Special Delivery 2

Dear Ryan Langerhans,

I think we both know that you practically owe me your career. When all the idiots in the world were all "Frenchy's fine!" and "Frenchy's the new golden boy!" I was all, "My Boyfriend eats Frenchy for breakfast!" (which of course is hyperbole because otherwise you'd be a cannibal and social pariah---can't have that!). As a direct result of my stalwart loyalty, you were not sent back to the minors so that the entire outfield could be played by Jones and Francoeur. They decided to "keep you on" and "see how you handled yourself." Well, let's just say you handled yourself just fine and now all those naysayers have a new catchphrase about ole Frenchy: "Sophomore Slump." And you? You. Oh, you. You and your .479 batting average. And your lay out catches in the clutch. And your blank stare during photo shoots. Sigh.

And we both also know that you almost blew it with your "marriage." I know I reacted poorly. There were threats of bodily harm and intimations that I would wreck your home. I think you know me well enough to know it was the booze talking. Bygones? I hope that you are happy in your "marriage" and I will comfort myself with the memories we shared while I was still your Best Girl. We'll always have that one rain delay where I catcalled you as you walked up to the plate right in front of the choice seats I stole from the wuss that couldn't stand a little skywater. Ah, the halcyon salad days of our love.

The real point of this letter is to clear the air a bit, you know, stow the baggage, as it were. I am very proud of the way you are playing and I know, despite what the grumpies say, that you will not "implode." So here's to you and your nerves of steel. Don't let the pretty boy intimidate you! He's pretty but dumb and if he doesn't marry money I just don't know what will happen to him. But you? You're going places.

Sincerely,
Amy