Open Letter to Buck Showalter

Dear Madam or Sir,

Over the next week, the free world will learn once and for all, without media filter, your basic essence as a member of the human race.

We in the Yankiverse, your original family, are wondering:

Is Buck Showalter the man who lifts his starters against California in the last day of a regular season, so his former teammates are screwed out of home field advantage in the playoffs? Because that's what you once did.

Is Buck Showalter the executive whose team, moments after winning its first World Series, in the aftermath of a terror attack, has its home stadium public address system derisively play "New York, New York," while its players celebrate on the field?
Because that's what happened.

Is Buck Showalter, a man who once declared that he would always be a Yankee, nothing more than a cheap, filthy, rotten-to-the-core Redsocklover?

Yes, you heard me, buddyboy... Redsocklover!

Because for 15 years now, that's how you've acted. You rip the Yankees with all the face-painting bluster of a Fox News anchor blonde... and then, when your team goes up against Boston, strip naked and lie on your backside like, well, uhm, a Fox News anchor blonde. Redsocklover! Redsocklover! Redsocklover. I hope the word stings. Because that's what you are.

You have five games left against Boston. Fate has given you one opportunity to make a difference in your miserable, never-win-a-goddamn-thing, post-Yankee life. Five stinking games. Are you going to win one? Are you going to pull your starters... again? And if you live all five, what will you play while Boston celebrates? New York, New York?

Redsocklover. Yes, I hope the word stings.

Your move, sir. Your legacy, too.