As you may not know since you weren't here last year, I have to attend therapy sessions for some "issues" that I have and an "incident" I was involved in last year. My therapist really has helped me and I'm a better appendage for it. But now you have caused me great grief that I am struggling to deal with. My therapist recommended writing you this letter, so here goes.
I hate you. I've disliked teammates in the past - Dave Doster was kind of a tool, Doug Glanville thought he was smarter than everybody else just because he went to The Pen or whatever, and Paul Byrd pissed me off with his religious garbage about Jeebus and MaryJane - but I've never hated anybody. Until now. You hurt me, man. Not metaphorically, but physically. Your decision to confront that runner - with 2 outs in the 9th of a 1 run game no less - like France confronts an opposing army, is deplorable. Why didn't we just have Christy the ballgirl behind home plate? It probably wouldn't have been the first ballplayer to try to slide between her legs...she probably could have stopped this guy too. Your catching style is less Ray Fosse and more Rachel Ray. Bullfighters think you got out of the way too quick. I might find Dutch Daulton and Astral Travel back in time so I can punch you in the face before I threw myself out. But until then, go punch yourself in the nuts, you contact-avoiding loser.
Oh yeah, and Rod is a gay name. Why not just change your last name to Johnson, get into the "male adult entertainment" business and leave the back-up catching to Chris Coste.
Brett Myers' Arm