Dear Harold Reynolds,
Where have you been? I know we might have parted ways this past October on rocky terms, maybe even with a mild amount of animosity on my part due to some of our differences in opinions. However, that subsided and all but disappeared rather quickly, leaving me with an empty and cold feeling for most of the winter.
I was adequately distracted from this emptiness for a short time when the NFL had its regular season, but Paul Maguire is a pompous prick. Joe Theisman is an argumentative and condescending nemesis. And Mike Anderson can't catch his breath when he is excited. Chris Berman makes references to things that some may conjecture are bound to his own imagination. Steve Young thinks he is better than everyone. Michael Irvin does drugs. And Tom Jackson wishes he was Randy Jackson.
Life seems so quiet and mundane without you in it, and it seems like a grey veil has been drawn over all of my perceptions, dulling and saddening the same things in the world that formerly brought joy to me. I can feel no joy now. I know the only way I could possibly feel this aimless is if my previous disposition had been that of true happiness. Please come back into my life and I will accept you and your self-perceived wisdom with open arms. I miss you and Baseball Tonight terribly. I am even willing to bear Sunday Night Baseball with Joe Morgan and John Miller talking about random players who no one remembers or the days when Joe Morgan played baseball, if it means that soon after I would get to see your sunny face on Baseball Tonight. In fact, I would be filled with elation to go home and find Joe Morgan comfortably seated and waiting on my television with 10 or even 100 John Millers if it meant that you had returned to me from this absence.
If you can forgive me for whatever wrong I may have commited then please come back and bring that warm glow back to my life. I will be waiting by the TV set on March 1st with a box of wine and a bottle whiskey, and if you do not show up, then I will know you are gone.