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This was going to be another one of those "Christmas wish list" columns that suggest humorous or witty fictional gifts for drag racing's movers and shakers, but then I thought, no, I can't inflict that on you, loyal DRO readers, especially not as my parting shot for 2002.
Instead, with apologies to Major Henry Livingston Jr. (1748-1828), I offer up yet another version of his classic "Twas the Night Before Christmas."
'Twas the End of the
Season
'Twas the end of the
season, with champions crowned,
Not a dragster was stirring, not even a sound;
Bernstein had retired, but Force, he'd marched on,
After defeating a challenge from some guy -- Pedregon.
Most crew chiefs were
nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of POWERade danced in their heads.
But Coil with his toothpick, and I with my pad,
Had just settled down to record the year he'd just had.
When out on the strip
there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from our chat to see what was the matter.
Away to the start line I flew like a flash,
Jumped over the guardwall, half expecting a crash.
Instead, stood a truck
on the freshly-paved track,
With N-H-R-A spelled out on its back.
When, what to my wondering eyes should roll out,
But a miniature starter, and eight cars with big clout,
What a spry little fellow,
his moves were like true art,
I knew in a moment it was mini Rick Stewart.
More rapid than Pro Mods his racers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Dixon! Now, Sarge!
Now, Bazemore and Worsham!
On Cannon! On Capps! On Skuza and Densham!
To the lanes you will go! You will answer my call!
Now race away! Race away! Race away all!"
So the burnouts began
with Goodyears a-churning,
And smoke filled the air as rubber was burning.
With the stump of a toothpick held tight in his teeth,
Coil watched while the smoke cloaked his head like a wreath.
Then the lights counted
down and the revs counted higher,
And the headers turned red and spewed nitro fire.
And up to the top end, those dragsters they flew,
With the race truck behind, and mini Stewart there, too.
And then, just as quickly,
I heard the chutes pop,
And the screeching of brakes as they came to a stop.
Then I marveled aloud how they got there so fast,
Especially Rick Stewart, though he did come in last.
The drivers, they hopped
from their racecars with glee,
And jumped in the truck for the ride back to me.
Where I asked them again, "So, how was that pass?"
And they answered like always, "It was a gas!"
Now, given the season,
and the ruckus they caused,
You might be inclined to think, "Santa Claus."
And they're dressed for the part, from helmet to boot,
Though their suits are all covered with rubber and soot.
And some have broad faces
and round little bellies,
That shake when they laugh, like bowlfuls of jelly.
But it's speed that they bring, not presents or toys,
And they don't make a list of good girls and bad boys.
Now Coil, he waited and
took it all in,
He spoke not a word, nor gave up a grin.
But I knew that he cared, that he loved what he saw,
And I thought, just perhaps, that he's Santa Claus.
Then he sprang to his
trailer, to his team gave a shout,
Packed up his computers and backed the rig out.
Then I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to drag racing, and to all a good night!"
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