‘Twas The Skate Before Christmas

The holiday season can be a cause of so much stress – the gifts to buy, the decorations, the commercialization of it all…and it can be difficult to sit down, take a deep breath, and remember the magic this season can bring. Christmas is a time of family and friends, of wide-eyed youthful wonder and the embracing of tradition. Now in its seventh year, the post you’ll read below is our own little tradition. It reminds us that even if conditions aren’t exactly perfect, even if the ice is bumpy or there’s no ice at all, that a rink is so much more than a collection of its wooden and poly parts. It’s a place where dreams can come to life, where the rigors of our daily existence go away even for just a few minutes, and where magic can truly happen as it does below.

Best wishes for a great holiday season, happy new year, and good luck with your rinks and ponds!

santa-claus-playing-hockey-21780247‘Twas The Skate Before Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the yard;
Not a creature was skating, the ice wasn’t hard.
A warm front had come shortly after dad filled;
And temps north of freezing left the water unchilled.

Our skates they sat dormant, our sticks in a pile;
Our jerseys on hangers, unused for a while.
So we shuffled to bed, quite excited for Christmas;
But a bit disappointed rink season had missed us.

As I lay in my bed, I turned and I tossed;
Our rink was a puddle, the winter was lost.
I’d pleaded with them, the rink gods hadn’t listened;
I drifted to sleep as the rink water glistened.

Then sometime that night I awoke to a SOUND;
I shot up in bed, rubbed my eyes, looked around.
It sounded like skate strides, one after another;
I turned to the window and threw off the covers.

My breath fogged the glass and I struggled to see;
Was there ice in our backyard? Could it really be?
I saw skate marks and pucks and the net had been moved;
There WAS ice out there, it looked perfectly smooth.

I tiptoed to the hall and woke sister and brother;
We crept down the stairs not to wake dad and mother.
Slung our skates over sticks so that we’d be prepared;
We opened the back door, we stopped, and we stared.

There was a lone figure on our backyard ice;
His stickhandling was perfect, his wrist shots precise.
On his head was a white ball, atop a red hat;
A white beard draped over a red coat so fat.

He was flanked ’round the rink, by a small crowd of nine;
With four on each side, and one behind the twine.
He saw us and motioned for us to come play;
We ran through the backyard, with zero delay.

We laced up our skates, just as fast as we could;
Grabbing gloves and our sticks, the three of us stood.
He motioned for us to put sticks in a pile;
As my sister chose teams, the man turned with a smile.

“I’ve read all your wish lists, I’ve looked at them twice;
You’re the first child to ever ask Santa for ice.
But I know how important this rink is to you;
And your father, he asked me for cold weather too.”

So we picked up our sticks, me and Claus on a team;
The rink lights stayed off, the ice shone in moonbeam.
And we skated and passed and we laughed and we scored;
Rudolph’s nose glowed bright red, another goal on the board.

For what seemed like hours, we played on our rink;
Though we weren’t cold or tired, our cheeks rosy pink.
We played shinny with Santa, you wouldn’t believe;
What had transpired that unseasonably warm Christmas Eve.

After dozens of goals had been scored in the net;
And the ice was chewed up and our shirts soaking wet.
We glided to the boards, sat in piles of snow;
And Santa said “Children, it’s time I must go.”

So we took off our skates and replaced them with boots;
The big man stood up, wiping snow off his suit.
We said our goodbyes, waving to the reindeer;
And Santa said, “Hey kids – same time next year?”

Back up to our bedrooms, the three of us shuffled;
Tiptoed up the stairs, our laughter we muffled.
We went to the window, but Santa was gone;
And all that was left was an unfrozen pond.


Christmas morning began the same way as most others;
Toys and games were from Santa, underwear was from mother.
Dad glanced in the backyard, and cursed the warm weather;
I said “Thanks for the rink, you’re the best father EVER.”

My sis pulled the last gift from under the tree;
Three names on the tag: brother, sister, and me.
Inside was a puck, and inscribed left to right:

One thought on “‘Twas The Skate Before Christmas

  1. Will Tucker

    Joe … glorious poem.

    I just imagine Morgan Freeman sitting by the fire with his glasses at half mass on his big black nose with his hockey stick (pro-stock Eric Fehr curve, of course, because Morgan Freeman’s obviously a sniper) in hand reading this poem aloud for all to hear.

    More importantly…

    My name’s Will Tucker. I’m a 23 year old film student from Maryland who is in the process of moving out West. Along the way a buddy and I are trekking across the country on a scavenger hunt for the coolest, most loved, unique, best storied back yard rinks we can find. We’re making a documentary of our trip in hopes to share the passion and love of both the great game of hockey and the amazing people that do everything they can to provide it for all. Any help would be greatly appreciated.


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