Photo: Paul Rudderow

‘Twas the night before DoopDay, when through PPL

Not a creature was stirring, though soon loose would break hell.

The tifo was hung from the railings with care

In hopes that three points would be taken out there.

The SoB’s were nestled, all snug in their beds

While visions of Bearfights danced in their heads.

And Hack with his whistle, and Seba his crest,

Finally where it belongs, on his chest.

When come the next morning, there arose such a clatter-

The peace of the day, our tailgate would shatter.

Away to the river we gathered en masse,

Tapped all the kegs and uncorked all our flasks.

Soon to the River End, the blue pews from which

We’d offer our psalms to the boys on the pitch.

With a new coach and system, some size in attack,

A chance to redeem, in the era of Hack.

Out from the tunnel, the heroes they came

And every voice lifted, and screamed out each name.

Now Sheanon!  Now, Conor! Now Amobi and Zac!

On Farfanl!  On Carroll !  On Torres and Mac!

On all of you men, in the Gold and the Blue

On all of you boys (not so fast, Adu)!

And then, in a twinkling, we saw on the field

Positioning, passing and finishing revealed.

As we screamed and we cheered and we cursed and we Dooped

We went 90+ minutes and no one was pooped.

We sang out our hearts, for defense, for attack

We sang out for joy, for a lack of Nowak.

For the boys in their blue, with their stars and their snakes

And the sign of that pastry that Mexico makes,

Did run the whole pitch, run it up, run it down

And bring glory to Philly (from a neighboring town).

So we stood arm in arm, and we kept up the noise

And we gave, win or lose, what we could to our boys.

And no matter the score, we knew ourselves worthy.

It could always be worse—we could be from North Jersey.