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With my annual apologies to Clement Clarke Moore:

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through Eugene Melnyk’s house, not a creature was stirring, not even Tom Anselmi’s mouse.

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The stockings were hung by the chimney with care in hopes that Santa Claus would deliver a playoff spot there.

Pierre Dorion was nestled, all snug in his bed.

With visions of making another trade dancing in his head.

And, Guy Boucher in his pajamas and Erik Karlsson in his cap, had just settled down to see if they could take a little pre-game nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter.

Boucher sprung from his bed to see if he could find a book to help him deal with this matter.

Away from the book stand Boucher flew in a flash, he tore open the shutters and prepared to make a dash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave the lustre of mid-day to hockey equipment below when, what to Boucher’s wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh, and eight big-bodied forwards.