the lockers with care,
And they knew the Commissioner soon would be there.
The owners were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Super Bowls danced in their heads.
Irsay with his guitar and Kraft on his jet,
Had just settled in once the rosters were set.
When out of Manhattan there arose such a clatter,
They rushed to their iPhones to see what was the matter.
Before they could open up Facebook or Twitter,
An alert came across that made both of them bitter.
The season was starting with Manning and Welker,
In Denver instead of the Baltimore Harbor.
And banners of Flacco on Mile High Stadium?
The season was starting out of circadian.
When out of nowhere, so soothing and low,
Came the voice of the players, led by Tim Tebow.
In jerseys and pads, they numbered a dozen,
He brought them together like they were his cousin.
“Now Brady, Brees, Newton, Wilson, Kaepernick, and Weeden!
And Cutler and Rodgers and Stafford, Luck, Dalton, and Freeman!
To the league office we go, without even a rumble,
But let’s not bring Sanchez, we don’t want a buttfumble.”
They took to the streets and gathered up fans,
And sang football songs while they held hands.
“We’ve been waiting all day for Thursday night…
Now it’s almost here and we don’t want to fight.”
The light was still on, the Commissioner was working,
And somewhere in the world Miley Cyrus was twerking.
They knocked on the door and rang at the bell,
And the Commish came down and yelled, “What the hell?”
Dressed in a robe, with no shoes on his feet,
Tebow stepped forward with his brother, Pete.
He pulled out a bag and papers with care,
And asked the Commish to sit down in a chair.
He took off his shoes and kicked up his feet,
And said to Tim Tebow, “Alright, let’s meet.”
Tebow’s eyes twinkled and dimples appeared,
He smiled at the Commissioner as the players neared.
He handed him a pile of signatures granted,
On schedules and testing and things he had ranted.
The players had challenged him at every turn,
But fighting was foolish as they would soon learn.
They came to agreement on things at the table,
And the Commish pulled back where he was able.
They signed on the lines and shook hands in the end,
Without even a lawyer on which to depend.
And when it was over, he didn’t ask why,
Commish just got up and started to cry.
“Tebow, you’ve done it…it’s settled, my son,
The job of commissioner is yours when I’m done.”
The players all cheered and for good reason,
It was time to get home for the start of the season.
And Tebow exclaimed as they vanished from sight…
“Happy 2013 season to all…and to all a good night!”