Dear Mr. McCourt....Again

Or, can I call you Frank?  After all, this is my second letter to you.  Okay, I know you've been plenty busy.  Keeping the lawyers of America in business.  Holding that ogre of a baseball commissioner at bay.  Probably perusing the new stuff down at the Spy Shop so you can maintain the surveillance on the missus and whichever lackey she's screwing at the moment.

I got it.  My first letter?  Not a high priority for you.  Except...

It seems nobody else in Dodgertown is either.

You remember us, don't you?  Oh, you might still see me around the ballpark this season, but others less so.  I know you don't sit in the owner's box anymore, giving Tommy Lasorda room to put up his feet.  But, rumor has it you still skulk around the premises on the club level.  Those shades of yellow, tan, and blue you are seeing in the stands are not coordinated summer wardrobes of pastels.  Yep, those are empty seats.  Hey, you spent the dough a few years back to put those new chairs in.  You might as well get the full effect and get to admire them without people sitting in them,

But, as many of your arguments do, I digress...

These days, Frank, you're in litigation with everybody.  Major League Baseball.  The harpie formally known as Mrs, McCourt.  Some Boston law firm and, frankly, isn't that a little redundant? 

The one thing I don't see you doing is packing up your desk. 

Somewhere and somehow, you have gotten the rather misguided message that the fans of the Los Angeles Dodgers are behind you in your fight to maintain ownership of the team. 

Okay, just to be clear one more time...

WE'RE NOT.

Notice how I used capital letters.  It signifies "screaming" when used in an e-mail.  It works just the same here.  Let me show you another.

GET OUT.

Effective, isn't it?  Doesn't that make you feel nice and unwanted? 

Hey, you're being persistent in your attempts to stick around, so I'm going to keep using capital letters whenever I can.

GO THE FUCK BACK TO BOSTON.

That's a good one, heh?  Notice how I emphasized the use of capital letters with a soupcon of profanity?  Clever, I thought.

Frank, it's time to give it up. 

LEAVE.

MOVE.

VACATE THE PREMISES.

Look, as you're cleaning out your office, I'd look the other way if you want to stash some binder clips and a stapler in your briefcase.  You're allowed a little bit of office supply larceny. 

Just as long as you stop robbing us of a glorious baseball franchise.

Okay, you might be wondering why you're on my mind again.  Well, beyond the fact that you obviously need a sledgehammer to the skull in order to take a subtle hint, I just realized that the recent three-game series at home against the Philadelphia Phillies is a horrible reminder of just how far the Dodgers have fallen.

You remember the Phillies, right?  We played them in the National League Championship Series not once, but twice.  Back-to-back years.  2008 and 2009.  Of course, I can give you some slack for forgetting the second year since you chose that ignoble moment to announce your separation from that mere bag of shells you married. 

But, once again, I digress...

So, I'm looking at the Philadelphia Phillies this week and I'm envious.  Oh, not of their fan base, mind you, which is nothing short of neanderthal and perhaps the most obnoxious in all of Major League Baseball.   No, I'm admiring the fact that this team, since we last played them in the playoffs two years ago, has actually gotten better.  The nerve, right?   Sure, the team organization is financially solvent as the apes who frequent Citizen Bank Ballpark actually do have money.  But, these greenbacks were, however, sunk back into the team, as opposed to the myriad of ways you've spent our Dodger dollars.  None of them involving the sport of baseball.

Let's face it.  The Phillies went out and bought three pitching aces.  When they need a position player, they find them.  Meanwhile, you have lots of houses, swimming pools, and, in the case of the bitch who formerly slept on the other side of your home, lovers.  And your fan base gets in gratitude...

EUGENIO VELEZ.

Frankie, look at that team from the City of Brotherly Hate and then look at ours.  See a difference? 

It's all yours.  Unlike Barack Obama, you can't blame this mess on George Bush. 

You've got only one route out of town.  One that will help you save at least part of that grizzled mug of yours. 

GO.

NOW.

It's amazing to me.  When you first got here in Los Angeles, you and that "see you next Tuesday" you married were so concerned about what the fans thought of you.  You went out of your way to hire crisis publicists.  You canvassed opinions.  You took surveys.  You so desperately wanted to know how we felt about you.

Well, now, you know.  We hate you.  

Love,
Len

P.S. Don't make me write this letter again.

Dinner last night:  Tortellini with chicken and pesto.