Twas the night before Pitchmas, when all through the house

Not a player was stirring, not even Brad Emaus.

The banners were hung all round Citi with care,

In hopes that St Mattenzack soon would be there.

The grounds crew were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of rain delays danced in their heads.

My girl in her jacket, and I my Mets cap,

Had just settled down for a long summer’s nap.

When out in Flushing there arose such a clatter,

I rushed to the park to see what was the matter.

To the ticket window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw down some cash.

The moon on the field of freshly-cut grass

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects that passed.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny fieldeers.

With a six-foot-five driver, I was taken aback,

I knew in a moment it must be Mattenzack.

More rapid than Mookie his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now Duda! now, Baxter! now, Cowgill and Buck!

On, Murphy! On, David! And the rest of you fucks!

To the top of the Porch! and the left field wall!

Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.

So off to the dugout the players they flew,

With the sleigh full of Hope, and St Mattenzack too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of all of those goofs.

As I drew in my head, upon hearing the sound,

Down the dugout stairs Mattenzack came with a bound.

I knew it was him, as my heart started racing,

By his uniform covered with sunflower seed casings.

A bag full of rosin he had flung on his back,

And he looked like Tom Seaver, all poised to attack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his eyebrows so hairy!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was a chinstrap, you know.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

(that’s right he was smoking – exactly like Keith.)

He had a hard stare that gave me the willies,

But he had the charisma of ten Lee Mazzillis!

He was lanky and tall, and I saw it was true,

He had a fastball with movement, and a pretty curve too!

His right arm a thunderbolt gifted to wield,

A hushed silence fell as he walked on the field.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

Struck out every batter, made them all look like jerks.

Then with a snap of his fingers and a blink of his eyes

And giving a nod, off the mound did he rise!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like a guided cruise missile.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,

“Happy Pitchmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

*I posted this as a comment already, but I want attention.