I had to go into my fantasy baseball league message board archives to dig up this gem of an "open letter" my friend posted. I really hope we don't get this Heath Bell on the Nats, or maybe if we do, then he can write more of these.

Heath,

(Team Manager) here. I own you in a fantasy league. I want you to know I won't be dropping you. Not yet. I am going to hold on to you while you continue to suck and suck and suck, game after game after game. You'd think there has to be an end to the sucking. Stand up for yourself, revert to the old form, and turn shit around.

But it seems, Heath, you like it. You have a cool brim on your hat now. It looks triangular, like Southerners like to wear their NASCAR hats with a fishing lure on the side. Is that it? Do you need a fishing lure on your hat? I'd imagine Ozzie Guillen would allow it. Is it more than the fishing lure, though? Do you need like, a Tony Robbins self-help book passage written in your hat band? Bible quote eye black? A visit from Tebow? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU NEED, HEATH BELL, TO STOP THIS BARRAGE OF SHIT YOU PILE UPON ME?!?!

Your old team busted you up last night. How did that feel? You shun the Pads for a few more thousands of dollars, to sprint to the new mound in Miami and fat-guy slide onto the rubber like you did in the All-Star Game. All-Star Game. How the fuck did that happen? Did you steal someone's invitation? Did you get invited to the All-Star Rib Eating Competition and assumed it was from MLB since you, technically, are a major league pitcher? I doubt you're going this year, unless the fucking zombie apocalypse occurs and you have some immunity in your blood due to the amount of processed meats and cheeses. Could you strike out three zombies in a row, Heath? One wouldn't have arms. One would be chewing on the bat, and the third would probably hit a walk-off homer off your pathetic chubby ass.

I hope you die. I would trade your life for Junior Seau's. I would trade your life for a box of wintergreen tic-tacs. I'd certainly trade your ACL for Mariano's. You trot out there to give your 45% effort while a fucking Hall of Famer writhes on the ground with a torn ACL. You couldn't break his record if you were given ten careers. You fat fucking asshole. I hope you find yourself in Little Havana and have a Delmon Young moment and spout hate-filled rhetoric that brings out a big Cuban motherfucker with a machete and he just slashes your throat with it. Just over and over, slashing and slashing, and given your ERA and WHIP, there's an AMAZING chance he's going to make solid contact on just about every swing. I hope as the blood sprays forth, that you have a final moment of clarity, in which you want to scream - but can't, because your vocal cords are now flayed - "Sorry" to me and all the people who trusted you.

I would forgive you in that moment, Heath Bell.

But only because your death would create a roster spot for someone capable of closing games.

Yours,

• (Team Manager)