Twas the night before Christmas and all through the ACC, not a creature was stirring except Masai Ujiri.
The trade proposals were faxed to opposing GM's with care, in hopes that a first-round draft pick, would soon be there.
My executive team was nestled all snug in its bed, while visions of Jabari Parker and Andrew Wiggins, danced in their heads.
And Tim Leiweke on his iPhone and I with my Nexus, took to working out a trade deal which continued to perplex us.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the recliner to see what was the matter.
Away to the parking lot, I flew like Bledose, trying not to wipe out on the ice and the snow.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but James L. Dolan, his entourage, and a giant keg of beer!
"It's Molson Canadian!" he belted, his voice slurring and thick, and at that moment I realized, this MUST be my St. Nick.
He brought in the keg and pulled up a chair, his beady eyes wandering as he perused my lair.
Dolan wanted to talk trades and of course I was game, and no sooner had we poured beverages he yelled options by name:
"Now World Peace, now Shumpert now Felton and Murry, on Stoudemire, on Chandler, on Martin and Udrih.
I care not for draft picks, I'll gladly deal them all, but let's make this quick, before my executive team begins to call."
So up to the computer my fingers they flew, checking ESPN's Trade Machine, and Real GM's too.
We tried Lowry for Felton, and others as well, but Dolan wanted too much, and he began to yell
"Looking to move Hardaway, that's something I'm not, I'd rather play a gig, without The Straight Shot!"
As he ranted I gazed from his head to his foot, Dolan's clothes all tarnish'd with ashes and soot
But his eyes - how the twinkled! his dimples how merry, his cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, and the stubble on his chin, was as white as the snow;
He had a broad face, and a round little belly, that shook while he ranted, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, and I laugh'd when I saw him in spite of myself.
My laughter subsided, his ranting did too, perhaps realizing his club had a win percentage of .332.
"I must make the playoffs, I'll do what it takes, but before further trade talk, more beer for Pete' sake!"
I poured Dolan another stein and I, a mug, and I kept offering Lowry, waiting to pull out the rug.
But the rug was not needed as Dolan went straight to work, and fill'd all my trade demands, then turn'd with a jerk
"Top draft picks are yours, with the Raptors' they'll dwell, although if they bring in that draft wheel, it's all going to hell!"
And laying his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, back to his limo he goes!
He sprung into his seat, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew, like the dawn of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove away with his men - "Happy Christmas Masai, you win again!"
Happy Holidays from all of us at RaptorsHQ!