LYRICAL LINGUISTICS
Rhythm is the syntax.
Emotion is the meaning.
Melody is the translation.
Music speaks a language everyone knows, but no one can explain. It doesn’t just pass through; it leaves a shadow. The right song doesn’t just remind you of the past. It drags you back into it. It ties itself to moments, to people, to versions of you that were long gone. It doesn’t just fill the air; it settles deeper, into the marrow of memory. When the melody returns, the moment does, too.
I believe the right song can overwrite your own narrative.
So I chose a track that doesn’t just play; it leaves a scar. It rewrote the rules on how much of ourselves we’re allowed to see in the art we love.
STAN
by Eminem
Released on November 20, 2000, it told a story that still feels a little too real. A look at what happens when admiration turns into obsession, when a song stops being something you listen to and starts becoming something you live through.
My version shifts the lens toward the world of baseball. I did my best to keep the spirit of the original intact, even if that meant taking a few creative swings along the way. Not every piece fits perfectly, but that’s the beauty of a new translation. This is Stan reimagined featuring Ross Jensen (Bitcoin Batman) as a fan writing to his favorite player, Munetaka Murakami.
(Original lyrics by Eminem and Dido are at the end of the piece)
BITCOIN BATMAN
Murakami’s gone cold, I’m wonderin’ why I
Got on X at all,
The morons rain “🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡” up on my window
And I can’t see a flaw
And even if I could, It’d be your .241 xBA,
But your picture on my wall
It reminds me that you aren’t so bad, you aren’t so bad
Murakami’s gone cold, I’m wonderin’ why I
Got on StS at all,
The mournin’ pain clouds up when I see your velo (95.0 AEV/97th percentile)
And they can see your 62.7% Hard Hit ball
And even if they could, they’d only point out your biggest flaw, (33.6-K%)
But your picture on my wall
It reminds me that you aren’t so bad, you aren’t so bad…
Dear Murakami-sama,
I tweet at you, but you must have been ballin’
I left my cell, my pager, and my X handle at the bottom
I sent a hundred tweets back in autumn, you must not’ve got ‘em
There probably was a problem at Elon’s or somethin’
Sometimes I post your Muneshots to your haters too when I fuck with ‘em
But anyways fuck it, what’s been up, man? How’s Southside Chicago?
I advocated for SupermAntonacci too, I’m bout the same for Bonemer
If the Sox draft Rocky, guess what I’ma call ya’ll?
I’ma name ya’ll, “The Murderer’s Hit Line”,
I read about Japan usin’ that moniker for the ‘27 Yankees’ lineup too, I’m sorry I thought it was fittin’ since you are the Japanese Babe Ruth so it’s not I came up with on some sort of whim
I know you probably hear this every day, but I’m your biggest fan
I even got an authentic Tokyo Yakult Swallows jersey that you wore in Japan
I got a room full of your posters and your pictures, man.
I like the shit you did in the JPEL too, at the age of 18 you hit .288/.383/.485/.869 with 17 HRs in 365 at bats
Anyways, I hope you get this, man, hit me back
Just to chat, truly yours, your biggest fan,
this is Bitcoin Batman
Murakami’s gone cold, I’m wonderin’ why I
Got on X at all,
The morons rain “🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣” up on my window
And I can’t see a flaw
And even if I could, It’d be your lack of pitch recognition you display, (41.9% Whiff/One Percentile)
But your picture on my wall
It reminds me that you aren’t so bad, you aren’t so bad?
Dear Moonetaka🌛Murakami,
you still ain’t DM or mentioned, I hope you have a chance
I ain’t mad, I just think it’s fucked up you don’t tweet back @ fans
If you didn’t want to talk to me outside Guaranteed Rate, though I put you at the top of my personal ranks
But you coulda signed an autograph for Shanks
That’s my little buddy, man, he’s only forty-six years old
We waited in the blisterin’ cold
For you, with flowers and you just said “whoa”
That’s pretty shitty, Munetaka, you’re like his fuckin’ idol
He wants to be just like you, Hukuna Matata, he likes you more than a high brew
I ain’t that sad, though I just don’t like seein’ a .250 BABIP line by you
Remember we are friends forever?!?
You said if I’d tweet you, you would tweet back
See, I’m just like you in a way; I never knew how to hit a slider neither
I know this because of your -2.9 wSL (runs above average) and you’re even worse against the splitter (-5.9 wFS)
I can relate to what the numbers sayin’ but to me you’re still great
So when you have a shitty day, I drift away and think of us on a play date
‘Cause I don’t really got stats else
So the Oopsy Peak Projections help me when I’m stressed
I even got a tattoo with “OOPSY” across the chest
Sometimes I even formulate thyself to see how much it reads
It’s like adrenaline, my brain gets such a sudden rush for me
See, everything I say is real, and I traject you ‘cause you excel at it
My followers’ jealous ‘cause I tweet about you 24/7 (Ross had over fifty posts raving about Murakami on X… I stop counting after fifty on X)
But they don’t know you like I know you, Southside Samurai, no one does
They don’t know what it was like for people like us blowin’ up
You gotta tweet me, man, I’ll be the biggest fan you’ll ever lose
Sincerely yours, Bitcoin Batman – P.S. We should be together too
Murakami’s gone cold, I’m wonderin’ why I
Got on StS at all,
The morons rain “👎👎👎👎👎” when I open up my window
And I can’t see a flaw
And even if I could, It’d be your lack of pitch recognition you display, (41.9% Whiff/One Percentile)
But your picture on my wall
It reminds me that you aren’t so bad, you aren’t so bad?
Dear Mr. I’m Too Good to Mention or @ My Fans,
This’ll be the last tweet
I ever send with your stats
It’s been two years and still no word, You barely can hit a curve!
I know you got my last two posts, I typed @Munetaka Murakami perfect
So this is my tweet I’m sendin’ you, I hope you see it
I’m in the car right now, I’m doin’ ninety on the Fanci Freez-way
Hey, Samurai, I drank a shake of vanilla, you dare me to dive?
You know the stat, by Baseball Savant, “O-Swing%”
About that guy who only has a 22% chasin’
Clear-cut discipline, then you have it all, then why the underlyin’ numbers so grim?
That’s kinda how it is: You Whiff% is in the one percentile?
Now do you swing too late, anything down’n’out now, that’s lousy
All I wanted was mention or a signed ball
I hope you know I deleted all your tweets off my wall
I loved you, Samurai, we coulda been together, think about it
You ruined it now, I hope you can’t hit and you fall into a slump about it
And when you slump, I hope you can’t hit and you feel like a chump about it
I hope your conscience eats at you, and you can’t help but seethe without me
See, Samurai? Shut up, bitch! I’m tryna mock
Hey, Samurai, that’s your rankings gettin’ sunk
But that’s not what I wrote, I didn’t do that, see? I ain’t like you
‘Cause if I advocate for you, my followers will expect more and the bulls-eye will be on you
Well, gotta go, I’m about to add to your helium now
Oh shit, it’s not? Was I spending this whole time talking to a bot?
Dear @RossJensen,
I meant to tweet you sooner, but I just been busy
You said I’m ranked number one now, I’m honored that you think that of me
Look, I’m really flattered you ranked me like that
And here’s an autograph for your buddy Shanks, I wrote it on a Prospects Live cap
I’m sorry I didn’t see you a while ago, I must’ve missed you
Don’t think I did that shit intentionally just to diss you
But what’s this shit you said about calling me Babe Ruth Two?
I hope you’re just clownin’, dawg, come on, how fucked up is you?
You got some issues, Ross, I think you need some counselin’
To help your brain from bouncin’ off the walls when you’re scoutin’
And what’s this shit about us meant to be together?
That type of shit’ll make me call your baby’s mother
I really think that’s not cool and you should find someone other
Or maybe you just reword that better
I hope you get to read this message, I got tickets in the bleachers for you next time
Before you disconcert yourself, I think I just need some more time and I’ll be fine
I just need to relax a little, I’m glad I inspire you, but, Ross, man
Why are you so mad? Try to understand that I’m tryin’ to do my best I can
I just don’t want you to do some crazy shit
I seen this one shit online that made me sick
Someone’s burner account was spiteful and tweeted shit that I’m borderline fringe
And said my bat to ball skills stunk, and I’m pretty much mid
And on this account, they found some other crazy hot take, but they ater found out who it went through
Come to think about it, his profile pic was, it was you…
DAMN.
STAN (original lyrics)
PERFORMED BY EMINEM and DIDO
My tea’s gone cold I’m wondering why I got out of bed at all
The morning rain clouds up my window and I can’t see at all
And even if I could it’d all be gray, but your picture on my wall
It reminds me, that it’s not so bad, it’s not so bad
My tea’s gone cold I’m wondering why I got out of bed at all
The morning rain clouds up my window and I can’t see at all
And even if I could it’d all be gray, but your picture on my wall
It reminds me, that it’s not so bad, it’s not so bad
[Eminem as Stan:]
Dear Slim, I wrote you but you still ain’t calling
I left my cell, my pager, and my home phone at the bottom
I sent two letters back in autumn, you must not’ve got ’em
There probably was a problem at the post office or something
Sometimes I scribble addresses too sloppy when I jot ’em
But anyways; fuck it, what’s been up? Man, how’s your daughter?
My girlfriend’s pregnant, too, I’m bout to be a father
If I have a daughter, guess what I’mma call her?
I’mma name her Bonnie
I read about your Uncle Ronnie, too, I’m sorry
I had a friend kill himself over some bitch who didn’t want him
I know you probably hear this every day, but I’m your biggest fan
I even got the underground shit that you did with Skam
I got a room full of your posters and your pictures, man
I like the shit you did with Rawkus, too, that shit was phat
Anyways, I hope you get this, man, hit me back
Just to chat, truly yours, your biggest fan
This is Stan
[Dido:]
My tea’s gone cold I’m wondering why I got out of bed at all
The morning rain clouds up my window and I can’t see at all
And even if I could it’d all be gray, but your picture on my wall
It reminds me, that it’s not so bad, it’s not so bad
[Eminem as Stan:]
Dear Slim, you still ain’t called or wrote, I hope you have a chance
I ain’t mad – I just think it’s fucked up you don’t answer fans
If you didn’t wanna talk to me outside your concert
You didn’t have to, but you could’ve signed an autograph for Matthew
That’s my little brother man, he’s only six years old
We waited in the blistering cold for you
For four hours and you just said, “No”
That’s pretty shitty man – you’re like his fucking idol
He wants to be just like you man, he likes you more than I do
I ain’t that mad though, I just don’t like being lied to
Remember when we met in Denver – you said if I’d write you
You would write back – see I’m just like you in a way
I never knew my father neither
He used to always cheat on my mom and beat her
I can relate to what you’re saying in your songs
So when I have a shitty day, I drift away and put ’em on
‘Cause I don’t really got shit else so that shit helps when I’m depressed
I even got a tattoo of your name across the chest
Sometimes I even cut myself to see how much it bleeds
It’s like adrenaline, the pain is such a sudden rush for me
See everything you say is real, and I respect you ’cause you tell it
My girlfriend’s jealous ’cause I talk about you 24/7
But she don’t know you like I know you Slim, no one does
She don’t know what it was like for people like us growing up
You gotta call me man, I’ll be the biggest fan you’ll ever lose
Sincerely yours, Stan
P.S.
We should be together, too
[Dido:]
My tea’s gone cold I’m wondering why I got out of bed at all
The morning rain clouds up my window and I can’t see at all
And even if I could it’d all be gray, but your picture on my wall
It reminds me, that it’s not so bad, it’s not so bad
[Eminem as Stan:]
Dear Mister I’m-Too-Good-To-Call-Or-Write-My-Fans,
This’ll be the last package I ever send your ass
It’s been six months and still no word. I don’t deserve it?
I know you got my last two letters;
I wrote the addresses on ’em perfect
So this is my cassette I’m sending you, I hope you hear it
I’m in the car right now, I’m doing 90 on the freeway
Hey Slim, I drank a fifth of vodka, you dare me to drive?
You know the song by Phil Collins “In the Air Tonight”
About that guy who could’ve saved that other guy from drowning
But didn’t, then Phil saw it all, then at a show he found him?
That’s kinda how this is, you could’ve rescued me from drowning
Now it’s too late. I’m on a thousand downers now, I’m drowsy
And all I wanted was a lousy letter or a call
I hope you know I ripped all of your pictures off the wall
I loved you, Slim, we could’ve been together, think about it
You ruined it now, I hope you can’t sleep and you dream about it
And when you dream I hope you can’t sleep and you scream about it
I hope your conscience eats at you and you can’t breathe without me
See, Slim,—shut up bitch! I’m trying to talk!
Hey, Slim, that’s my girlfriend screaming in the trunk,
But I didn’t slit her throat, I just tied her up. See, I ain’t like you
‘Cause if she suffocates she’ll suffer more, and then she’ll die, too
Well, gotta go, I’m almost at the bridge now
Oh shit, I forgot, how am I supposed to send this shit out?
[*car tires squeal, crash, loud splash*]
[Dido:]
My tea’s gone cold I’m wondering why I got out of bed at all
The morning rain clouds up my window and I can’t see at all
And even if I could it’d all be gray, but your picture on my wall
It reminds me, that it’s not so bad, it’s not so bad
[Eminem:]
Dear Stan, I meant to write you sooner but I’ve just been busy
You said your girlfriend’s pregnant now, how far along is she?
Look, I’m really flattered you would call your daughter that
And here’s an autograph for your brother
I wrote it on the Starter cap
I’m sorry I didn’t see you at the show, I must’ve missed you
Don’t think I did that shit intentionally just to diss you
But what’s this shit you said about you like to cut your wrists, too?
I say that shit’s just clowning , dawg
C’mon! How fucked up is you?
You got some issues, Stan, I think you need some counseling
To help your ass from bouncing off the walls when you get down some
And what’s this shit about us meant to be together?
That type of shit’ll make me not want us to meet each other
I really think you and your girlfriend need each other
Or maybe you just need to treat her better
I hope you get to read this letter, I just hope it reaches you in time
Before you hurt yourself, I think that you’ll be doing just fine
If you relax a little, I’m glad I inspire you but, Stan
Why are you so mad? Try to understand, that I do want you as a fan
I just don’t want you to do some crazy shit
I seen this one shit on the news a couple weeks ago that made me sick
Some dude was drunk and drove his car over a bridge
And had his girlfriend in the trunk, and she was pregnant with his kid
And in the car they found a tape, but they didn’t say who it was to
Come to think about it, his name was… it was you
Damn!
😅😅😅