UNCLE.
That's right. "Uncle." Call off the dogs. You made your point. Please untie our hand from the chopping block and put away the hatchet. Uncle.
You are a better team, a better organization, with better beards and a better stadium. You certainly have a smarter owner than we have. In two years, we might compete, though maybe not. It depends on whether we are willing to take a season to rebuild. This was supposed to be such a season. We didn't.
But listen-up, "Hub Fans:" It's time to stop obsessing over us. Good grief, you're like Jennifer Jason-Leigh in "Single White Female," the way you stare at us, convinced we're going to suddenly rise up and beat you. It's creepy. It's unhealthy. Stop it. Go away. Shoo. Leave us be. I feel like that guy in "Breaking Bad," who was all shot up at the end of last season and just sat next to the river and told Walter, "Go away, and let me die in peace." Yeah, that's how I feel. Go away and let us die in peace.
This was never our year. Yesterday, John Sterling, in the first inning, recounted the scene from "On the Waterfront," where Rod Steiger enters the locker room before Marlon Brando's fight and tells his brother, "It aint your night." John said, it aint our season. It was the first time The Master has ever conceded defeat on a year, before the number bear it out. CJ Nitkowski, playing Suzyn, immediately suggested that Ichiro might have a big day, and we might rise up and still win. John went along with the fantasy. But it's over, folks. We are too old, too weary, and too beaten up. It aint our season.
People of Boston: Maybe it's yours. Frankly, if I were you, I would stop thinking about A-Rod and start worrying about Detroit. But do what you want. Whatever. Uncle.
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