With the out-righting of LaPorta to Columbus, it’s time we all lay it out on the table for him. There are just some things that we need to get out into the open.
We need to stop this. Our time is through.
No, really, hear us out. It’s not you, it’s us. Really. You are a great guy. You are the type of guy that parents wish their daughters would bring home. These are exemplary qualities, and you should take pride in being Tebow-esque.
But the truth is that we can’t wait for you to figure it out anymore. Every time we start to think you’re coming around, you take three steps back. It’s been hard on you, too. But a career line of .238 average, a .301 on-base percentage and and a .694 OBPS (with a WAR of -1.5) just is not going to cut it anymore. We need space, and the best thing for you at this point is a fresh start away from Columbus. Away from Cleveland. And away from us.
But somehow, someway, they are you bringing you back to Triple-A where you can mash until you eventually get back to the Big Boy Club where you likely live up to the “LAAAAPorta” moniker that some have saddled you with.
Okay, so maybe it really is you. Sorry, but we have to be truthful here.
When we traded CC Sabathia to Milwaukee, you were the centerpiece of the deal. You were a can’t miss prospect with Paul Bunyan funny power; the guy who would be the one who would get the work-around treatment four at-bats a game. That hasn’t happened with any semblance of consistency. Sure, you’ll run into a fat hanger every now and then. When you get them, your form is picture-perfect. You have it in you, you just haven’t been able to find it.
It has to hurt to read this. Believe us, we wish we didn’t feel the need to write this. We thought you were going to be a machine, and it’s pretty certain that you thought you were going to as well. Hey, you’re essentially Pedro Cerrano, and he couldn’t hit curve balls, either. If you wanted us to bring you a bucket of Extra Crispy (because PETA would give us heck like you would not believe if we actually brought you a live chicken), or a Jobu statue, complete with copious amounts of sacrificial rum–anything, really–all you had to do was ask.
But you didn’t. And so Mark Shapiro essentially traded CC for Smooth Brantley. We were hoping for more bang. We ended up getting solid contact and the ability to swipe a few bases here and there. CC was a horse for the Brewers that year; we’re still waiting for you to change the light bulb so it has a chance to flick on.
Well, we are out of hope. We are out of patience. And we don’t blame you for expressing your feelings towards us a while back, because we likely deserved some of it blown back in our face. No harm, no foul. But we can’t lie and say we haven’t expected more from you.
Sometimes things just don’t work out for whatever reason. We tried to make this work on our end. We just can’t believe you will work anymore. We hope you understand.
Take care, and we wish you all the luck in the world.
PS: If by chance you figure yourself out, give us a call.