Please. We deserve this.
We’ve earned this.
Yes. We aren’t entitled. We aren’t spoiled.
Quite the contrary.
We have suffered. We’ve had our hopes built up just to have our hearts ripped out more times than we can count.
Lord. Deliver unto us, your son, Steve Cohen.
We’ve kept our faith through wild boar attacks, dildos, fights among players, father-in-laws and executives, thrown televisions, the team batting out of order, 3 am firings, hand foot and mouth disease, firecrackers and golf clubs.
Forgive me for being ungrateful.
But despite being lavished with all that heavenly bounty, we went to the Postseason just five times, my Lord.
Wasn’t watching Tom Seaver throw his first career no-hitter in a Cincinnati Reds uniform punishment enough for all our collective sins?
We live in a world where Brian Cole, Dwight Gooden, Darryl Strawberry and David Wright aren’t immortalized in Cooperstown.
I don’t know how long an eternity is. If I had to guess, I would say that each decade under the Wilpons would be the equivalent of two eternities.
By the way…
The Wilpons? Really? What a cruel and unusual punishment that was. They say you work in unusual ways, but that was just sadistic.
Please spare us from the false prophet known as A-Rod.
Oh, Lord. Please deliver unto us, your son, Steve Cohen.