Do not prove a liar out of me.
Not after all we’ve been through. I defended you when you were down, praised your magic eye drops when it mattered, and waited three months for you to get your head together before deciding to commit to the rest of the season.
Please don’t tell me you are going to wind up like Manny – washed up in LA and on women’s hormones. Please don’t tell me I’m going to have to take Nana’s Ortiz jersey away from her. Please don’t tell me you have anything to be sorry for.
But the truth is, whatever you say Papi – I don’t believe you.
P.S. I can’t even look at you right now David. I need some space.
P.P.S. Come to think of it, I need some time alone from all of you boobs. Except Josh Beckett. (And Timmy Wake – but for different reasons entirely.)
P.P.P.S. Unless Josh you’re on the list of 103 other users as well. If that’s the case, lose my number too.
Editor’s note: Just a few hours after I posted this letter Papi hit one of his signature blasts into the stands to put the Sox on top over the A’s in the seventh. Now, if this is the proverbial equivalent of him bringing me flowers … he should know better. It’s going to take more than a game winning homerun against the A’s to win me back. This isn’t high school David. But, you know what, it’s a start.