From: Miss Hathaway
To: All Members of the Boston Red Sox
Re: The awesomeness that was today's game
As the restraining orders from your legal staff illustrate, most of you are aware of how much my employer hates to be reminded of the years 2005/2006; especially the latter. So you can understand how uncomfortable it had become around the office over the past few months.
Random diatribes directed at, among others Theo Epstein, Manny Ramirez, and strangely enough the sausage vendor at Gate C. Profanity filled tirades about "gas cans in the bullpen" and the art of hitting into a rally-killing double play game after game after game. He would get especially animated when discussing amongst himself the age old question of "Why can't they win 2 games in a row?" Whenever I would bring up the point they had, in fact, just won 2 games in a row I was threatened with insubordination charges and promises of a transfer to our Greenland affiliate. Never mind the fact we don't even HAVE an affiliate, much less one in Greenland; you get where I'm going.
I write this letter as a request from Chief; whatever you do, DON'T let what happened today go to waste. Unfortunately, I was putting all the RSD's homemade score sheets (long story; you're better off not knowing) into alphabetical and chronological order and I missed the game. However, during my 2 1/2 minute break I did get the synopsis of the exciting events from today.
Now, here is where I've got to speak up; you have no idea what it's like to work for a deranged lunatic who lives and dies with every game you people play. The man is deranged; and guess who he takes it out on? Not his wife (A saint of a woman I tell you) and not those demon seeds he calls children (who, in my opinion, need a good switching with a stick every now and then. Who am I kidding? He should wear that stick in a holster like Wyatt Earp and just flail away every 3 minutes, but that's not my call to make.) No, he takes it out on me, his most faithful employee, and quite frankly, I'm getting sick of it.
So if you let Jason Varitek getting 2 hits, that handsome young Mr. Ellsbury crashing into the wall and losing a contact, or that new outfielder who looks like Opie Taylor and his Spiderman catch today go to waste you best be prepared for the consequences.
Or HR's by that little fella with premature balding issues, Coco Crisp (what kind of mother would name their child after a cereal?) and that young fella who apparently Julio Lugo has issued a "hit" on (whatever that means) I swear on my collection of knitted scarves there will be hell to pay.
You took a series against a division opponent in THEIR park and you did it by coming from behind to win. You took the last hopes a team had of making the postseason and you stomped it into the ground like my boss does my request for a raise; smiling, laughing, and trash talking the whole time. Next up? The MFYankees, and no, he still won't tell me what the F stands for; it doesn't matter. You can take the hopes of your most hated rival and smash them to pieces in 2 days, much like my hopes of a raise, promotion, or the SOB firing me so I can file unemployment get dashed on a daily basis.
What I'm trying to say is you're all I've got to hope for right now. You gentleman pull this thing off, get past the Rays, and win the division? I've been promised a promotion. Or at least he'll give me an actual desk to work on. You take the wild card and I get a chair to sit in; nothing fancy, mind you. No arms and no cloth seat, but it beats the broken toilet he had replaced in the executive rest rooms last month I've been using.
This has been a long season and it's getting to be crunch time; you make the playoffs and I can coast through October and November; he's too busy checking his blood pressure, trying to catch up on sleep, and writing gloating emails to all his Yankee loving rival executives. But try as I might to forget them, I remember the winters of '05 and '06.
I will NOT, I repeat WILL NOT go through that again.
So please use the epic win today to catapult you to a 22-3 game record over the next 25 games which would put the Rays, Yankees, and anyone else so far in your rear view mirror you'd need the Hubble Telescope to see them and be the team everyone thought you'd be in March. Take the mojo from today and carry it all the way into October where lame Dane Cook commercials, Joe Buck being a tool, and my "Understanding Tim McCarver Dictionary" seem normal.
Thank you for your time, and speaking for myself I appreciate the restraint most of you have shown over the past few years; the letters alone would have sent me over the edge, much less the phone calls, emails, faxes, and florist deliveries.
He really is a good man. He just needs 90 days in a well run sanitarium to get on the road to wellness.
Good luck, God Speed, and hit 'em where they ain't the rest of the season.
P.S. Could you ask Mr. Francona if he got my "care package"?