Dear Rafael Furcal,
I am writing you this letter to inform you that you, in fact, are dead to me. I sincerely hope that you get hit by a bus tomorrow. I have stood by you through thick and thin. I even offered to be your chauffeur after your multiple DUI arrests. Nobody loved watching your unparalleled cannon of an arm from shortstop more than I did. Nobody was happier to have the offensive exploits of Walt Weiss out of my life when you made the jump from single-A to the big leagues. I bought you multiple birthday cakes after it was brought to the public's attention that you were actually older than you claimed to be. Even after you left the Braves for greener pastures (AKA 3 years $39 million from the Dodgers), I continued to support you. I rooted for your Dodgers to defeat the Phillies in last year's NLCS. I continued to say that you were a good defensive shortstop even after your horrific Game 5 where you played arguably the worst defensive game by a shortstop in postseason history.
Well I can't do it anymore. After the crap that you and your agents pulled this week, you are officially dead to me. When you piss off the Homeboy Upstairs himself off, well that's where I draw the line. I realize that this situation was not entirely your fault, but the bottom line is you could have stepped in and handled the situation properly, but you didn't. They work for you, not sure if you know that or not. You gave your word, and you came up short. It was nice knowin' ya.
Sincerely,
JJ
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