Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the ballpark,
Not a creature was stirring, not even Brodie’s bark;
Keith’s gold gloves were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes Peter Alonso would soon be there;
The 7 Line Army nestled snug in their beds,
While visions of “he struck him out” chants played in their heads.
Mrs. Met in her 'kerchief, And Noah in his cap,
Had settled their heads for an offseason's nap --
When out of the lawn there arose a clatter,
They sprang from the bed to check on the matter.
Away to the window they flew like a Conforto bomb,
Tore open the shutters, and tried their best to stay calm.
The moon shining off Citi Field covered in snow,
Gave the reminder it would be months until the grass was to grow;
When, what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight Mets with all their gear.
With a Familia looking face driving, so lively and without fret,
They knew in a moment it must be Mr. Met.
More rapid than a Diaz fastball they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, GSELLMAN! now, MATZ! now, WHEELER and YO!
On, McNEIL! on LUGO! AMED and CANO!
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 started the winter with hope,
The Mets of New York took one look at them and said: “nope,”
Up to the house-top the boys in blue flew,
With the sleigh full of wins, and Mr. Met, too.
And then, in a twinkling, they heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of deGrom’s plant hoof.
As they 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 brawling with an NL-East foe;
A new catcher named Ramos flung on his back,
And he said Brodie’s not done, this is just a snack.
His eyes -- how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, blushing at the thought of Pitchers and Catchers in February!
His mouth was drawn up, like a Nimmo smile,
And the beard of his chin was held up high like he just hit the ball a country mile;
Gifts were placed perfectly, like Callaway making the perfect double switch,
He tossed a few with some anger, the way last season went he has the right to bitch.
A few wrapped up were sure to be a shocker,
All of the naughty gifts belong in Plawecki’s locker.
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 like our fearless leader Mickey,
And I laughed when I saw him, remembering how we got Thor for Dickey;
A wink of his eye and a motion to remove my frown,
Soon I realized Mr. Met’s middle finger would be staying down.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; with a David Wright-like smirk,
He then pointed like a home-run hitter 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 stargazin’.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A De-GOOD NIGHT!