I refuse to read other people’s mail. I don’t mind writing it, however. Here, then, in this holiday season, are a few letters to Santa Claus from members of the sports world, for whom I will act as secretary.

What do they want for Christmas?

Dear Santa,

A rib roast, a side of beef, 13 Butterball turkeys, two kegs of eggnog and a Twinkies truck.

Your friend in fatness,


I ask for zero. New England zero, Green Bay zero, Chicago zero. Thank you.


If I ask for something big, they’ll say I’m demanding too much. If I ask for something small, they’ll say I’m selling out cheaply.

To hell with it. Bring me a Porsche.

Your pal,


I wish for happiness and peace, yes? And for everyone to speak more slower.

P. KLIMA Dear Santa,

It’s not my place to ask for anything special. If, however, you have someone lying around who measures 7 feet 2, can dribble behind his back and can outrebound Roy Tarpley in street clothes, feel free to drop him down my chimney.


. . . and 600 doughnuts and a trunk full of goulash.


Dear Mr. Santa,

I want to be short for 24 hours.

MANUTE BOL Dear Santa,

Please make my son a winning NFL coach. I’m finished. I coulda been somebody. I coulda been a contendah. I coulda been anybody, but a bum. Which is what I am, let’s face it. A Bum.

O.A. PHILLIPS Dear Santa,

All I ask for is a hockey player who can hit and score. And for all Domino’s pizzas to be delivered cold.

M. ILITCH Dear Santa,

All I ask for is a baseball player who can hit and score. And for all Little Caesars pizzas to make people choke.


FROM: Howard Cosell RE: Christmas Procurement Dear Santa,

So, my corpulent friend, we correspond again. As you no doubt know, my audacious attempt at literary achievement has surpassed even the loftiest expectations of publishers around the globe. My pugnacious style, unyielding wit and indefatigable ability to tell it like it is has proved the critics to be the lunkheaded, nonsensical, raving imbeciles that I alwa– (letter burned). Dear Santa,

Bring me the head of Marvin Hagler.

T. HEARNS Dear Santa,

I have everything I need. But I want to share with others. You know the illness that makes your glands swell up so you can’t talk? I’d like to give that to several of my favorite sports writers. The enclosed 100 names will do nicely.


Look. You don’t buy me, I buy you. Understand? What’s it gonna cost? 300 mill? I’ll write a check. I want you on my team, fat man. I’ll build you your own building. A skyscraper. The elves can have their own elf-ator. Just get me into the NFL, damn it. Get me a team, damn it. What’s it gonna cost? 500 mill? I’ll write a check.

DONALD TRUMP Dear Santa Man,

You are fat and you look like that percent&$! umpire, Denkinger. You come down my #$percent! chimney and I break your $percent*! face. I am Joaquin!

J. ANDUJAR Dear Santa,

. . . and a wheelbarrow full of chili, and maybe an ox.

FRIDGE Dear Santa,

Thanks for the offer, but I’m very happy. I don’t mind the one year left on my contract. Really. I don’t mind being handcuffed here. Really. I hardly think about Philadelphia at all.

Do you deliver in June?

CHUCK DALY Dear Santa,

What’s left?


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