The Jinx Is Not In (because what’s an off day without a little baseball poetry?)
There’s something I want to talk about but broach with apprehension
For if you state the obvious the Jinx will pay attention.
There is no monster in Lake Erie, of that you can be sure
But beware the Jinx who dwells within the salt mines off the shore.
The Cleveland Jinx is green and chunky with breath like stale burritos
He wears flip-flops and a beer-stained jersey from Rocky Colavito.
When the team is doing poorly, you won’t see the Jinx,
There’s no fun in messing with a team that really stinks.
But when the Tribe shows signs of life and fans begin to hope
The Jinx’s one-word answer is a loud, resounding “Nope.”
He’ll fiddle with the strike zone, the pine tar, or a mitt
And anything he thinks will stop a run-scoring base hit.
The Jinx can’t help it, it’s his job to purloin a winning streak
He lives upon our broken dreams and random bursts of pique.
So how does the Tribe fare? Of that of which we must not speak
All that I can safely say is it’s been a hell of a good week.
Of the Jinx fans need not wait.
It’s been around since forty-eight.
The jinx, he shines like Terry Pluto’s bald head
or creaks like Grady Sizemore’s knee instead.
He plots, plans, schemes; a grinch of a Chief Wahoo
waiting to put Jobu’s loser curse on you.