by James Motz
What’s this – a dome? This field is a joke!
Everything all fake, bunch of mirrors and smoke.
Where’s the blue skies and warm sunny feelings
Instead of blue plastic, “Baggies” – a ceiling?!
Neck twisted left for eight innings to see
The man in gray swing and miss for strike three!
You call that working the count? Must I
Suffer the insult of cheering that guy?!
The whole thing unfolds, painful to watch.
First a single, a double, couple of walks.
The lead for our team, thought to be safe
Now just about gone – and I’m outta faith.
The fan to my right stands up and cheers,
He’s awfully close to our un-empty beers,
But how can he resist from rubbing it in?
The mighty Tigers have a crappy bullpen!
“Break out the brooms!” He takes up the shout.
Whole lousy place ready, there’s really no doubt…
There! Crede kills us again, no surprise.
Every time, losing to a team I despise.
Cramped in my seat, I glower. “This sucks!”
Says my friend who spent over sixty bucks
To drive from Wisconsin to watch them win.
Now he goes home disappointed again.
Another lead blown, and all the fans scream,
And in my new town, down goes my old team.
The teeth are grit hard, tears beg to be wept,
My beloved Detroit Tigers got swept.
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