The American concept of Santa Claus largely stems from an 1837 poem by Clement Clarke Moore called “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” otherwise known as “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.” American tennis also has its own white-haired, jolly St. Nicholas: tennis coach Nick Bollettieri, who has groomed top professional players over the last few decades, including former no. 1’s Andre Agassi and Martina Hingis. Here’s a version of “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” for tennis fanatics that celebrates one of American tennis’ most well-known coaches.
See the resemblance?
‘Twas the night before the tennis tournament, when across courts of clay
Not a player was practicing, but had gone home for the day;
The trophies were stored in a glass vault with care,
Awaiting a champion who soon would claim theirs;
The competitors were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of rankings danced in their heads;
And Carillo with her microphone began the broadcast,
While McEnroe started analyzing tomorrow’s first match,
When out on the court there arose such a clatter,
The reporters sprang from their box to see what was the matter.
Away to the grandstand they flew like a flash,
And ran down the bleachers in a mad dash.
The moon on the breast of the white singles lines,
Gave a lustre of midday to something divine,
When what to the newscasters’ wondering eyes did emerge,
But a hopper of balls and eight pros hitting serves,
With a little old coach so lively and quick,
They knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his players they came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now, Novak! now, Roger! now, Rafa and Andy!
On, Serena! on, Maria ! On, Caroline and Genie!*
Hit topspin on those serves! make them soar to the wall!
Now run around the net and pick up the balls!
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So to the other side of the net the players they flew
To pick up the tennis balls and begin serving round two —
And then, in a twinkling, they heard the players shout,
“That serve wasn’t in. It was definitely out!”
As the players argued and looked for a mark,
Down the umpire chair St. Nicholas emerged from the dark.
He was dressed all in tennis whites, from his head to his feet,
And his clothes were all wet with sweat from the heat;
A bundle of rackets he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his sack.
His sunglasses — how they twinkled! his teeth, how white!
His skin was like leather, so tan from the light!
The grin on his face had turned into a frown,
And the players feared they had let him down.
The handle of a racket he held tight in his grip,
And the players circled around him, nervously biting their lips.
He approached the eight pros and said with a smirk,
“This is just practice, don’t act like a jerk.
We all love tennis, we’re good at this game,
So even if opponents, you’re really the same.”
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
soon gave them to know they had nothing to dread.
The players sat down and took off their socks,
And McEnroe and Carillo went back to their box.
Before the next day when the pros returned to the court,
They thought of the reasons they loved playing the sport.
They stood all together and said one by one,
“Good luck to all; remember tennis is fun.”
* Yes, we know Nick Bollettieri hasn’t actually coached most of these players.
