"Hell may have no fury like a woman scorned but heaven hath no sweetness like a sports fan vindicated." - Samcat

Saturday, March 31, 2007

An Intervention

Dear Jason,

May I call you "Jason?" "Tek" seems so formal and all and I'm not sure we're at the point in the season yet where I can call you "Captain Awesome: Sole Owner of the Thighs of Freedom" or the understated, yet effective, "Tek-Money." So we'll just go with "Jason" today. Besides, I figure my going with your Christian name and all might really drive the point home. And as long as you pay attention and listen to what I'm telling you, I'll do my best not to full name you, Jason Andrew.

Anyway, I really didn't want to have to do this. At least not so soon. But the thing is, I love ya, man. You know I love ya. My friends know I love ya. My family knows it. All the crazy freaks that read my ramblings in this place know it. In fact, probably people as far away as Burkina Faso are aware of the fact that I have a bit of an above average level of fondness for you and your baseball-playin' ways. That said, if you insist on *heart*ing the Mendoza Line for much longer, it's going to be a really rough season. No, not for you, although defending yourself against the construction workers from Revere and sheet metal workers in Southie probably won't be pretty. But think of how I'm going to deal with it.

I mean, you're you. You can have a game where you strike out three times, pop out to short and trip over Manny's tricycle on the way back to the dugout and still go home and cry in your pile of money. Me? I gotta hear about it. I gotta hear about it nonstop. Because that's the danger in having a favorite player. Everything they do becomes your cross to bear. It's coworkers asking "What's the matter with your boy?" and bartenders telling me, "They never shoulda signed your guy for that much money," and my brother calling me at all hours of the night to insist that "Dougie's better." And sir, I do not make $10 million a year. I do not have vaults of money that I can swim in, Scrooge McDuck-style to ease my pain. At best, I'll have a frightened cat named Dave Roberts who will run and hide under the bed from my wrath. And do you really want to do that to a poor cat?

So here's what I propose: Just...stop...sucking. Just stop. Start hitting the ball. Get some electro-shock therapy to ween you off that whole high fastball situation if you think it'll work. Watch the Karate Kid seventeen times and develop a "wax on, wax off" mantra for hitting if you have to. But for god's sake, start hitting. Don't do it for yourself, do it for me. Do it for the fuzzy Dave Roberts.

Because I am here to tell you, my man, that if we reach the All-Star break and the little woodland creature Dustin Pedroia is hitting better than you are, well, you might have to start paying for your own beer around these parts.

Okay, who am I kidding? You're set for life. Fitzy wasn't wrong when he said you were "carved from awesome stone." But that said, don't you want to earn it? It's the honorable thing. And you, oh captain, my captain, are nothing if not honorable.

So do the right thing, man. Hit the damn baseball. You can do it. Don't make me beg. It won't be pretty.

Thanks and stuff,