An Open Letter to All Pitchers
I promise to never, ever actively love, like, enjoy, root for, or applaud you, nor will I vocalize your attractiveness to others. Clearly, it is not working. Clearly, instead of having love that transforms people into All-Stars, my love transforms people into Matt Clement wannabes.
To Jason Johnson, I will not so much as tell you to power through.
To Craig Hansen, I will stop defending you to all my friends. I will not even politely suggets that you take a good long look at John Lackey because that is your downside in ten years, appearance wise.
To Chris Capuano, I apologize for making my friends vote for you in the final vote All-Star thing. I have taken your picture off my desktop at work. I will not look up when your starts are. I will not ask my mother where the article from the paper she was supposed to send me is.
To that guy on the Orioles who looks like he should live in the 1950s and be wearing a letterman sweater and the quarterback of the football team and named Dean, I hope your elbow grows back. It was fun while it lasted.
To Tim Wakefield, I will not so much as giggle when you wink in the Bernie & Phyl's commercial.
To Jon Lester, I will not give you a come to Jesus talk about how the sixth inning is your friend any longer.
To Jonathan Papelbon, I will continue to refer to you by full name, speaking only in low, dulcet tones, and I will continue making the sign of the "P" on my chest when I am done.
On this day in the hottest month ever on the hottest day ever, I promise that I will stop liking pitchers.