‘twas the night before Christmas, and all through Coors Field,
The purple pinstripes were hung in the clubhouse with care,
In the hopes that St. More-Pitching soon would be there.
The players were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of rotation help danced in their heads,
And papa Bridich in his ‘kerchief, and Dick M. in his cap,
Had just settled their brains for a long Hot Stove nap.
When out near the mound there arose such a clatter,
Away to the Party Deck, he flew like a flash,
Pushed aside the snobby microbrews and threw out the hash.