We were visited by the ghosts of Christmas past and present...

Before dawn, I woke up Xmas morn and scurried downstairs in my Dr. Dentons to find that the merry yuletide elf himself, Kris Kashman, had come to my house. Waiting under the tree was Nick Rumbelow - (with Goody, a former member of "the two Nicks" of Scranton) - signed to a minor league deal. He's 25 and still recovering from Tommy John surgery. Not the worst of gifts, even if we had been asking for a size XL Encarnacion. Oh well...

Then came a darker visitation. News broke that one of the greatest Yankees of all time, Mel Stottlemyre, is clinging to life, battling cancer. In an era when the Yankees offered their fans next to nothing - (sound familiar?) - Mel gave us reason to hope. Listen: I hate it when bloggers and media types stoke fake emotion by sending out "heartfelt prayers." What bullshit. All I can say is that no matter how bad a team we had, when Mel Stottlemyre was on the mound, we were always the Yankees. Nobody lives forever. But as long as I'm here, Mel won't be forgotten.

So... no ghost of Christmas future came our way. If I had my choice, I would have picked the most important Yankee of all, Aaron Judge. As far as I can see, the fate of 2017 and beyond still hinges upon his ability to hit. If he's a Gioncarlo Stanton, our batting order could explode with runs. If he's a strikeout machine, we're in deep doo-doo. The worst scenario, of course, is that Judge's verdict falls somewhere in between, and we trade him before he evolves into a star. What a terrifying thought.

He's our Santa: If he's for real, anything is possible. Stay thirsty, my friends.