Another season has come and gone,
And we don’t know when 2022’s will be on.
With a lockout ongoing, the season has stalled,
as Mets fans everywhere feel truly blue-balled.
So we at the Turf, in the most festive of moods,
Offer this little poem, to change attitudes.
Imagine, if you will, a world without this CBA rift,
Where on Christmas, Santa delivers a ban of the shift.
And so we begin our holiday poem,
May your hearts be light, and may you be safe at home.
‘Twas the Night Before Christmas: Baseball Edition
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the clubhouse
not a bleacher creature was stirring, not even Mike Trout.
The stockings were hung by the bat rack with care,
in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
The players were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of homers danced in their heads.
And Manfred in his tie, and me in my cap,
had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the dugout roof there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my locker to see what was the matter.
Away to through the clubhouse I flew like a flash,
right up to the top step, and like I was Kevin Cash.
The lights on the diamond of the new-fallen snow
gave the lustre of midday to the bases below,
when, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came,
and he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now Dasher! Now Dancer!
Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid!
On, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the short porch!
To the top of the left field wall!
Now dash away! Dash away!
Dash away all!”
As chalk lines that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky
so up to the press box the coursers they flew,
with the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the dugout roof
the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
down to the clubhouse St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
and his clothes were all tarnished with grass stains and with dirt.
A bat bag of toys he had flung on his back,
and he looked like an equipment manager just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! His eye-black, how merry!
His cheeks were like Rose’s, his nose like Gaylord Perry‘s!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
and the beard on his chin was as white as JT Snow.
The lump of the chew he held tight in his lip,
left a dribble of juice, evidence of his dip.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
that shook when he laughed, like a Bartolo celly.
He was chubby and plump, like the jolly old Babe,
and I laughed when I saw his unathletic shape.
A wink of his eye and a flick of his wrist
soon gave me to know his curve had quite the twist.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
and filled all the Red stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
the signal to steal second, out of the clubhouse he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like a line drive missile.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out to Right,
“Happy Christmas to baseball, as there’s a drive into deep left field by Castellanos and that’ll be a home run. And so that’ll make it a 4-0 ballgame.”
- / 1 year ago
To me, Rachel Nichols is the personification of posting a black square on Instagram.