Not Just Another Dear John Letter …
I have a confession to make. It has been 31 games since I last wrote. Jim Thome, Karim Garcia and Josh Bard have had big Augusts, yet I’ve said nothing. C.C. Sabathia has started to regain his 2001 form, yet I’ve barely noticed. Danys Baez has been moved to closer, still I’ve been silent. You’ve probably wondered where my once-ardent attentions have gone.
It probably will come as no surprise to you then to find out that I’ve strayed. While you’ve adorned your lineup with the dead weight of Lee Stevens, Travis Fryman and Eddie Perez, my eyes have wandered to the local nine with an ever-burgeoning win streak heaving beneath their green-and-gold cashmere sweaters. I’ve been careful not to wear their colors to games for fear that you would catch me, as if with lipstick on my collar. When you lost four straight at home to my new fancy, I avoided the television so you wouldn’t see the deceit in my face.
You may think I’m telling you this just to unburden my conscience, but you would be wrong. Just the other day my heart swelled at the mention of Tony Bernazard and it hit me: I could never leave you. I’ve loved you since Veryzer and Kuiper turned two and Bake McBride’s hair was a fright. To leave you now when you are at your least attractive, though pregnant with the possibilities of Brandon Phillips and Cliff Lee, would be immature at best. So I’m writing to tell you that I’ve seen the error of my ways. No more dalliances with these youthful tarts in their bright outfits, no matter how large their win streak grows. No flirtations with the NL team across the bay – they swept you off your feet in ’54 when you were standing tallest.
There’s room for only one team in my life and that team is you.