‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through Madrid
Not a player was stirring, their jerseys all hid.
The locker room empty, the stadium not filled,
Not a single fan was anxious, their souls were all stilled.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
With Real Madrid scarves and hats warm on their heads.
And mamma in her jersey, and I in my cap,
Had just watched match replays before our long winter’s nap.
When out on the pitch there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the clubhouse to see what was the matter.
Away to the sideline I flew like Gareth Bale,
Looked down the field and prepared for a gale.
The moon on the crest of the new-printed kit
Gave the lustre of mid-day to the gleaming white knit.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But eight tiny reindeer all draped in full gear.
With a spry, booted driver, lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than wingers his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
"Now, Ramos! now, Lucas! now, Kroos and Marcelo!
On, Modric! On, Keylor! on, Benz and Ronaldo!!
Pick up your pace, don't give up the ball!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As dry blades on a Xavi-condemned pitch fly,
When they meet with Casemiro, mount to the sky.
So up to the stands and the clubhouse they flew,
With the sleigh full of kits, and St Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I saw on the grass
The rondos with nary an incomplete pass.
As I stood there in awe, and was turning around,
Sprinting in full gear St Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in white, from his head to his foot,
And his kit was spotless with gleaming black boot.
A name and a number were printed on his back,
And he looked like a baller, an absolute crack!
His eyes-how they twinkled! his feet were so merry!
His dribbling like Zizou, his shot like a cherry!
His foot skills were sick, his vision sublime,
As he stopped a long-ball at mid-field on a dime.
Then he started a match, four-aside for his team,
And the Bernabeu echoed as the reindeer blew steam.
Their was a quick foul, Kroos slid on his belly,
That tripped up Big Benz like his legs were of jelly!
Santa blew his whistle and issued a card
And said play on, but don't tackle so hard
The match continued - it was all even at the half,
With Ronaldo and Lucas both scoring with a laugh.
Santa spoke not a word as full time drew near,
But was pleased with the training of his loyal reindeer.
Benz slid one in, and the game came to a close,
And giving a nod, they all lined up in rows.
He sprang to his sleigh, told his team they were great,
And away they all flew like Ramos at 92:48.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all Madridistas, and to all a good-night!"