The Red Sox Resignation

[Sydney Yankee Fan]

Fantasy Sports Focus


Official Resignation of a Red Sox Fan

Prior to last night's Sox-Yankees Game 7, I had a whole funny column-type-thing planned for this space. I think it was funny anyway. Then again, I think Don Zimmer tumbling to the ground because he's old and fat is funny, so you might not agree with me.

Anyway, my column was going to be all about trying to explain why it’s been so darned long since I’ve given you a new Sports Rag. Yes, despite the help of Atlanta-based comedian Tommy James, who has graciously provided some of the pieces for this latest issue, I have been extremely delinquent in providing the fake sports you crave.

My explanation? Well, it's not that I'm buried up to my eyes writing a book about fantasy football. That would be too easy. Rather, truth be told, it's because I was out of town keeping a candlelight vigil outside the hospital room of Roy Horn, of "Siegfried and Roy" fame, of course.

As you no doubt know, Roy is still lying in a near-death coma after being mauled by – how shocking! – a 600-pound beast that mauls things for a living. Who would have ever thought that, once the mind-numbing drugs wore off, the tiger, named "Montecore," would realize, "Whoah, whoah, whoah…things are still a little hazy here, but lemme get this straight: there’s a 59-year-old, teenage-girl-thin man in tights, sequins, knee-high boots, and a cape bossing me around? Oh, this is rich. If he hits me on the nose with that goddamn microphone one more time, I swear to God it’s feeding time at the zoo."

And then – chomp! Roy is dragged off the stage like a meat-flavored crash test dummy.

I had this whole bit about how I didn’t really get along with all the other Vegas acts who were also camped outside Roy’s room with their candles, sobbing quietly.

About how little bald Teller, the allegedly mute half of Penn & Teller, just would not shut the hell up, recounting the utterly gruesome details of Roy’s mauling, horrifying everyone for eight straight hours with "It sounded like that tiger was biting into a candy apple!"-this and "That was the most vile display of animalistic bloodlust I’ve ever seen"-that. (All that greedy bastard Penn was concerned about was whether there was now an open slot for them at the Mirage Hotel).

About how Celine Dion kept trying to mooch vending machine snacks from me because she was too cheap to get her own, and only did so when her 94-year-old husband Rene' wasn’t there because he’d scold her if she ate too much.

About how I kept calling Lance Burton "David Blaine" – by accident at first, but then, once I realized how pissy it made him, started doing it quite on purpose.

About how I brought Roy a cute, cuddly stuffed animal to cheer him up, but that snippy bitch Siegfried angrily threw it back in my face. Can't bame him, though. In hindsight I probably shouldn’t have gotten a stuffed tiger.

And about how we often forget that along with the Demerol, Tylenol P.M., Old Granddad scotch, or whatever other over/under-the-counter substances they pump into these poor animals to keep them about as lucid as Jessica Simpson after a couple of Zimas, there’s also a great deal of Darwin’s survival-of-the-fittest laws of the jungle coursing through their veins. I mean – and I can’t stress this enough – they’re still tigers! So should we really be surprised that one of these beasts finally snapped? Should we really be shocked and horrified when – even though Roy was masterful with these animals, slept with them, attended every one of their births, and might as well have been their adoptive father (or elderly great aunt, anyway) – these tigers decide to act like tigers?!


I also explained that part of the long delay was because the Kathie Lee Gifford-esque sweatshop kids who had been chained to a roomful of laptops and churning out Sports Rag stories for 5¢ a pop – most of them 8- to –10 –year-old Hondurans and Panamanians I bought from their parents at the Haymarket – escaped while I was away tending to my fallen pal Roy. I think it was that little bastard Pepito who led them to freedom. He had a tremendous grasp of the English language, great comedic timing, and could churn out the Top Ten lists like nobody’s business. But I knew he was a troublemaker from the start. I should have kept an eye on him.

However, after last night’s horrifying events in the Bronx, I just couldn’t bring myself to make this a funny column.
There was nothing funny about last night. Nothing.

Well, 3-0 Sox was funny. 4-1 Sox was funny in a different way. 4-2 Sox was a little less funny. 5-2 Sox got a little funnier again. 5-3, 5-4, 5-5 Sox were all incrementally unfunny bordering on vomit-inducing. And 6-5 Yankees? Well, that was the single least funny thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen Kangaroo Jack.

So instead of re-hashing the sordid details of the entire game like so many writers will do over the next few days, weeks and months – and probably a whole lot better than I could – I will simply use this space to quit as a Red Sox fan.

That's right, you heard me – I quit. Don't believe me? Below is my official resignation letter, sent this morning to team offices at Fenway Park...


TO: John Henry, Larry Lucchino, Tom Werner, Theo Epstein, et al
FROM: Mark St. Amant
RE: My official resignation
DATE: October 17, 2003

Dear sirs,

The purpose of this letter is to inform you of my resignation from my current position as Boston Red Sox Fan, which I have held since leaving my mother’s birth canal in the "Impossible Dream" season of 1967.

After much thought, and serious discussions with friends and family, I have decided to pursue a different team, and have accepted a position as Tigers Fan, beginning in April of 2004. My last day of work with your fine organization will be Friday, October 17, 2003.

However, I would like to take this opportunity to express my sincere appreciation to you and your predecessors for the 36 wonderful years that I have worked as a Red Sox fan. My decision to root for a different baseball team holds no relation to my experiences here with the Red Sox. Well, other than annually coming as close as humanly possible to victory, only to watch it slip away in the most spirit-crushing possible manner due to inexplicable and heart-wrenching human error, fate, destiny, mystical curses, and, of course, intervention from Satan himself.

I know that I have been fortunate to have been associated with such great teams as the 1975 Sox, the 1978 Sox, the 1986 Sox, the 1995 Sox, the 1999 Sox, and, most of all, the 2003 Sox. So please know that I have learned a great deal during my tenure in Boston.

I’ve learned that a human foot can fit neatly through virtually any television screen. I’ve learned that dogs and/or babies get very scared when you hurl coffee tables across the living room in their direction. I’ve learned that chanting "Yankees Suck!" during a May 16 Red-Sox Orioles game at Camden Yards has no bearing whatsoever upon the psyche of the Yankee players themselves. I’ve learned how to curl up into the fetal position, soil myself, and weep quietly while muttering incoherent sentence fragments about Jorge Posada, Grady Little, Alan Embree, Aaron Boone, Chuck Knoblauch, Derek Jeter, Tim Tschida, Roger Clemens, Bill Buckner, Mookie Wilson, Ray Knight, Calvin Schiraldi, John McNamara, Bob Stanley, Jeff Reardon, Roberto Kelly, Bucky Dent, Mike Torrez, Don Zimmer, Ed Armbrister, Carlton Fisk, Larry Barnett, Bob Gibson, and countless others.

Most importantly, I have also learned how to heal self-inflicted steak knife wounds and lighter-burns, a valuable skill that might lead to a possible career in nursing once my tenure as a Tigers Fan has ended.

I thoroughly enjoyed my time employed with Red Sox Nation, and would recommend the experience to anyone looking for a fair and rewarding job, or hoping to have his/her very soul ripped from his/her body and shoved directly up his/her rectum in an extremely painful manner every year for his/her entire life until he/she mercifully expires from sheer exhaustion and misery.

Please use the address on this letter to send my final paycheck and any other official communications that may be necessary as I make my transition to Detroit Tigers Fan.

I wish the Red Sox continued success – and by "continued success," I of course mean I wish for you and your entire organization to rot in hell for all eternity – and I want to thank you for allowing me to be a part of your team. Please feel free to contact me at any time if I can be of further assistance in helping with a smooth transition for the poor masochistic bastard who takes my place.

Thank you, again, and best of luck as you continue the utterly futile, Sisyphusian quest for a World Series championship.

Kind regards,

Mark St. Amant

[Jersey Yankee]

You were born a Beantown fan, you're now a Motown fan, and your s/n is that of a Yankee fan? Sounds to me like someone who needs to decide wazzup.

[patrick.o]

http://forums.nyyfans.com/showthread...threadid=51400