Twas The Night Before Sweet Drew's Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through Twins Territory

Not a fan was stirring, 'cept one with this story;

Bill Smith seemed hung over and without any cares,

In hopes that Terry Ryan could fix all his errs;

The fans were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of spring training danced in their heads;

And Pavstache with his smokes, who I so do admire,

Had just settled in to light some warm winter fires,

When out in the dumpster there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the shadows to see what was the matter.

Away to the street I flew like a flash,

Tore off like a bandit to avoid any law clash.

The flame on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to my wondering eyes had I saw?,

But starters, four righties and one lone southpaw,

With a little old hurler, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment 'twas our pitching coach, Ol' Rick.

More rapid than eagles his courses they came,

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

"Now, Pavs! now, Bake! now, Frankie and Black!

and new guy! You too must pick up the slack!

To the top of the ninth! keep them inside the wall!

Now pitch away! pitch away! pitch away all!"

Pulled you will be, if balls fly over the wall,

'Less Span and Revere can catch them before they fall,

So out to the bullpen of Target Field they flew,

Where the relievers warm up, and Matt Capps does too.

And then, from somewhere, I heard out of the night

I heard Mauer was healthy and Morneau, well he'd be alright.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the street Pavstache came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of Lucky Strikes were pulled from his sack,

And he looked like a Selleck just smooth and black.

His fires - how they flickered! though his eyes were scary!

He came forth and said, "Butters the past we must bury!"

From his droll little mouth a smoke ring did blow,

And the ball he was holding was white as the snow;

He said through tight clenched teeth,

"We will win this year, that is my belief"

He had a somber face as he scratched his belly,

"I hear your ol' man played for Tom Kelly."

"Yeah," I said, pleased with myself.

"He was good," he said, "keeps Series trophies on the shelf,"

And he laughed a little, quietly to himself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but I knew this year I'd have work,

Then we set fire to Bill Smith's car; a nice side perk,

And putting his matches aside, another smoke was rolled,

And giving a nod, down the street he strolled;

A spring in his step, the 'Stache did bristle,

And away my worries all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he got out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all Twins Fans - we'll be alright."