A Concise Open Letter to Milton Bradley
Dear Don't Wake Daddy,
I know you care, I know you try hard, and even after an oh-for-six, you made what appeared to be an outstanding catch in the ninth last night, although I do admit I did not notice whether you got a proper jump on the ball or not.
Although snapping a bat in two lengthwise is an immature act, as is giving your replacement bat to a fan in the front row, I must admit I would be even more pissed if you meekly dragged your ass back to the bench like some of your teammates have the past few weeks. Not that I am advocating temper tantrums as a productive pastime, but it does appear that you DO care that you totally suck.
I mean, really? Is this it?
My guess is that next to the definition of "pressing" in the Baseball Dictionary, your damn ugly mug is pictured alongside. God knows I understand anxiety. Trips to the DL for "mental issues" seem to be all the rage these days, if Joey Votto and Kahlil Greene can play that card, seems to me you can, too.
Your calf is sore, anyway. Take a couple of weeks off, do what you do, play air hockey or bench press an ox, whatever. Then take a few days in Iowa to get your timing back, then come back here and hit like a MAN, dammit!! Otherwise, you're just stabbing us in the ass, and all over an "available days" clause in your contract?
Milton, Get Right, or Get Away.
The Uncouth Sloth.