A NASCAR Christmas

By: Jon Umbel

Posted: 12/7/06

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all around the track,

not a person was stirring, they'd all hit the sack.

The cars were parked in the garage with care,

in hopes that race day soon would be there.

The drivers were nestled all snug in their beds,

while visions of victory lane danced in their heads.

The pit crew in their firesuits, and I with my beer,

had just put down our headsets, right next to the driver's-side mirror.

When out on the course there arose such a clatter,

I closed up my toolbox to see what was the matter.

Away to the garage door I flew like a flash,

amidst all the grease and tires, a real mad dash.

The moon, it shined on the new-sealed tar

and glistened like clearcoat on a new, painted car.

When, what to my hazy eyes did I see,

but a miniature hauler parked out by turn three.

With a little old driver, with a hat and some rings,

I knew in a moment it must be The King.

More rapid than sprints, his drivers they came,

and he whistled and shouted and called them by name:

"Now Martin! Now Stewart!

Now, Vickers and Johnson!

On, Biffle! On, Jr.!

On, Kenseth and Gordon!

To the top of the apex!

Stay out of the wall!

Now drive away! Drive away!

Drive away all!"

And all of a sudden with a flick of a switch,

the engines they rumbled, brought the cars to life quick.

So 'round the track and corners they flew,

with the hauler full of cars, and Sir Richard, too.

And then, in a roar, I began to hear

the screeching of tires, the switching of gears.

As I drew in my head and was turning around,

down the front stretch Mr. Petty came with a bound.

He was dressed in his firesuit, from his head to his toe,

and his clothes were all tarnished with carbon and oil.

An old window net he had flung on his back,

and in his right hand he had a six-pack.

His eyes behind glasses! His dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were all wrinkled, clean-shaven, not hairy!

His drawl little mouth was cracked in a smile,

even though he'd been out of the sport for awhile.

His teeth shined in light, like bright fish bait,

you could tell he wasn't too fond of restrictor plates.

He had a skinny face and little-to-no belly,

that was covered with sponsors, like the ones on the tele.

He was old, but insightful, a right jolly old driver,

he was in many crashes, but walked away a survivor.

A flip of his wrist and a clink of his brew

soon gave me to know he was the same as me and you.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

changed all the tires, then turned with a jerk.

And tipping his hat and spitting his chew,

and giving a nod, down the backstretch he flew.

He sprang to his hauler, to his team gave a yell,

and away they all flew like bats out of hell.

But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and may you never turn right!"