Dearest John,

I hope you don’t mind my love letter from the Great Beyond.

Somebody should write a song about us, something a little torch, a little blues, a story of lost and unrequited love. Brains are sexy to me, John, a man who can make his way around a spreadsheet makes me blush to the clavicle. Don’t even tell me how much I adore your long scarves and when you talk draft choice signability and advanced metrics, well, now, I do believe I’m getting the vapors.

I wish you could see me right now — I’ve put on a little black dress for you, my trademark ruby red ribbon in my ebony bouffant tresses, fresh lipstick, and do you like my new pumps, big boy? Oh, sigh, you probably can’t see them. Well, if you did, I’m sure you’d compliment me on them. I think I’m going to grab my hairbrush and pretend I’m offering you a private performance of a song off my best album: “Rehab.”

Your giggles aren’t funny, you.

I think scarves on men are fashion-forward, and courageous. Bravo, my dear.

But enough of my me, John. I want to talk about you.

In the past year, you’ve grown so, and honey, when I read stories of your roster construction, your deep understanding of sabermetrics, your adherence to the player development plan you worked out with that rascal bounder cad who left us for that den of hussies in Houston, your refusal to listen to the misguided fools clamoring to deal our big, strapping, strong young men for another broken-down Proven Veteran(TM) … why, dear, you make this lady feel like a woman.

You’re such a swifty on your feet that when you do want to grab a veteran bat for our team, you don’t spend much, certainly none of our team’s delightful youngsters. You have a crafty eye for a Lance Berkman, a Carlos Beltran, decent enough chaps that are, like me, a little damaged and a little unappreciated.

And you know your way to a lady’s heart, shopping for bargains but not being caught dead wearing last year’s fashions on your roster (we shan’t raise the spectre of this blog’s namesake again, for I know it wasn’t you but that grumpy gloomy gus in the dugout who insisted you put him on our team). And when you said enough was enough with that Schumaker fellow and his second base adventures, ignoring the anguished high-pitched peals of overcome girls across the land, I was proud of you, prouder than I ever have been.

I know you won’t let your Amy down, John. I know you’ll do the right thing and forget all about this Matt Carpenter at second base stuff. I don’t look my most attractive when I’m pouting.

And put that robust gentleman Trevor Rosenthal in the rotation where he belongs. The more Amy sees him, the more Amy likes.

Toodles, John. Oh, my afterlife is so unrelentingly dull, my dear. If I have to sing Kumbaya one more time … oh, and if you could? An autograph of the next big pitching star in St. Louis, Michael Wacha, would be just divine.

All my love,
Amy