'Twas the night before Christmas at Progressive Field,
Not a creature was stirring, all noise was concealed.
The stockings were hung by the foul poles with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
The midges were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Joba danced in their heads.
And mom in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled in for an offseason's nap.
When out on the field there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the concourse to see what was the matter.
Away to the railing I flew like a flash,
I ran down the aisle and looked toward the grass.
The stadium lights on the new-fallen snow
Gave a luster of midday to objects below.
And what to my wondering eyes was then found,
But a tricked-out Trans Am parking next to the mound.
With a goofy first baseman so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.
More rapid than Lofton his teammates they came,
And he whistled, and fist-bumped, and called them by name:
"Hey Carlos, yo Kipnis, what up Yan and Brantley?!
Yo Bourn and Asdrubal, Hey Murphy and Lonnie!
From the brim of your cap, to the tips of your toes,
Let's play like we mean it, you feelin' me, bros?!"
As baseballs from the bat of Albert Belle fly,
The entire lineup then took to the sky.
Up to the roof of the clubhouse they flew,
With a sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a moment, I heard from my seat
The prancing and pawing of each little cleat.
I ran to my quarters, when I got there I found,
Nick had come down the chimney with nary a sound.
He was dressed in Affliction, with shoes by Ed Hardy,
And a look on his face that said "I like to party!"
An equipment bag he unslung from his back,
Like the first of Spring Training, he began to unpack.
His eyes, how they twinkled! His faux hawk, how fun!
His cheeks lined with eye black, for fly balls in the sun.
His mouth was drawn up in a mischievous grin,
And two-day old stubble dotted his round chin.
The end of a candy cane stuck from his teeth,
Yet his grin was so giant, it still showed beneath.
He was in goodly shape, with just a small belly,
Which shook when he laughed, like a small bowl of jelly.
He wasn't too tall, but was also no shorty,
I found that I liked him, though he'd hit .240.
Perhaps it was because he'd ended my wait,
For ten-plus home runs from each side of the plate.
He talked and he rambled, more than I could take,
He filled up the stockings, and did the Harlem Shake.
Then laying his finger to the side of his nose,
He gave me a fist bump, and up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his car, and sped off like a heater,
Thrown from the arm of the Bob from Van Meter.
I heard Swish exclaim, ere he drove out of sight
"Merry Swish-mas my bros, and to all a good night!"