An open letter to Hunter Pence:

Hey Hunter,

Feeling comfy?  Still pulling small pieces of glass out of your legs and arms?  Look, we need to talk.  I loved watching you last year, when you were all piss and vinegar and running into walls and stuff.  Your enthusiasm was something I hadn’t seen since Craig Biggio was still Craig Biggio, and the fact that you were shaping up to be a .300/20 kind of guy was damn fine.  There were concerns about your ability to hit a breaking ball, but I figured that you’d adapt to that just like you’ll eventually adapt to opening closed doors before going through them.

But what the hell is going on, Spaz? You’re batting .179 as of today, with ten strikeouts and no walks.  NO. WALKS.  Your plate approach right now is worse than Carl Landry’s free throw form. When the ‘Stros signed Kaz Matsui and his fissures, he was intended to be the #2 hitter, but when his butt trouble intervened, Coop tapped you for that lineup spot.  A lot of people were worried when we signed Kaz, because he’s an injury risk, and he has a massage therapist and all that, but he’s an ideal second hitter because he can hit behind a runner and move people up.  Especially since Michael Bourn is faster than a Saturn V rocket, any well-placed contact could create a scoring opporutunity.  Barring that, a walk brings up the Puma and the heart of the lineup. 

Kaz can do all of those things, Hunter.  Coop thought you could too, but now you’re flailing like the T-1000 in the molten steel, Bourn’s getting stranded on base, and the boppers are getting fewer pitches to hit.  It’s killing this supposedly potent lineup, Spaz.  At this point, Towles or Loretta would be a better fit for the two hole until the anal fissures are healed. 

But I still have some shred of faith that you’ll bring this around.  I don’t want you to stand like a statue at the plate, refusing to swing.  That’s what Morgan Ensberg did, and now he’s picking A-Rod’s dingleberries in the Bronx.   In case you haven’t figured it out, the opposing pitcher’s job is not to give you something that you can hit into the Crawford Boxes; he’s trying to get you out, preferably without giving you a chance to advance a runner or do anything productive.  Lately, you’ve made some dumb-ass pitchers look like that cheater Jake Peavy.   Hurt them before they hurt you, you lanky bastard; just remember that hurting them doesn’t mean swinging like freaking El Kabong at every opportunity.

I’ve tried logic, and I’ve tried cajoling.  If this keeps up, all I’ve got left is bribery and threats of physical harm.  Maybe if I put Marissa Miller on the other side of a sliding glass door, I could do both at once.  Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that: I don’t want to see you hurt, and Marissa’s been having such a great time in my basement.

Sincerely,

Ted Striker