T’was the night before Christmas, when all through the league...(By Matt Young)

T’was the night before Christmas, when all through the league
Plenty of teams were stirring, the trade deadline approached;
The players were traded to their new teams with care,
In hopes that a Kehler Cup soon would be there;

The fans were all snug in their beds,
While visions of red goal lights danced in their heads;
With Imama in the minors and I in my fifty mission cap,
Had just settled down with the CCHL map,

When out in the parking lot there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the boardroom to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like the Finnish Flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of arena lights to objects below,
When what to my wandering eyes should appear,
But a team bus, bruised defencemen, and a six-pack of beer,

With a little old driver, so harmonious and wearing a Musicmen shield,
I knew in a moment it must be Bill Corfield.
More rapid than Bure his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and sung, and called them by name;

“Now Sbisa! now, Irwin! now, Stuart and Del Zotto!
On, Ruhwedel! On Girardi! On Tennyson and Barberio!
To the end of the rink! Hit them into the wall!
Now shot block away! Shot Block away!, Shot block away them all!”

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the arena roof
The prancing and pain of each dman’s gigantic hoof.
As I drew in my hand and was turning around,
In through the door, Bill Corfield came with a bound.

He was dressed in a suit, from his neck to his foot,
And his players were all tarnished with athletes’ foot;
A bundle of picks he had in his book,
And he looked like a used car salesmen using his latest hook.

His eyes – how they twinkled! His goatee how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose a tad bit hairy!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the look on the face guaranteed a great show;

The list of transactions he held in his teeth,
The players on it that he would bequeath;
He had a broad face and a shrinking belly,
That shook when he laughed like he’d just ripped off Peter Chiarelli.

He was conniving and quick, pretty damn proud of himself,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
His trade offer was fair; I didn’t smash my head,
It gave me to know it wasn’t a trade to dread;

He spoke many a word, explaining why the trade would work,
And filled my roster nicely; he wasn’t a jerk,
And grabbing a microphone to his face,
He’d announce to the group we have found commonplace;

He sprang to their bus, kicked his traded player to the curb,
And he wrote up a good old-fashioned $50K trade blurb.
But I heard him exclaim, as they drove out of sight,
We may have lost the game, but we put up a good fight!

It was not what we thought he would say with the holiday,
It’s not like they dressed Brad May.
We thought he’d exclaim with all his might,
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!