This great poem was sent in earlier while I was in the land of no service. Still it's a perfect read for Christmas Day.
Twas the night before Christmas, and all ‘round CitiField
The phones were all quiet No Ike trade had congealed.
Sandy A. stared in silence, trying to hold down the fort
But his eyes had glazed over from his search to fill short.
DePo’d split to San Diego, and at last Jeff had gone home.
(“Enough woes” mumbled Sandy “Without that friggin’ gnome!”)
Old Jay was done tweeting, and JP hunting for bats.
Not a soul there but Sandy. Not even Saul Katz.
When out near the dugout, a crash like incoming jets.
And a tipsy voice bellowed. “Yo la tengo! Meet the Mets!”
“Collins!” thought Sandy. But, no, wait! Hold the phone!
In the snow a wobbly old fat guy….It was Bartolo Colon!
And beside him someone pie-eyed points and yells “Hi-yo Sandy!”
He didn’t look like fifteen mill, but nonetheless, there was Grandy.
“Who’s that stranger who’s with you?” “Yo, I’m your second Chris Young!”
“What the hell was I thinking?” but the Marine held his tongue.
“It’s Christmas Eve, not spring training. No games now guys. Got it? Nada.”
A high voice chirped “We came early”. Whodathunk it? Tejada!
“You lost weight there young man” “So did I” hollered Duda.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Don’t even think it” laughed Bartolo the Buddha.
“My God! Are you all here?” the GM managed to stammer
“Well, no thanks to you” replied the spurned Irish Hammer.
Alderson sweat and then sputtered “It’s that JP Ricciardi.
We should never talk rosters when he’s been at the Baccardi.”
“But no kidding…on Christmas…why’re you here…at this place?”
“We just thought you needed cheering,” said the franchise’s Face.
“For half a decade we’ve been the brunt of jokes, scorn and laughter.
We’re a living ‘before’ picture. We all want to be ‘after’.
“Our ace might be scrapped until twenty-fifteen
And our credit rating’s stuck in the clubhouse latrine.
Let’s be real. Next year is not gonna bring a postseason.
But we CAN be respectable!
Sandy sighed. “That’s your battle cry?” as he eyeballed his captain.
Who looked less like a warrior than a Sunday school chaplain.
“We WILL get there, Dee Double-You. I went to Harvard. So I know”
“Sometime soon?” warbled David.
“That’s The Plan.
Ho. Ho. Ho.”