First Letter to Eddings

Nice hate mail to the Douche, keep em coming.

Dear Mr. Eddings,
One of the beliefs I hold near and dear to my heart is the competitive spirit that Baseball, and in particular, playoff Baseball engenders.

There are no shot clocks, no timers, just a set of objectives and rules to guide the players. You as the plate umpire had a responsibility to yourself, the players, the fans, and most importantly the game to step it up a notch.

I know you must have been daydreaming about riding on your Harley or having a few brews with the crew, but that's no excuse for not making your call clear and your intentions known.

How do you explain to your teary eyed five year old that the umpire is an idiotic fucktard that couldn't call his way out of a stuck elevator. How can I tell him to believe the umps at his tee-ball games when he sees that umps in the majors are just incompetent boobs that would be lucky to call a beer league game?

I wiped his tears. I put him to bed, and I told him that what he saw was a bad dream -- the ump was a space alien sent down to destroy the national past time.

That didn't really soothe him, but it helped me, along with the scotch. The sweet, sweet scotch.

Remember send your letter to Eddings here:

eddingsisadouche@gmail.com