They weren't 7 games back when I wrote this.

An open letter to my girlfriend.

Dear Monica,

As I write this, the Cleveland Indians, my favorite team of my (far and away) favorite sport, sit in second-place of the central division of the American League, trailing the hated Minnesota Twins by 4 games (it could be closer, but why don’t we drop 3 straight to the Texroid Power Rangers – dumbasses).

This is wholly unexpected. My goal for the team this year (and YES, they are concerned about such things) was a .500 record (81-81), maturation of the young players and that Casey Blake would get hit by a bus – not a big bus, but like a little, short bus.

Instead, after taking 2 or 3 from the Twins last week, my Tribe is soclose to sweet, sweet first place. I woke up Sunday morning not feeling well. It wasn’t the rockin’ pneumonia or the boogie-woogie flu as I first thought, but instead, I’ve got Indians Fever.

Indians fever, for me, is a personality disorder. The Roger that you’ve come to know and love doesn’t live here anymore.

You may think of me as a kind, considerate, “in-touch-with-my-feminine-side” kind of guy. Without my illness, I am. But this scourge of Tribe baseball fandom recently forced me to shout unpleasantries at Ronnie Belliard. Specifically, I called him a “stupid fucking idiot” for dropping a throw from Tim Laker (who, if you’ve seen his batting average lately is also a stupid fucking idiot). Silly, I know. Ronnie couldn’t hear me, nor could anyone else, I was alone, in my boxers, sweating profusely and scratching little, red, Chief Wahoo splotches all over my body

You might think I have a good sense of humor. Well, there’s nothing funny about a pennant race. There’s no reason to laugh when Casey Blake has rusty metal hooks for hands and can’t field a routine grounder to save his life or that that hick Cliff Lee has gone from tres chic to tres suck in 2 months OR that CC is still 350 pounds and likes to whine like a little girl on the mound.

You might think I’m easy to talk to. Not when I’m burdened with the syphilis of sports. You wouldn’t understand. You haven’t caught it yet. My advice to you is sit quietly, don’t make any sudden movements or put your hands near my face . . . don’t ask why Matt Lawton let that routine grounder to the outfield hit him in the face when it would have been so much easy just to catch it. Sure it would have been easier for him to catch it, catch, CATCH IT BROUSSARD!! Awww Christ are you fucking kidding me? Is it possible for one player to suck that bad? How can you cram enough crappiness for an entire team into one player? Forget it. You all suck.

Love,
Roger

p.s. Eric Wedge is a twitchier version of Swamp Thing.