Twas the night before Knickmas, when all through the Garden
Not a big man was stirring, not even a Moz.
The high tops were laced by the lockers with care,
In hopes that STAT Stoudemire soon would be there.
The reserves were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Jill Martin danced in their heads.
And Walsh in his blue suit, and D'Antoni his 'stache,
Had just settled the game plan: pass, press, slash.
When out on the street there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from Row G to see what was the matter.
Down to the lobby I flew in a hurry,
Threw open glass doors, wide enough for Eddy Curry.
The moon on the hoods of bright-yellow cabs
Gave the lustre of Time Square to Seventh and Eighth Aves.
When, what to my goggled eyes should appear,
But the Knicks Groove Truck, with eight hoopsters fleet-footed as deer.
Led by a power forward, an explosive live-wire,
I knew in a moment he must be STAT Stoudemire.
More rapid than Suns his teammates they rose,
And he whistled, and shouted the names sewn to their clothes!
"Now Felton! now, Chandler! now, Douglas and Fields!
On, Gallo! On, Williams! on Randolph and Ronny!
To the top of the Atlantic! to the top of the East!
Now dash up! Dash up! No longer last, nor least!"
Unlike lottery teams that before the Celtics flee,
and when facing a top foe, genuflect on bended padded knee.
Up the standings these 'bockers they flew,
With the record full of road wins, back on TNT, too.
And then, in seven seconds, I heard trumpeted by Mike Walczewski
The picking and rolling of each orange-hued Reebok and Nike.
As I went to the parquet floor, and was turning around,
Down the chimney STAT Stoudemire came with a bound.
He was dressed in home whites, positioned in the high post,
And his uniform was all dusted with asbestos.
A bundle of blocks and shots he had turned back,
And he looked like Patrick, only the flat top did he lack.
His shades-how they twinkled! jumpers he did bury!
His tattoos were like runes, his grin like a victory!
His wide droll mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as precise as his free throw.
The frames of his glasses he pushed up his brow,
When he steps to the charity stripe, never better than now.
He had an angular face and a circumcised member,
A Jew, he was in Israel before Training Camp began in September!
He was long and muscled, as sturdy and tall as a tree,
And I cheered when I saw him, yelling M - V - P!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave others to know the Mecca was somewhere to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And dropped 30 points, then turned with a jerk.
He posterized a defender and held, for a moment, a pose,
Giving a nod as up to the rim he rose!
He slammed the ball down, to his team gave chest pounds,
And away they fast broke, quick as speeding sounds.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove the lane,
"Happy Knicksmas to all, and to all a good-night!"