Oh Thunder Matt. The clock nears midnight here in the Windy City. The humidity has me sweating like Leon Durham at Studio 54. I watch you strike out looking on three pitches. But I am distracted by the constant threat of cicadas. Damn you Thunder. You have the fire in your eyes (and in your pants). Your 5 o'clock shadow is positively Kurt Warner-esque. Swing the bat Thunder, swing the bat.
Hold your head up high. What you are going through cannot be called a slump my dear friend. Your .286 average hovers in the 'respectable' range and we all know, the power will come. Like a black bear unleashed from it's cruel shackles, you will charge forth with the fury and the power of a thirsty hurricane.
Memorial Day is upon us. Thunder Matt, you are America. Godspeed you red-haired stallion.