The real joy is watching the big fella take it to the house

Yo S, nice game last night: 30 million yards on a half-million carries. Santa, you’re the new Sweetness. You’re Bo Jackson with a beard.

Hope that bum knee is holding up, the one you clunked in Miami last year. You know, you’re a great runner but with your size I always figured you for a pulling guard, a bigger Jerry Kramer. I can just see you turning upfield with a little tailback on your heels and embers in your eyes.

“Watch out, boys!” Terrell Suggs would shout. “Here comes Santa Claus!”

I don’t know how you do it, you crazy hobbit. Seriously, you’re almost too good to be true. The appearances, the endorsement deals, the lines of snotty punks and their sassy, blingy moms.

Not bad for a kid out of the slums of Norway. By all accounts, Santa, you were a rambunctious youth, prone to jumping off rooftops and working with your hands. In shop class, you built Oslo.

By freshman year of high school, you were already a three-sport star: football, dog sledding, whale tossing. They still talk about the run you made against Leif Ericson High in the Nordic Prep League playoffs -- 96 yards, through three snow drifts, around a couple of plows. Opponents say you really rang some bells that night. Even then, you could fly.

A thousand years later, you’ve gone global, and you do it all in those ugly red pajamas, a flask in every pocket. I mean, who gets 60 yards a carry while wearing Ugg boots? Yet there’s never a hint of controversy, no scent of steroids, no Glocks going off in New York nightclubs.

Too many kids want to grow up to be Peyton Manning. They should grow up wanting to be you.

“Hey Mom,” they should say at Sunday dinner. “Santa-size me!”

I mean, look at you. You’re 6 feet 5,500 pounds, most of it jelly. You’re self-employed, offer full medical to your assistants, never beg for bailouts.

What’s your secret? How do you do it? You’ve seen more women in their PJs than Tony Romo. But you have no time for any hanky-panky. We haven’t seen this kind of self-discipline since Staubach joined the Navy.

And you’re magic in the open field, quicker than a sip of water, harder to catch than the 5 o’clock bus. Some folks contend that in order to rack up so much yardage in one night, you must slip through some sort of space-time continuum, that thing Einstein made such a fuss about.

I saw Barry Sanders do that once, slip into a space-time continuum against the Chicago Bears. Like you, he was almost Euclidean. The Monsters of the Midway were left grasping for air. Of course, most of them were probably hung over.

Listen, after the game you had last night, I think you should go have lunch with Scott Boras. Sure, you have no dreadlocks, no ‘tude, but in today’s market, Boras could still get you 500 years at $1.5 tril.

Be sure to get a sleigh allowance (remember Kevin Brown?). By the time Boras is done, the Laker Girls will be rubbing your feet and refilling your Cutty Sark.

(Personally, I find the Laker Girls difficult to work with, but you’d probably have much better luck. They seem to really like grandfather figures. Just ask that other jolly old elf, Jerry Buss.)

Me? I’m fine, thanks for asking. Helped organize the office potluck last week, a total success, save for some bad chicken. Still, only three people died and the others may be out of the hospital in time to enjoy this weekend’s bowl games. The lesson there: Be very careful with how you handle raw poultry.

In the meantime, I’m still distributing a few last-minute gifts.

For Plaxico Burress, bulletproof underwear and a good attorney.

For Pete Carroll, a Peter Pan costume. He shows absolutely no signs of growing up -- nor should he.

For Shaq, I got the nicest blond wig. As you know, a full head of hair is still the greatest gift (and blonds do have more fun).

For you . . . well, what do you get a guy who gives everything? An honorary Heisman? Five (golden) Super Bowl rings? A starting gig in the Pro Bowl? All of the above.

Because, S, you’re the only real superstar we’ve got left. You’re all-world, the complete package, a hero with heart. With you on the field, every day is Christmas.

So, thanks for everything, big guy. Now go ice some scotch.

--

chris.erskine@latimes.com