'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through Citi
Not a creature was stirring, not even Dave Mlicki;
The gloves were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes a World Series trophy would soon be there;
The 7 Line Army nestled snug in their beds,
While visions of Yo bat flips danced in their heads.
Mrs. Met in her 'kerchief, And I in my cap,
Had settled our heads for an offseason's nap --
When out of the lawn there arose a clatter,
They sprang from the bed to see who was the batter.
Away to the window I flew like a Thor heater,
Tore open the shutters, their faces lit up like Shea’s crowd noise meter.
The moon shining off the HR apple covered in snow,
Gave the luster of Sunday afternoon games below;
When, what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight Mets with all their gear.
With a familiar looking face driving, so lively and without fret,
I knew in a moment it must be Mr. Met.
More rapid than a Mookie Wilson stolen base,
His entourage appeared without so much as a trace;
"Now, AMED! now, CONFORTO! now, BLEVINS and MICKEY!
On, MATZ! on LUGO! WHEELER and KEVIN PLAWECKI!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
It’s outta here! It’s outta here! Go touch ‘em all!
Even as Braves, Nationals, Marlins and Phillies stared with a glare,
The Mets of New York didn’t even care,
Up to the house-top the boys in blue flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and Mr. Met, too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of Familia’s plant hoof.
As I stood in confusion, and turned all around,
Down the chimney Mr. Met came with a bound.
In orange and blue, from head to toe,
His clothes were all tarnished after battling with an NL-East foe;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler opening his Heart of the Hide sack.
His eyes -- how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like Darryl Strawberry!
His mouth was drawn up, like Piazza when he got the call from the Hall,
And the beard of his chin was as white as a brand new ball;
Gifts were placed perfectly, like Jake on the black seeds,
He was just letting out some anger, at the thought of the Yankees’ greed,
His form was a sign of perfect fundies,
Let’s hope Keith doesn’t mind receiving a pair of Gold Gloves undies.
He had a round face and a belly pushing the limit of his polo,
That shook, when he laughed like our old friend Bartolo.
His head was chubby and plump, jolly enough to light up a room,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of past seasons doom;
A wink of his eye and a motion to remove my frown,
Soon I realized his middle finger would be staying down.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; with 7 Line t-shirts he got as a perk,
He then pointed like Robles to the sky,
Giving a nod, that was his way of saying bye.
He sprang to his sleigh, and gathered his team of Amazin’,
And away they all flew, to heights that left me star gazin’.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A DARK-KNIGHT!
If you're hitting the final home game on Thursday at Citi Field, swing by the Marina Lot to see some friends, maybe meet some new ones, and responsibly wash down your sorrows before heading inside.