'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the Stadium not a creature was stirring, not even the ghosts of Yankees past; the stirrups were hung by the dugout with care, in hopes that a World Series title soon would be there.
The players were nestled all snug in their lockers, while visions of a 28th championship danced in their heads; and Brian Cashman in his suit and Joe Girardi in his cap, had just settled down for a long winter's chat, when out on the concourse there arose such a clatter, Hal Steinbrenner sprang from his chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the owner's box Hank Steinbrenner flew like a flash, tore up A-Rod's contract and threw around some cash.
The Moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave the luster of a shine to the trophies below, when what to their wondering eyes should appear, but a golf cart and eight players all ready for next year.
With a little old Yogi so wise and quick wit, they knew in a moment it must be St. Mick.
More rapid than Scooter his players they came, and he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; "Now, Jeter! Now, Andy! now, Teixeira and Grandy ! On, Robby! On, Suzuki! on, Rivera and CC! To the top of East to the top of the world! Now run away! Run away! Run away from them all!"
In a blink of an eye Opening Day was here and a twist of the head soon gave them to know they had nothing to dread; they spoke not a word, but went straight to their work, they filled up the roster and turned up the hurt, and the Captain fist pumping the air past his nose and giving a nod up from the dugout they rose.
They sprang to their positions as bald Vinnie gave a whistle, and away the Bleacher Creatures serenaded them with the roll call, all official!
We heard them exclaim as they played out of sight "Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night."