My name is Gerry. I’m a Red Sox fan, but I want you to know I take no delight in your latest predicament.
I don’t feel bad for you, I feel bad for me. You see, despite my allegiance to Boston, I truly admired your talent. I really enjoyed watching you play. There have been so few players who have combined grace, skill, and power as you did. (Clemente comes immediately to mind, which is a compliment of the highest order.) I really didn’t think you were a cheater, because I thought you didn’t have to cheat. I thought you were that good.
Sure, you did the “right thing” (after consulting with your “people”) by sitting down with de facto baseball commissioner Peter Gammons. ‘Fess up and everyone feels better, right? Not really. Now the Yankees are stuck with you and your contract. Your pursuit of Hank Aaron’s home run record has been rendered meaningless.
But again, I don’t feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for me. It turns out you’re just another cretin who couldn’t be satisfied with all the natural talent so many of us wish we’d been blessed with. The magic of the Sosa-McGwire year? Gone. The blow Clemens struck for men of a certain age? A pharmaceutical mirage. I truly enjoyed watching them perform. They cheated, and I feel cheated.
So, Alex, that’s why I feel bad for me.
Also, I think you were wearing too much makeup for the interview.
Sincerely (something you need to work on, by the way),