‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through Citi Field,
Not a creature was stirring, their injuries hadn’t healed.
The stirrups were hung in the Hall of Fame with care
Because no one wears stirrups unless they are there.
The batters were nestled, all snug in their beds
While visions of shorter fences danced in their heads.
With Jeff in his PJs, and I in my Brooklyn cap,
We settled our brains (well, at least I did) for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the mound, there arose such a clatter
I sprang from the owner’s box to see what was the matter.
The lights from the chop shops on the new-fallen snow
Cast an orange and blue light on the infield below.
When, to my eyes should appear,
A 737 from LaGuardia, and a pilot dressed in Mets gear.
With a giant baseball, on his shoulders it set
I knew in a moment, it must be Mr. Met.
More rapid than Koufax, his players they came
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name.
Now Beltran! Now K-Rod! Now Wright and Reyes!
Dash away now, or wait ’till they trade us!
(Wait…did he say Wright?)
So up to the concourse, the 737 flew
With a plane full of former players, and Mr. Met, too.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around
Down the chimney Mr. Met came with a bound.
He was dressed in a uniform, the retro kind
The size of his head blew my mind.
How his eyes twinkled! How his stitches were merry!
He was tall in height, like Darryl Strawberry.
He had a (really) broad face, and a round little belly
That shook when he laughed, like he just polished off a double Shack Burger.
With a wink of an eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know that I had something to dread.
He said not a word, But went straight to work
Filled our stockings with coal, and turned with a jerk.
And laying a finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
Boarding his plane, and then taking flight,
I heard him exclaim, as he flew out of sight,
“Sell the Mets, Fred, so we can all have a good night!”