Dear Keith Foulke:
I really didn't want to have to do this. Not necessarily because I didn't feel like writing you, but because I know that the humorous apostrophes to unanswering athletes is really not my style. I'm more of the removed observer with pretentions toward lyricism. So I'm out of my element, here; Kristen should probably be writing this instead. But, oh well.
It's come to this, Foulkie. You're killin' me.
The problem for me is that you are my Favorite (well, co-Favorite along with Schilling). And the problem, as you may not be aware, with claiming a Favorite (co-Favorite) is that among your fellow fans you are then held responsible for the performance of said person, even if you've never, you know, even met them. So every time you give up another two-run tater in the ninth, sweetcakes, I have to hear about it the next day from trash-talkers who are personally hostile toward me, as an individual, for your performance, simply because you are my Favorite.
Don't worry--I'll still defend you, even unto the point of fisticuffs. But I think it's time we got together to solve this problem, as long as people are going to want to talk to me about how "my boy" is doing.
So let's do this thing. What is the problem, handsome? Surely nothing a little TLC can't fix. I thought I'd just let you know you can come on over anytime. I promise you that my means are modest, but if you do, I'll spoil you in a way that makes my feminist side cringe just a little bit. I'll cook you a sumptuous meal, dress you in a warm, white terry cloth bathrobe and feed you icy-cold, delicious watermelon sherbet for dessert. Or perhaps strawberries dipped in the finest Godiva dark chocolate. Because I know, Foulkie, that beneath that muscle you wear like armor, you are just a great big pile of softhearted goo, and I am just the girl to take that goo and sclupt a man out of it.
I know you love hockey. I hate hockey, but that's all right. Anything for my bullpen boyfriend. We will watch classic hockey all night--I will personally rent and / or buy DVDs or videos of hockey games, fights, etc. out of my own pocket--and as we watch them, I will keep bringing you beers until you either fall asleep or ask for something else. I will even read up on hockey, just so I can hold up my end of an entertaining argument about this or that player or team. We could even have a pillow fight about it.
This isn't even a can we please fuck? thing. Seriously. I am as pure as a Catholic schoolgirl in the driven snow about this. I mean, should you need some adult entertainment, I'd be more than happy to provide it. But really, my dear Foulkie, this can be as chaste as you want it to be. No pressures. No fears. No anxieties. No .380-hitting sluggers staring your slumping ass down. Just you. And me. And relaxing. Whaddya say?
I mean, it's totally up to you, of course. I could understand if you wouldn't necessarily want to have that kind of intimate slumber-party time with some random fangirl. I get it. It's cool. In this case, then, you have a choice: either come see me and we'll try to work out your issues in a nice and painless way, or just bloody well STOP GIVING UP HOMERS IN THE NINTH INNING HOW ABOUT IT BEFORE I COME DOWN TO FENWAY, LEAP INTO THE BULLPEN, AND JUST PLAIN KICK YOUR ASS.
Like I said. Entirely up to you.