Dearest Clay, Learn to pitch. Love, Lauren
Dearest Clay Buchholz,
Sorry to miss the game today. This is what I was doing.
Apparently, this is what YOU were doing.
Yep. That’s you. And JOHN LACKEY (just ’cause).
FIVE RUNS? In under FOUR innings? Really, Clay? Really? Is that what they do in Atlanta?
AND YOU PEOPLE. I left you people, yes YOU, reading this, in charge! And you let Francona send in LOWRIE? But I digress. This letter is for Clay. Who can’t pitch, but I’m assuming HE CAN READ. Maybe someone should write you a pitching manual! No, not you, Curt Young. No, DEFINITELY not you, JOHN LACKEY.
Post-Watauga River I got a text that you were in dire straits, Clay. I drove through a “city” called Elizabethton desperately seeking a television for YOU (where, by the way, all the restaurants have pictures or sculptures of what they serve. for some reason, people in Tennessee need visual aids like giant hotdogs on top of hotdog restaurants. It took me awhile to realize this didn’t extend to sports bars. I kept looking for the giant bottle of pbr…) I braved country gospel radio stations, scary fly fisherman vests and banjo music (I swear I heard it by the river bank…) for YOU, Clay Buchholz.
Found a Beef O’Brady’s in a strip mall. SAVED, I thought. Except that Fox had the rights to the game and, since I am so fricking far away from Boston, Fox was playing the BRAVES game (this is YOUR fault, Buchholz). So I managed to miss the entire game. I had to watch fifteen minutes of GOLF to justify my drink tab, CLAY. And then I had to drive through a hail-driven thunderstorm. A thunderstorm brought on by your POOR PITCHING, no doubt. When you mess with great forces (like our one game winning streak, you turd), it’s innocents like me who suffer the consequences.
Rushing, rushing through sky raining hell and fury on my poor Chevy Aveo… speeding through the curves of 321 and why? FOR YOU.
And what did you do for me Clay? What did you do? You allowed me to get back to Boone just in time to see the score. 9 to fricking 4.
Tito tells us it’s not Salty’s fault or Young’s fault. It’s the “execution.” YOUR execution, Clay Buchholz.
After you are finished massaging the feet of the only starter I currently respect (JON LESTER), I want you to move on to Josh Beckett’s feet, okay? Rub his feet like they’re bread dough. Because we need him tomorrow. And your hands haven’t done anything else useful today.
So, kids, what did I miss? Any silver lining? Anything at all? You sure? Want to make something up? I’ll never know… For the love of Fisk tell me something good.
At least the river was amazing.
Replace the word Elliot with Beckett. Pretend Carla is Terry Francona. Pretend JD and Turk are the bull pen. I bet this is what it’s like.
I wish I was still on the river…
Addendum: Who misses PEDRO?