You Gotta Have Heart.

Alright boyos. I brought breakfast, lovely little Puerto Rican pastries. I made them myself. So let's have a nice little chat and catch up.


So many things to discuss: we could talk about how the starting pitching has just been so terribly awful, or how you just dropped a series to the mighty A's, or how Bobby Valentine doesn't seem to have a clue as to how to manage pitching or that Franklin Morales should only be allowed to pitch to left-handed batters, or that the timely hits seem to have been put in the checked luggage and have been swallowed up by the great abyss that is lost airline baggage, or that you seem to have collectively forgotten how to take a walk unless absolutely forced to do so, or that there are too many players on this team who swing at the first pitch and end up making an out, or most importantly that you are managing to suck all the fun out of watching baseball.

I love baseball. I love watching baseball. And by an accident of birth, you are my team. You were my dad's team and his father's team. I was born here and I grew up here. I'm stuck with you. But I hate watching you play baseball. It's a chore to tune in. It really is.

Last year, I may have moaned and groaned about your rough start but I always believed that there was something to that team. This year, it seems like you're struggling toward mediocrity. Maybe you'll win eighty-one games but that may very well be a unrealizable feat. I know that it's early and that things have a way of shaking out over the course of the season. The ship will be righted. Small samples will average out over a larger sample. Baseball is a fantastically fun game but if you continue to play joylessly, you'll be the Yankees, without the results, and it will be so hard to care.

Nice chat boys. Enjoy your pastry. I'll be watching tomorrow. I'll hate it. I'll wish that I was doing something else but I'll be watching.