Open Letter to Andy Pettitte: God forgive me for what I have to say...

Dear Mr. Quarter of Core Four,

First... Forgive me for my wicked tongue. This isn't really me. I'm just angry at the world, so I'm lashing out at everyone, especially the people I love most. I'm no good. They should put me in jail, with Tom Delay. But, dammot, it's been a tough winter.

We laid out enough money to buy every kid in Jersey City his own Laker Girl, but Cliff Lee still prefered Philadelphia. Philadelphia! We watched the Redsocks get Adrian Gonzalez for a handful of magic beans, then sign Carl Crawford in a freshman pantyraid. The futbol Giants folded like a deck chair. Birds are falling from the skies. Fish are beaching themselves. The Man wouldn't let Snooki do a drop in Times Square. Not only that but... wait a minute... Philadelphia?

We've slogged through the coldest, ugliest January since Lerch from the Adams Family died (that's Ted Cassidy, 1976!), buried in snow, while you sat in a chapel pew stewing about Roger Clemens and looking up to God for a sign of what the hell to do.

Well, here's your fukking sign: COME BACK AND DO WHAT YOU GOD BLESSED YOU WITH THE TALENT TO DO: PITCH, GODDAMMOT, PITCH.

Come on, fer godsake! You know what you need to do. Follow your gut. You get one shot at baseball -- one shot at a career-- one crack at another World Series -- and you're going to chuck it? sleep late? do crosswords and watch The View?

Pssssssssst... Andy, ol pal.... that arm has a year in it. You can make $12 million. That's more than anybody reading this blog makes in a life. Cash on the barrelhead. It's coin that I doubledog guarantee you will someday be glad to have. Win 18 games and another ring, and you go into the Hall. Cooperstown, Andy... not Philadelphia. The Hall, Andy. There's only one.

Andy... listen... Roger Clemens will get into the Hall someday. He might have to wait until he's 90 and playing with his own stool. But it'll happen. They'll feel bad. They'll forgive him. They always do. It's the nature of our species. (Don't get me started.) In the meantime, AND WILL SOMEONE PLEASE READ THIS OUTLOUD TO YOU:

You're NOT the cause of Roger Clemens' downfall. You're NOT the reason Roger Clemens is in court. You're NOT the guy who made Roger Clemens' decisions. And if you think by simply laying low and not pitching that you can avoid the glare when Roger goes into court, wake up. It's going to be crazy, but you'll be better off with a diversion -- a baseball season -- than with nothing else to think about but crosswords and Whoopi Goldberg's hairline.

Andy, Andy, Andy... I'm telling you straight. It's not your job to be the conscience of baseball, or of Roger Clemens. Your job is to pitch for the New York Yankees. Worried you won't pitch well? Who cares? Nobody's going to complain. We're not going to boo. You earned your money. Your ticket's punched. If you get hammered, if you don't have it, then retire, and they'll give you a car at home plate.

Andy... it's me, that fan at home, throwing juju in your direction every time you pitch. I'm not the arrogant writer, the airhead announcer, the lump trainer, the evil agent, the nervous exec. I'm that fan who throws metaphysical particles into the TV during Yankee games. They pass through an as yet unknown wormhole through an as yet undiscovered science and go straight to your arm, every time you pitch. Every time you take a breath and feel a surge of strength, that's me. No, actually, that's a million of us. We're out there. We're there for you. We want you back.

Andy, Andy, ANDREW! LISTEN TO ME NOW... You're too young. You're still growing. It was just yesterday you arrived, wasn't it? This can't be over so soon. I refuse to accept this. Come back. Please come back. Please, pretty please with sugar on it. I'M BEGGING YOU MAN, I'M ON MY KNEES, GIVE THE WORD AND I'LL COME TO YOUR HOUSE AND MOW YOUR LAWN, CHANGE YOUR FURNACE FILTER, WHATEVER. I CAN COOK GREAT MEATBALLS. IS THERE A PLACE IN TEXAS THAT SELLS ITALIAN BREADCRUMBS?

Andy... this is your last stand, your last hurrah. You don't owe it to me. You owe it to yourself.

Wait a minute... Philadelphia?