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Tuesday, January 21, 2014

An Open Letter to the Pistie-poos.



Dear The Detroit Pistons, 

You are my husband's favorite basketball team.  He watches almost all of your games.  He wears his "Bad Boys" sweatshirt everywhere.  His face immediately lights up when he --on a rare occasion-- encounters a fellow fan.  You might be the Pistons to everyone else, but to him, you're his Pistie-poos.  His Pisties.  His.... "Poor Boys".

"Poor Boys?" You say.  I don't watch the game, but of the sports that are played on painted wood it's one of my favorite.  I understand you're in the middle of a losing streak.  It could really happen to anyone, and team, at any time.  Everyone can't be a winner, and where there is more than one, one must be the lesser.  But I'm writing this letter to say to you:  Yes, someone has to be at the bottom, but it doesn't have to be you.

Take this seriously.  There is a man out there in Chicago whose heart breaks every time he reads a Pistons stat.  He sits in his recliner and rocks sadly with his cat cradled in his right arm and his phone or laptop at his left, just vomiting bad sports news into his dejected face.  I've advised him to leave it alone, to have faith that his Pisties will come back around some day.  I almost said it again to him tonight until I caught myself-- I'm leading him on.  Even I, a neutral-no-more party, have lost hope. 

Pistons, win something.  Anything. The reverberations of your failure now echo throughout my home, and probably, many others as well.

Heed our cry, Pisties!  Put the ball in the goddamned hole!

Love,
Elisa.

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