Fortnight Before Christmas
By Peter Pell and Jim Zug
‘Twas the fortnight before Christmas, when all through the Clubhouse
Not a bleacher was roaring, although ready to pounce.
The mugs were placed on the mantle with care,
In hopes that victory soon would be theirs.
The patrons were nestled all snug in the dedans;
with memories of Greentree and practicing lockjaw
Drama in the culture, finest amateurs we tap;
DC kit bags were opened for intense winter’s scrap.
When out on Park Avenue there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the long-green to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the East Court bandeau,
Gave a luster of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But an Amtrak sleigh with ratty old gear
With a big jolly captain surprisingly quick,
I knew in a moment he must be here to butt kick.
More rapid than eagles their main-wall forces they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Not Nojo, not P. Vogt, not P.J. not Christian,
On Cohen! On Noll! On Windmill and Hopton!
To the top of the tambour! to the top of the main wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As serves like the giraffe and grasshopper fly,
When they meet with the penthouse, mount to the sky;
So up to the third floor the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of bats and balls, and Jon Crowell too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the tennis court
Heavy cut to the floor and sometimes a snort.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney and into the Pell Room, the players came with a bound.
They were dressed in athleisure, from head to foot,
And their clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of tennis bags, Crowell had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled (from dengue), his dimples, like Mary
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry.
He spoke not a word but announced the RCOP team
And they volleyed and forced just like a dream.
They snuck past Tux-Aik-Chi in a 3-2 match full of good rests;
Then repeated the tight scoreline against New England’s best
Even with a recovered Alex Spence back in full swing (ouch).
Philly was headed to the finals—they were no slouch.
Against the sartorially splendid defending DC champs,
RCOP played hard and never suffered any leg cramps.
They won all five matches, taking four sets at 6-5,
Faced with the Sunday Whitney pressure, Philly did thrive.
Crowell hoisted the legendary silver prize all upbeat
For the first time since ’05, it was heading back to Sixteenth Street.
Then the captain laid his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney they all rose (including Saby Bose)
Crowell sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Whitney Cup to all, and to all a good night!”
For Complete Whitney Cup Results, Click Here
