by | Dec 23, 1993 | Detroit Free Press | 0 comments

They skate into my driveway. They tackle my milk box. They dribble on my doorbell.

They have come a-carolin’, yet again, just in time for a sporting good Christmas.

Stop. Look. Listen . . .

Wayne Fontes singing “Little Drummer Boy”

I need a running back to run-run-run-run A healthy body who can run-run-run-run, I’ll take a track star or a pro boxer’s son, I’ll even settle for Attila the Hun, a very fast nun, long as they run. If I don’t find someone to run-run-run-run, I could be done.

Michael Jordan, “Silent Night”

Silent night, schedule’s light. Watching golf, on the satellite. Kids are crying, the dog needs a rub. Maybe later I’ll sit in a tub. If this is is heavenly peeeeace, I’m coming back to the league.

Jerry Ball, Ironhead Heyward and Refrigerator Perry, “Winter Wonderland”

Dinner bells, they’re a ringing! Supper time, how we’re singing! We’re piling it on, lemon chiffon, walking through a winter buffet line. Minute steaks, mashed potatoes, pizza pies, with tomatoes, No cost is incurred, for seconds and thirds, plowing through a winter buffet line. In the morning we can eat a snowman, and pretend he’s made of Nestle’s Crunch. If they ask for weigh-in we’ll say: Yo, man, never interrupt us during lunch. Hey who cares, what we’re weighing? Don’t you see, that custard swaying? Dock us our pay, we’re happy today, Walking through a winter buffet line.

Bob Probert, “Frosty the Snowman”

I’m Probie the Hit Man, I’m as gentle as can be. What a sad disgrace when they throw their face into my fist or my knee. Probie the Hit Man, I don’t really like to spat. When Tie Domi’s nose hits my two elbows how can I be blamed for that? I don’t know — biff! — why this repu- ooomph! — tation follows me around — whack! I’m really — sock! — a normal guy But these jokers keep falling down — pow! Probie the Hit Man, stop bleeding on my shirt. Don’t you hit my fist with your soggy lips. Hey, a fella could get hurt!

Dennis Rodman, “Joy To The World”

Joy to the world, my hair is blond. My tattoos are complete! My cranium’s a message board. I like Las Vegas smorgasbords. I dress in Pearl Jam clothes.
“Bite the melon” is my prose. I’m just a boring guy. That’s how it goes.

Fan Man, “Deck The Halls”

Here I come from out of nowhere falling on your head, yes on your head! Holyfield and Bowe must beware falling on your head, yes, on your head! I’m a nut and yet I’m flying, What the hey, FAA, nyah nyah nyah! Oops, I missed and now they got me, beating on my head, oh . . . &$!(at)#& percent*(at)#!#.

American sports fans, “Santa Claus is Coming To Town”

Oh you better watch out, you better not yawn, better start kicking balls on your lawn. Soccer nuts are coming to town. They’re shouting World Cup, sayin’ “You wait.” Screaming about how their sport is great. Soccer nuts are coming to town. They holler “You’re uncultured,” at all us baseball fans. We should grow up, get stinking drunk with some British hooligans . . . right? Has it occurred, to any of them? God gave us hands to use now and then? Soccer nuts are coming to town.

Jack Morris, “Let It Snow”

My pitching right now is frightful, my persona, not delightful. But I’m telling you I can throw. Gimme dough! Gimme dough! Gimme dough! Nine innings? Hey, I can hack it. Never mind how much they whack it. I dress like a cheap gigolo . . . so? Gimme dough! Gimme dough! Gimme dough!

CBS fans, “The Christmas Song”

Bradshaw roasting by an open fire, Gumbel picking at his toes, CBS, out of football business, Fox has stolen all their clothes. Everybody knows a Sunday minus Madden’s “boom!” Is enough to make you scoff. But wait till they start, Beavis, Butt-head and Bart
“Heh heh . . . fumble . . . heh heh.” SHUT THAT OFF!

Mitch Albom’s last pre-Christmas signing of “Fab Five” and “Live Albom III” will be at 7 p.m. today at B. Dalton at Twelve Oaks Mall in Novi. Autographed copies also available at Book People, West Bloomfield; Barnes & Noble, Birmingham; B. Dalton, Tel-Twelve Mall; B. Dalton, Briarwood Mall; and Borders, Birmingham.


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Mitch Albom writes about running an orphanage in impoverished Port-au-Prince, Haiti, his kids, their hardships, laughs and challenges, and the life lessons he’s learned there every day.

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