"Mikee at the Box". An homage to the cadence of "Casey at the Bat"

I don't know anyone who deserved it more. He's more of a fan that I can dream of being and a hell of a guy. When I saw this I knew he deserved a place in baseball history

The original if you don't know the cadence


Mikee at the Box

The sun was shining violent on the Tiger Fans that day,
The score stood One to Naught with but Five innings yet to play,
The players sweated through their shirts, The fans all did the same,
A rather thirsty pallor on the patrons of the game,

Some negatigers groaned, made known, their deep despair, the rest,
Got drunk and ranted rowdy, purple pumping through their breasts,
I had to watch on TV, stuck at work, and eyeing clocks,
But I knew we were in good hands, with Mikee at the Box,

As far as Tiger Fans go, you know some age just like wine,
But Mikee aged like milk the years he'd been there, twenty-nine,
To rep those ribald rugby boys, (fine group, but wash your socks),
I knew we had a punchers chance, with Mikee at the box,

It's true, our bats had struggled, hits caught short at the wall,
You win some, and you lose some, and as they say "that's baseball.",
To sit and bake in that cruel heat, most folks would find absurd,
But Mikee sat there every game, in outfield, north of third,

Then from Ten thousand throats and more, There came a Tiger yell,
It rumbled through Death Valley, as the ball met Curiel,
The force of his swing, hell, it could've squished that stitched orb flat,
Instead, it soared for heaven as it flew off Derek's Bat,

There was sweat in Mikee's visage, consternation on his face,
Some constipation too as he stood in his sacred place,
And sure, you can poke fun at him, if you are one who mocks,
But men would kill, for half the thrill, of Mikee at the Box,

The ball, its ascent ended, as it hurtled towards the wall,
A captive of ballistics, in the throes of downward fall,
Into the stands of destiny, that fated spheroid spun,
Until the hand, of one big fan, clutched Curiel's Home Run,


His visage, pure defiance, as he thrust it in the air,
Near thirty years he'd waited for this moment, through despair,
He'd let one through before, an old man beaned, guilt like a crime,
His belly hung, but not his head, his face said "not this time."

Then there and cross the nation, went up a moxied roar,
Three tigers rounded bases, and all three crossed home to score.
But eyes were watching Mikee with that ball held in his hand,
A living, balding, testament, to every Tiger fan,

A fan who never gives up, or gives in to defeat,
Who braves the freezing cold, the rain, the bugs, the searing heat,
And sure, he's not as svelte as he once was, and wearing crocs,
But few have held the line as hard, as Mikee at the Box,

His gut was mocked by thousands, though valiant his display,
But in an act that baffled some, he gave the ball away,
And thankfully for Mikee, his skin's much more than thin,
The jokes and jabs were worth it when the Tigers won, again,

Then beaten West Virginia took a country road back home,
And Tiger fans from round the world, to Omaha will roam,
So when the billboard lawyers buy up tons of Jell-O shots,
Just know that they've done less to help, than Mikee at the Box,

Now soon upon that fabled field, will shine those brightest lights,
And fans in seats and on TV will watch it every night,
And come what may, recall that day, that moment, and stand tall,
For we were bound for Omaha, when Mikee caught the ball.