A Christmas White Sox poem from Tom Braxton

A tribute to Clement C. Moore's iconic poem, "A Visit from St. Nicholas."


‘Twas the night before Christmas as evening wore through,
We two fans debated what Rick Hahn should do.
The offseason wish was that springtime would yield
Players who could hit but who also could field.
The cranky South Siders were snug in their thoughts,
Certain that Rick had to fill several spots.

My friend in his hoodie and I in my toque
Had just settled down with a rum and a Coke.
When out on the web there arose such a surge,
My monitor’s pixels all started to merge.
I sprang to my keyboard, preparing to read
And saw that the rumor mill ran at full speed.

The glow on the face of the LCD screen
Gave the luster of late nights with too much caffeine.
When what to my cynical eyes should appear
But suggestions that Cespedes might be next year.
And another outfielder as we collect names,
I saw Justin Upton, among other claims.

But rapid as eagles some names fell away,
And we whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“On Flowers! On Beckham! On Soto! On Shark!
Don’t let the gate slam as you leave the ball park!
Avila! Navarro! Now show off your powers
To make us forget that out-machine, Flowers!”

“To the top of the race! To the wall that is green!
Your numbers will shine on the high-tech new screen!”
So up on my Android the names they all flew,
With holes still agape at base three and base two.
As I drew back my finger and lay off the keys,
Two more names appeared that would cause me to freeze.

A wink of the screen, with its refresh begun
Soon gave us to know that Rick Hahn was not done.
He spoke but few words, quotes just for the press,
And turned to fill third base, and second, we’d guess.
First it was Lawrie, that high-octane scamp,
Then it was Frazier, Home Run-Derby champ.

And laying a finger on top of the screen
And giving a nod, we reviewed what we’d seen.
We sprang to the bar, to the place gave a shout,
And ordered two beers, one lite and one stout.
And they heard us exclaim as we drank and we said,
“Who needs Cespedes? Sign Buehrle instead!”