Dear Hunter Horenstein [Director of Fan Engagement; Myrtle Beach Pelicans]:
I am having a very hard time feeling my face right now as baseball winter meetings are reaching a frenzy now that Gerrit Cole signed a contract greater than the GDP of Palau, but I would like to clarify some of my comments about your attire. First of all, I did not know I was talking about THE Hunter Horenstein who cut his teeth with the Palm Springs Power. Anyone who interned for Andrew Starke [Owner and President of the Palm Springs Power] has to have a bright future in this industry (Andrew is instrumental to my plan to bring the California League back to Palm Springs, even if he does not know that yet). Plus, you carry the weight of losing a Golden Bobblehead to something know as an Udder Tugger, so you must be resilient as all get out. Had I known you were the dude in the video, I doubt my my message would have been any different because I am still rather chafed about your militant stance on holiday decorations, but I am confident that we can move beyond that for right now.
Secondly, and most importantly, savagely tacky holiday sweaters and viciously burgundy trousers are not necessarily bad things. In fact, in your videos that are splendid items because they indicate that you are COMMITTED TO THE BIT. I mean, you look ridiculous, so do not wear that outfit to a formal party, but looking ridiculous is what Christmas costumes are all about, and you obviously have the panache to pull off the outfit. The tie is brilliant also. Can I have it as a token of our budding friendship? Or can you at least tell me where you procured it? I cannot help you with the dog voice thing though, other than to suggest giving your dog a noble, wise voice rather than the voice of a beast with all the blood drained from its head because of the raging red rocket just below its undercarriage.
You know what really stands out in the most recent Pelicans’ 12 Days of Christmas though? That sleek bullpen cart. One of those is desperately needed at San Manuel Stadium, the home of the Inland Empire 66ers, to rush me to the beer stands and the team shop. Walking to those places from my seats is a bit daunting because of the number of large peasants in the aisles, but Joe Hudson [General Manager; Inland Empire 66ers] says their money spends just as well as mine, even if they try to snort relish through straws at the condiments table. If I had a bullpen cart like that, they would scatter as I roared to the beer garden, plus I could wave to the cheering throngs as I near my destination. GM Joe probably would not like it that much because he is all about safety and that nonsense.
I used to be GM Joe’s unofficial assistant, but contract negotiations never went anywhere, so I sort of went freelance last year, although I was a Celebrity Burrito Judge on Food Truck Throwdown Night. That was also the night of the Beer Mile, so I am sure you can imagine the projectile vomiting. At the end of the season, I was named the Thirsty Thursday Ambassador, mainly because I traveled all over the globe wearing minor league apparel. By now you have probably heard of my untamed trek through the Caroline League last season. Myrtle Beach was not on the itinerary because my presence was requested in Cooperstown on the induction weekend.
This is the part of the missive in which I am supposed to start talking about oral tradition and the passing of knowledge from the wizened more league road veteran to the young ambitious, up and coming front office executive, and then we realize we learned for each other, blah, blah, blah. I am going to skip that part this time because that tequila bottle is getting dangerously low, and Melvin the bartender is making noise about last call even though it seems like happy hour just ended.
Not only do I look forward to your upcoming work on the Pelicans’ promotion schedule, but I have all sorts of suggestions to share (Fayetteville’s battlecry of “Fear the Word! Respect the Pecker!” was my brainchild). Remember, a team can never, ever have too many shot glass promotions.
Your friend in baseball,
PS: I was not really calling you a Nazi. That was poor choice of words in these troubled times, and I will do better. I am sorry if it caused offense. Plus, real Nazis would never wear viciously burgundy trousers.