Almost two hundred years ago, Clement Clarke Moore wrote his timeless poem, A Visit from St. Nicholas. It has become a part of the Christmas celebration for countless friends and families all around the world . That is, until now. Perhaps it is time to update Mr. Moore's beautiful poem to reflect a different family, the family of the New York Mets. So, dust off your old Santa Claus suit. Pour yourself a warm cup of eggnog. Dig way down and try to locate some of the Christmas spirit we've been missing and enjoy.
'Twas the night before Christ-Mets
'Twas the night before Christ-Mets, all through the clubhouse
Not a creature was stirring, not even my spouse.
The uniforms were hung by the dugout with care,
In hopes that Uncle Steve soon would be there.
The players were nestled all snug in their lockers,
While manager Buck Showalter napped in his rocker.
And mamma in her Mets nightshirt and I in my Mets cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn amid the snow and the sleet,
I heard a noise that sounded like Polar Bear Pete.
Away to the window I flew with a chill,
For a moment I thought I saw Tylor Megill.
When as my wondering eyes began to twitcher,
I saw a red sleigh led by eight tiny pitchers.
With a little old driver, so chubby and quick,
I thought for a moment it might be St. Nick.
I saw presents on the sleigh piled up in the back.
Could this be St. Nick, or even Daniel Vogelbach?
It was Uncle Steve with a cart full of toys.
For all of the good little Mets girls and boys.
"Now, Peterson! now, Robertson! now, Scherzer and Diaz!
On, Quintana! on, Carrasco! on, Verlander and Lopez!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the tier,
It’s way back. This could go. They’re outta here!
So up to the house-top the players they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and Uncle Steve too.
And then, in a twinkling, I could hear the strike
Of the sound on the roof of each baseball spike.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Uncle Steve came with a bound.
He was dressed all in Mets, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with infield dirt.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how cheerful,
His desire to win made other owners fearful.
He opened his sack and went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk.
Giving Christmas presents to all brings me joy,
But I only have a lump of coal for that deGrom boy.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,
But I heard him exclaim, as he flew out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, Let’s go Mets, and good-night."
With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863)