Dear John Steigerwald,
Can I call you ‘Stash?
I bet you’ve been getting lots of mean letters and emails and maybe flaming bags of poo left on your doorstep lately because of what you wrote recently, basically blaming a beating victim, Bryan Stow of California, who rests in a coma after the trauma he suffered at the hands of irate Dodgers fans because he dared wear a Giants jersey to a Dodgers game.
I mean really, who did this paramedic father of two think he was, buying a ticket to go see his team play their first game of the season and having the gross audacity to wear a Giants jersey? That’s begging for a beating! That’s basically walking into a stadium and saying, “Please. Fracture my skull. Take your foot and slam it again and again into my face while I’m on the ground. I deserve it for wearing this devil’s cloak in your place of holy worship. Punish me, for I have sinned. ”
What Bryan should have done was not gone to the game, but since he did choose to go to the game, he should have worn a Target outfit or something. You know, khaki pants and a red shirt. Because Dodgers fans see a Giants jersey and they can’t help themselves. Like an angry, drunk bull seeing red, they just charge. It’s in their nature. They have no choice whatsoever in the matter. They must act swiftly to mete out justice on behalf of their team.
Mr. Stow should have sat there in his khakis and when his Giants did something good, he should have remained stone-faced, not betraying even the slightest hint that he was cheering on the inside. At most, he could have cracked a half-smile and then pretended the smile was directed toward his delicious stadium hotdog. And if the Dodgers did something good, he should have stood up and cheered and heartily shouted, “Well done, good sirs!” so as not to draw further attention to himself.
So, bravo, John. Bravo for putting the blame where it really lies. On the “victim.”
And another thing, I can’t thank you enough for informing us that purchasing and wearing team jerseys does not in fact make us a member of the team.
I threw on my Polamalu jersey one game last year and they could not escort me out of the locker room fast enough when all I was doing was slapping my teammates’ naked butts with joyous, stinging abandon. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you join the team? It was a hard lesson to learn. If only you had written your column before that, I could have saved myself the bail money.
And my husband. Oh, man. I bought him a Pirates jersey that has Montanez emblazoned across the back. The day after I gave it to him, I found a note that said he had gone to batting practice, and a receipt from Dick’s Sporting Goods for hundreds of dollars in baseball gear. I knew then that I needed to sit him down and gently break the news to him that just because I bought him that jersey, it didn’t actually make him a professional baseball player for the Pittsburgh Pirates.
I will never forget the sound of his gentle, heartbroken sobs as he clutched his newly-purchased athletic cup to his chest. “But … the jersey has my name on it. It … HAS MY NAME ON IT,” he wept.
Thank you, John. Thank you for giving it to us straight. We’re better people now that we know that wearing a Steelers jersey to a Browns game means we deserve whatever hell we receive, even if it comes in the form of a beating that puts us in a coma. We’re better people now that we know that just because we own a Penguins jersey we can’t start using the team entrance at the CONSOL.
We’re better people now, John. But we’ll never be as good a person as you.
[This has been satire. I have learned my lesson about writing satire without informing you it’s satire. THIS IS SATIRE.]