An Open Letter to Alphonso: I know what you're going to say, and you're wrong

Dear Madam or Sir:

I feel the moistened heat rising from your mousepad. (That's not a sexual innuendo, BTY). Of our all-star IIH lineup, you're the house pessimist, and we're 0-2.

Worse, we lost to another Toyota, while our imported sedan is chasing his second Pitcher of the Year Award at Scranton.

Worser, Chien-Ming Wang's sinker is full of helium, and there are flashes of Teixeira replacing Arod as the Billy Crystal DH with runners on base.

But everything is cool. Here's why.

Look at him. Look at that "Whodafuk brought the fat girl?" expression. Check the facial growth. The hair. The pimples.

This is an angry dude. This is an "I-aint-pickin'-no-cotton!" man.

This is our third starter. On every other team in baseball, he is the second starter. On all but maybe four or five, he is the ace of the staff.

Then come Joba and Andy.

It is the bottom of the rotation where we will rule.

Write this down: The bottom of the rotation aint gonna pick no cotton for The Man.

Write this down. We win today.