The bats are all put away
The gloves go back in the closet
The sunny Sundays will soon fade
And another season has set
Out there for 21 games
Couldn't quite make it to 22
The bats so strong went silent
The runs, once so many, were few
There will be head-scratching
And over analyzing
And the usual cries of next year
Inside the Nest, Matchless, and other houses of stale beer
But I only come out for fun
To run down the first base line
To slide into second
To catch a sinking liner, to score a run
Winning is great, don't get me wrong
And losing sucks
That said, I'd rather play and lose
Then sit at home all Sunday long
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