Ohhh, how I lovve you my fair Minne-sota. I am so happy to have left sunny Cooba for the frigid springs of the Tiny Apple-is. But I must confess how much my lovve has affected my pitching.
You see fair 'sota, when I am away from you my pitching, she suffers. She is a wounded flower under de harsh criticisms of other fans. In Cheecago dey say I stink like de rancid butter at de bottom of a discount movie theatre's popcorn machine. In Cleeva-a-land, dey say my stomach resembles de jiggling goo of congeled nacho cheese, and dey claim revenge for my victory ten years ago as a Marlin of Florida.
But back in my beloved dome--oh under de gorgeous teflon roofing--oh, I am so happy--my pitching, she is good again. I am sorry I cannot throw de ball more than 85 miles per hour, but it is out of love. I must caress de ball, love de ball, de ball does not like de pain of hitting Joe's glove too hard, so I massage it into the glove, with all de love in my heart. And you, my beloved 'Sota, you understand me. You like dat I can eat three plates of tater tot hot dish, and still have room for jello casserole. You understand dat "All-You-Can-Eat" isn't an offer, it's a state of mind.
You understand me 'Sota, and for dat, I will show my gratitude by lethargically leaving de field. I will continue to let Michel Cuddyer run past me, I will only enter the dugout after our lead off man has stepped into de box, I will bask as long as is possible under your gaze, so dat I can carry the strength of our lovve with me to de next painful road trip.
I give you dis victory Minnesota--as I give you my heart.
Eternally and always yours,