With apologies to Clement Moore — or to whoever actually wrote A Visit from St. Nicholas back before baseball was invented; like another famous poet named Shake- something, there are claims Moore’s work was actually penned by someone else.
’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through The Rate
Not a creature was stirring, just awaiting their fate;
The stockings were hung in the clubhouse with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The players were nestled all snug in their beds
While visions of victories danced in their heads
And mamma in her Sox jams (just $99.95 at whitesox.com while supplies last) and I my Sox cap
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the field there arose a great clatter,
Like a thousand line drives by a very good batter.
Away to the press box I dashed like a rabbit,
Jumped into Steve Stone’s chair as has been my habit.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Set the whole infield into a glow,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature sleigh and a bunch of reindeer,
With a little old driver so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than Grandal his coursers they came
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name;
“Now Colson, now Vargas, now Sosa, now Chase,
Come on team, you just have to pick up the pace —
On Edgar, on Kyle, on Davis and Shane
Time to go flying just like an airplane!
On Benny, on Robert and whoever’s in right,
We’ve go to cover the whole world tonight!
(just how players can be both snug in their beds and pulling the sleigh is a matter of poetic license)
To the luxury deck, to the stadium wall,
Now dash away, or at least trudge away, all.
Do best that you can — oh, what the heck —
Let’s settle for making the bottom deck.”
So his coursers did the best they could do
With a sleigh full of toys and St. Nicholas, too —
And, then, in some twinklings I heard ‘neath my feet
The scraping of many a loud baseball cleat.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Up the stairwell St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his feet
And a big White Sox logo made his outfit complete;
A bundle of toys he had slung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just op’ning his pack.
He looked at me with a gaze none too jolly,
And explained I suffered from White Sox fan folly.
“For many teams a fine Christmas beckons,
But for your Sox once again, it’s just factory seconds.
I try very hard to make Christmases merry,
But I can’t overcome that you’re run by that Jerry.
I couldn’t come up with a gift that is tenable
For that young new manager, Venable,
So for him, stocking fillers I lack,
But at least I’m giving his wish list back.
And I have sincere regrets
For the one at this address who’s named Getz.
I know he needs a new brain for his missions,
But I need all the brains for politicians.
So he’s still stuck, in all his attitudes,
Speaking only in dumb platitudes.”
Then he proceeded to perform his work,
Filled all the stockings and turned with a jerk,
“Keep the reindeer,” he said, “I don’t need them for my ride,
I’ve got much better teams waiting outside.”
And flicking his fingers to wish me farewell
St. Nick headed back down the stairwell;
He strolled to his sleigh, waved the reindeer good-bye,
As another team came in on the fly.
He smiled at me, to the new team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down on a thistle,
But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out of sight —
“Happy Christmas to Sox fans, and to all a good night.”