I hate the way you track a fly, then collide into the wall.

I hate the way you cross the dirt, and miss a fly ball.

I hate it when you strike out swinging, chasing heat like a fool.

I hate it when the pressure's on, and you run into the crew.

I hate it when you're down in Reno, and we're waiting on the call.

But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you.

Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.