â€˜Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the blog; not a creature was stirring, readers were agog
The pinstripes were hung by the chimney for real, in hopes that Brian Cashman should soon make a deal.
The fans were nested, all snug in their beds. While visions of Santana danced in their heads.
Suzyn Waldman in her kerchief and John Sterling in his cap, had just settled down after one final nightcap.
When out on the field there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the press box to see what was the matter.
Away to the clubhouse, I flew like a loony. Tore open the door and knocked over Brian Bruney.
The moon on the breast of the new Bronx snow gave a lustre of mid-day to Wang and Cano.
When what did my wondering eyes then see, but a roomful of players under 30.
With a new manager, bright so they say. Who would NoMaas blame for losses in May?
More rapid than Damon, his prospects they came. He whistled and shouted and called them by name.
Now Hughes, now Joba, now Kennedy and Melky. On Tabata, on Horne and you too, Cervelli.
To the top of the short porch, to the top of the wall. Dash away, dash away, dash away Giambi!
Up to the new stadium, the prospects they flew. With a sleigh full of toys and Joe Girardi too.
And then in a twinkling, I heard something screwy. But not to worry, it was only Matsui.
As I picked up my pen and was turning around, down the chimney Shelley Duncan came with a bound.
Farnsworth was dressed all in furs, from deer he had shot. If only his fastball were nearly as hot.
A bundle of jewels, Jeter had were quite shiny. He would give them out later, to models in Miami.
A-Rodâ€™s eyes, how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry. Boras in Cali would see not a penny!
Hankâ€™s droll little mouth was drawn tight with a smoke. He had just called all the writers to tell them a joke.
The control of the team, he liked it just fine. Donâ€™t tell his brother or his father, Big Stein,
Andyâ€™s sad face was a grim sight to see. He had used HGH, but just once donâ€™t you see?
Girardi was there, laptop on a shelf. I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of my eye â€“ or was it a tear? I knew right away Torre wasnâ€™t here
He spoke not a word and went straight to his work He filled out his lineup and called Schilling a jerk.
And laying a finger aside his short hair, he went to the field with nary a care.
He sprang to the dugout, to his team gave a whistle. And away they all flew to another East title.
But I heard his exclaim as he headed away. Pitchers and catchers in 51 more days!