the Delicate Dance of Perfect Mediocrity

A couple of perplexing losses have the Tigers right back at .500 smack-dab on the nose, and so the Dance begins. Jason Johnson gives up 4 runs on two soft infield hits and a boneheaded error, and that’s basically the game. Exceptional Mental Makeup Mike (Maroth) pitches a beaut, bats in a run in his own cause, and is still hung with the loss after the Snakes get two runs to the singular Tigers run– and both of those were unearned, the rally started by an ‘error’ that may or may not have been.

Weird.

But this is how the Tigers have done things, recently. The magical statistical platform of .500 is a beautiful young lady that they are trying to dance with. Being clumsy males, they dance a little too enthusiastically, overperform just a tad, then freak out that they’ve overplayed their hand and shuffle woodenly for a few notes. They slowly regain confidence as the song progresses and dance heartily again, only to forcibly reign themselves in after a short while. .500, meanwhile, is rolling her eyes and gazing flirtateously at the Yankees.

Win. Forward two steps.
Win. Forward two steps.
.500 is attained. Yes, the lady is dancin’ with you. You suave stripey fellow, you.
Win. Dance a step.
Win. Dance a step.
.500 is giving you a coy glance. OMG she must be offended you are being too forward! Oh noes!!11!1!
Lose. Back off a step.
Lose. Back off a step.
Phew. Equilibrium with the tempestuous lady has returned.

The Tigers need to realize something. They need to realize that .500 is a wonderful gal, really, nothing against her, but they can do so much better. If .500 wants to go sink her nails into Derek Jeter, she is more than welcome to go do so. Because .500 is pretty, but .550 has much better hair, .575 has better hair and doesn’t need to wear as much makeup, and .600…. well, that way lies such feminine allure that it can hardly be imagined.

It’s perfectly OK if the Tigers want to stick with .500 for a bit, she’s really not a bad lass at the heart of things, but they shouldn’t tell themselves that she is the prettiest and smartest girl who would ever date a hodge-podge team like them. They should recognize that they are, in fact, pretty hot stuff, and can get some pretty smokin’ hot records if only they would apply themselves.

Now. Was that the most torturous metaphor ever, or most torturous metaphor EVER?

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