Howdy there, Gibbers, you ol’ sack of shit! How goes it?!? It’s me, Stoeten!
I know, I know, it’s been far too long since the two of us slugged back a few cold pops and got right proper shittered, but you were gone a long time, John. Shit, you were almost gone again before I could sober myself up long enough to get this letter written to you, weren’t you? Hahahaha!
Now, simmer down John! Simmer down. I’m not laughing like I’m Richard Griffin or Steve Simmons trying to convince mouth-breathers and the delinquents who skipped class the day they taught critical thinking that you’re not imbued with sufficient enough fucking magic to keep a team full of stars and veterans from not playing like shit just because they happen to be in your presence. This is me, John. This is Stoeten.
And it would seem to me that these guys in your employ wouldn’t have possibly needed you or anybody else to keep them focused on winning, baseball, fundamentals, and aware of the urgency of their situation as the losses racked up there in April– sure as shit not at this level, with multi-million dollar incentives hanging over the heads of guys who have been successful at so many levels, under good managers and bad, good coaches and bad, with good teammates and bad, and in good clubhouses and bad, to have weeded out the vast majority of those whose performance would be so dramatically impacted by any of that damn bullshit.
No! Come on, John– don’t look at me like that!– I’m not saying your job is pointless, or that these guys are damn robots. It’s just that they’ve already demonstrated themselves impervious to most of that hackneyed stuff concocted in the minds of lazy writers and analysts by virtue of the fact that they’re here in the big leagues in the first place, having achieved enough success at enough levels under enough circumstances to make it happen.
I’m sure there’s something to some of that kind of stuff. Not the “they don’t look prepared” kind of shit that nobody in his or her right mind could ever actually have the fucking gall to think they have reason, gleaned through their fucking TV screens, to really believe… but something– just not enough to make it worth pondering the way the clowns who’ve been calling for your head have been.
The team and its management knows that, John. I’m sure of it. Fuck, I think they knew it the first time they sent your shrapnel ass to the curb, but the old GM had to shitcan you anyway, just to save his own skin. The new guy wouldn’t do that, Gibbers, you ol’ fuck– at least not at this stage. Plus, I’m sure he sees that what really counts is to put your players in a position to succeed– and you usually do that John. Usually.
Yeah, we can quibble about your ever taking Colby Rasmus out of centre field for one of the scrubs on your bench. We can debate how the fuck Adam Lind– good game or not, double off a lefty in his previous at-bat or not– was allowed to go up there and face another lefty last night. I mean… hadn’t you gotten away with enough by then, John? Go cash in your chips and let Rajai Davis hit there, for fuck sakes, right?
Or tonight, maybe you won’t have noticed that Mark DeRosa actually looked awful comfy over at second base briefly the other night, and that maybe he and Izturis should be your middle infield, with Davis at DH and that ol’ reliable longhair motherfucker Rasmus in centre where he belongs, eh?
But fuck it, the magic’s back! At least for now. And that’s all you’re ever going to hear about anyway, I suspect, load of fucking you-know-what as it is. Shit, even a supposed demi-god like Joe Maddon sure doesn’t look like he’s got any of that ethereal bullshit left in him with his bullpen coughing up more shit than you and me on a Tuesday morning Motel 6 rug after a wild bender in Cabo, eh John?
So… you just keep on doing what you’re doing. Sometimes you’re going to look like a genius, other times you’re going to look like a dunce. Never will it be either, and the fuckers are just going to write whatever the hell they want to about you anyway. Just crack a tall one, pour it in that Gatorade cup of yours, get a monster-ass wad of chaw going, and watch them all eat crow as your team finally starts catching some breaks and playing some games the way we both know they know how.
You might not get back into the race at this point, John, but damn it, you just fucking might.
Stay gold, Ponyboy,