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‘Twas the Night Before Cooperstown
(With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and through every hall,
Not a creature was stirring — not even a ball.
The jerseys were hung in their cases with pride,
While echoes of greatness still whispered inside.
The plaques on the wall stood silent and still,
Honoring legends of talent and skill.
When out on the concourse arose such a chatter,
The ghosts of the game said, “What could be the matter?”
I peeked from the shadows, all quiet and small,
And what did I see in that sacred hall?
A gathering unlike any seen in the park —
Voices of baseball, lighting the dark.
Vin Scully came first, with a grin ear to ear,
He whispered, “It’s time — pull up a chair here.”
And lo! with his rhythm, so calm and precise:
"It’s time for Dodger baseball!" he said, oh so nice.
Red Barber chimed in with a confident drawl,
“Sit back, folks, relax — this catbird’s gonna call!”
With a wink, he sipped tea from a Brooklyn-style mug,
Declaring, “He’s sittin’ in the catbird seat, snug.”
Mel Allen arrived with his signature cheer,
“How about that?!” rang crisp through the air.
A home run of joy from his booming refrain,
Made the whole Hall of Fame feel young once again.
Jack Buck wandered in, eyes twinkling bright,
“I don’t believe what I just saw tonight!”
And walking beside him with cool Midwestern grace,
Was Harry Caray, joy wide on his face:
“Holy cow!” he roared as he stumbled in bold,
Wearing Cubs blue and a scarf to beat cold.
“Let me tell ya somethin’!” he cried with delight,
“This place is more fun than Wrigley at night!”
Ernie Harwell stepped forth with lyrical pace,
“A foul ball for a young man from Syracuse — front row, third base.”
He nodded to Russ Hodges, who let out a scream:
“The Giants win the pennant! It wasn’t a dream!”
By now the Hall glowed with a magical cheer,
As the voices of baseball rang crystal clear.
From Lindsey Nelson in plaid to Phil Rizzuto’s glee,
“Holy cow!” again echoed with spree.
Bob Uecker rolled in, not one to be late,
“I must be in the front row!” he joked at the gate.
The laughter rolled deep from plaques on the wall,
As legends and stories bounced down every hall.
Then a hush filled the room, not out of fear —
But respect, for The Game was drawing near.
Each voice took a seat, in silence they bowed,
As a figure walked in, calm, humble, and proud.
It wasn’t a slugger, a pitcher, or scout —
But the spirit of baseball, without any doubt.
He tipped his cap gently, and smiled with grace,
“You kept it alive, gave it rhythm and pace.”
“To every kid who fell asleep to your tone,
Who learned of the game through your microphone —
You are the heartbeat, the rhythm, the rhyme.
You made innings into poetry, timeless through time.”
Then back to the mist, each legend did fade,
Back to the ether where memories are made.
But if you listen on clear nights, alone with the score,
You’ll hear Scully, or Buck, or Caray once more.
And as I slipped out of that hallowed domain,
I heard them all call in a soft, sweet refrain —
“Merry Christmas to fans, both the old and the new,
From the voices who brought baseball home… just for you.”