'Twas the Night Before Christmas
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through Red Sox Nation,
We were waiting for results from J.D. Drew's eighth examination;
Our Red Stockings were hung in third place just last year,
And now the-next-big-thing pitcher must turn boos into cheers;
Mr. Boras was nestled all snug in his bed,
(He's still smarting from Theo going upside his head)
He was nervous about J.D. and his contractual flap;
But started dreaming of Drew in his new Red Sox cap ...
While back east at Fenway there arose such a clatter,
Boras sprang from his bed shouting: "Drew's your No. 5 batter!"
He tuned to NESN-HD, Sox press conference in a flash,
He saw Werner and Henry, he starting counting his cash;
Theo stood up to speak, the full Dr. Charles show,
This was J.D.'s big payday... (Boras still counting commission dough);
When, what to Scott's wondering eyes should appear
But the face of Trot Nixon, signed for $3 million, one year!
"Theo duped me again with a dirty dog trick!
He can't do this to ME! ...I think I'm going to be sick;"
More rapid than flying on John Henry's plane,
Boras hissed and he shouted, he then called them bad names:
"#%@! Epstein! #%@! Werner! #%@! Henry!, you too Nixon!
You'll rue this more than the day that you lost Johnny Damon!
No closer for you! I control them all!
You took my cash away! You'll dearly pay! Now dash away all!"
Players still flock to Boras, contract price will be high,
He plays games with the numbers, he still tells the big lie,
So it's back to the phones, 'cause he's gotta move Drew,
Plus a sleigh full of players who gotta eat too.
The new Japanese members of the "official" Sox Nation,
Will pay $200 to Lucchino's slick operation;
Just the price of "citizenship," there's no ticket at all,
Only a chance to buy a bleacher seat on top of the Wall
But then, down in Ft. Myers, he walked to the mound,
His new translator watched, not making a sound,
Laying his finger aside of the seam,
He stares just like Pedro, an impossible dream?
He spoke foreign words, and went straight to his work,
He went into his windup; then turned with a jerk,
As he threw out his hand, and was coming around,
Down toward home plate, the ball took off with a bound;
He pitched just like Petey, so lively and quick,
Hitters down in a moment, his balls miss their stick;
His heater’s mid-nineties, curve ball has big bite,
Let’s mark Dice-K down for a shutout Opening Night!
And there stood Curt Schilling, looking incredibly slim
Who knew CEO could find time for the gym?
Even Manny came early and was ready to play
But come back tomorrow, he'll want to get traded away;
With Crisp back in center, And Lugo at short,
They're fine up the middle, still need run support
And then just like before, David let the ball fly,
‘Tek threw out base stealers, even Youk crushed line drives,
Nixon had the old stroke back, when he hit ‘em they flew,
They all batted around, Pedroia too;
The crowd sprang to their feet, to the team gave a whistle,
Lowell circled the bases, Dice threw another missile;
Wild Card hopes had been fading for our retooled ballclub,
BUT THE HEADLINE IN MAY WILL READ, "PENNANT FEVER GRIPS HUB!"
...with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore
Merry Holidays, Boston Dirt Dogs