Dearest White Sox,
I think that perhaps I expected too much from you this season. A World Series win followed by improving the roster on paper will do that, I guess. I miss the good old days... you know, like 11 months ago:
A season that you could tell was something special as it was developing is beginning to look like a perfect storm instead of the start of something really good. Despite the emergence of Joe Crede and Jermaine Dye as de facto superstars this year, it hasn't been enough. 11 months ago, Scott Podsednik was a World Series hero and bitch-hot girls all over Chicago were snatching up #22 jerseys. Now he can't get on base, let alone steal one (I'll let you decide which bases I'm talking about). 11 months ago, Juan Uribe was a defensive superstar in the making. Now he's just lazy, with flashes of brilliance. I wanted you to be the next poor man's Derek Jeter, Juan. Really, I did. What was described before the season started as the most formidable pitching staff in the league has degenerated into one of the worst. What happened to you, Mark Buehrle?
I trace it back to the mid-April orders to stop having fun on the field. This isn't the fucking Yankees here, Kenny. Let the boys have long hair. Let them play in the rain. Losing Aaron Rowand was only the start (and don't get me wrong, the Sox are better off -- on paper -- with Thome instead of Rowand this year) of this team losing its personality. The haircuts and the slip and slides were the last straw. As much as I hate butt rock and as much as I scoffed at "Don't Stop Believin'" being this team's theme song last year, there's something in that. You can't win for six straight months at a playoff-making pace if you're not having fun. Just remember that. Please.
Just because you won the Series doesn't mean you have to take yourselves so goddamned seriously. You lost some of your lovability this past year. Loosen up, boys, and beat those Twinkie Piranhas into the ground. I know you still have it in you... somewhere.