TO: Pat Burrell FROM: TBOH RE: Temper Tantrum


Dear Pat,

When I was in 8th grade, my parents took me down to Clearwater for Spring Training.  I spent three of my dollars on a baseball with a Phillies logo on it, for the sole purpose of wrangling some autographs out of you guys.  That was a banner year for the Phillies, too; such perennial fan favorites like Alex Arias and Ron Gant were populating the roster, as well as a plethora of signatures that about a decade later, I cannot recognize.

My grandfather was checking out the names I had managed to get and nodded in approval of one in particular.

“Pat Burrell,” he said.  “That’s the one I wanted to be sure you got.  He’s gonna have a great career.”

Well, here we are, Patrick.  Its 2010 and your “great career” in Philadelphia was like watching a man in a sealed room choke to death on noxious fumes; all poundin’ on the glass, eyes bulgin’ out, the sound proof windows denying your any chance for attention.

No one’s saying you didn’t live up to your potential.  Just kidding; everyone was saying that, and for a very long time.  And they were right.  Because you weren’t a baseball player, Pat.  You were a clown prince, a meatheaded, tit-seeking missile, unafraid to expose the city of Philadelphia to your intrusive genitals.   I went to high school with a class that was half Pat Burrells, and I would have been disgusted to have to watch any of them get a shot in the bigs and completely fuck themselves by refusing to give up collegiate antics in exchange for any means of self-discipline.

But hey, why try to help your team get better by, I don’t know, learning to play defense, when there’s SO MUCH PUSSY TO BE HAD BRAH RIGHTEOUS.

We think its so neat that the Giants gave you a shot and you’ve actually come through for them on multiple occasions.  Hell, its quite possible that they wouldn’t be here without you.

But boy, this tough guy thing you’re trying really isn’t working out, and honestly, you’re just dicking yourself.  Repeatedly.  Nobody is under the delusion that the city of Philadelphia not liking you is a real threat of some kind.  You’re not wearing a Phillies uniform.  Eventually, we were going to hate you.  But knowing what we know about you, that you’re a hard worker, with a clutch bat 1/10 of the time and a tendency to gravitate toward much younger girls makes you about as intimidating as a child rapist two seconds after Chris Hansen appears.

Trying to intimidate Roy Halladay is barking up the wrong tree.  Actually, it’s like barking at a brick wall, and the brick wall has the ability to stare back at you with the distressing gaze of a frozen abyss, the chilled souls of a million years of humanity’s faults dampening the air.  You try to breathe inwardly, but the jagged punch the frigid oxygen slams into your innards puts you in a state of shock.

Secondly, like I said, we’re so happy for you, Pat.  It’s like watching that kid in high school all the teachers muttered about in the faculty lounge finally make the tiniest bit of something of himself, and just when everyone is on the verge of being proud, he clutches that morsel of success and just tries to ride it into the pants of the first available twentysomething who doesn’t immediately walk away when he demands to see her tits.

You were good, sometimes, and we loved you for it.  But you were an asshole, too, most of the time.  But you were our asshole.  Now you’re their asshole.  Which is to say, just an asshole.

Shrieking at Roy Halladay because he terrifies you isn’t making your dignity grow back.  Save the rage for where it belongs:  The bedroom.

Hugs and kisses,