Sorry for humiliating the sweet Tropicana Field

What is the proverb? “One day these will be good old days.” It was either Jean Paul Sartre or Kesha.

We didn’t know we were in the good old days before Hurricane Milton ripped the roof off the Tropicana field. The air conditioner is safe from the summer storm and screams for The Man Choi and his Pomeranians. We didn’t know how good we had before summer baseball included words that rhyme with a wamp glass.

I caught about four Tampa Bay Rays games per season as part of the ticket pool and arrived at the Rays’ temporary home at George M. Stein Brenner Field in Tampa on Thursday. The low light was a loss of wrist rests on the Orioles, a truly terrifying moment when Rays Reliever Hunter Big was hit by the ball and taken to the hospital.

Also: fever. “Wait,” Dad says everywhere. “It’s not heat, it’s humidity.” And unfortunately, Stein Brenner feels like a bowl of bisque that bubbly in the microwave.

Rays are lucky to have this setup in emergencies and no one expects the conditions to be perfect. In fact, there hasn’t been anything ideal for this franchise for a long time. At the end of business, every day, Montgomery Burns brings a new splate of spinning whale bone walking sticks.

Where will they play next? The way things are going, we were able to see the New Jersey Rays play on the fubbo accounts they borrowed for this scoring summer.

And hey, maybe you love it outside. The requirement for a true follower claims that sports are more authentic outdoors. Generally, I can agree. My baseball-obsessed spouse and I have been to Citifield for the Mets, Wrigleyfield for the Cubs, and Progressivefield for the Guardians. Even Florida’s precious spring workouts are mild compared to underarms.

But in June, July, August, September, baby, can’t. That’s the final decision time. It’s time for the beast that’s not too tight. If the Rays find a way to stay in Tampa Bay and build a new stadium, give them that delicious roof. Please give me a fluorescent light. Give its cold, soulless bricks and another white claws, black cherry or bust!

Don’t make them into perfect bum pants. The clouds on Thursday were faint and picturesque. The storm fell at the perfect time to keep the game on schedule and cool the air a few degrees. But I wait in pale horror for our day match in late July. And almost never thought I would say this – I miss Trop.

It is human nature to lionize the dead, overlook Cousin Gary’s tendencies with a five-finger discount, and speak only of his “free spirit.” Let’s say that in a compliment to that essence, Trop illuminated the room. Trop has never met any strangers. Trop gave her a shirt from her back and she literally did.

I formally apologize for all the shaming I lobbed at the Convention Centre, the dome of Aura compared to Home Depot. Did the light flicker and the roof leak? Was Stingray Tank depressed and anxious? Was the seats empty? Did you have unwanted SOGs in your Tater Tot with legs?

Boohee! In hindsight, the stadium was a leisure palace. It was Dante’s Paradiso. Now we can see proud fans playing their home teams in a boiling mug, but the grey cotton t-shirts fight for their lives.

By humiliating the Steinbrenner field, we understand that a new natural disaster may fall from the sky and slam it. I am writing an apology in yet another area. We hope we dig into the cowbell again and cheer for Stinger to win the mascot race in his loose little life. Someday these may be good old days, but those moments are difficult to see through steam.

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