Kyle Lewis’ Worst Nightmare

It’s understandable. If I were you, Seattle Mariners OF Kyle Lewis, I’d also be trying desperately to erase the memory of that fateful Friday in May 2016 when you and the Mercer Bears came to Bulldog Park, home of the Butler Bulldogs — aka the Fighting Dan Pobereyko-s.

The first time you stepped into the box against me, it was a K of the humiliating backward variety. You probably complained that the pitch, a scorching 86 mph fastball, was several inches inside. Or that the Big East Conference umpires called balls and strikes like they were paid by the hour. I’m not liable to answer either of these complaints, Kyle. (Sorry, not sorry.) Neither was I keen on being nice to you the second time I faced you. This time I did you dirty with the whatever-the-hell-spinning-thing I threw when my catcher put down two fingers. You thought you checked your swing, but guess what? In all likelihood the umpire probably had an early dinner reservation, but it turns out it’s his opinion that matters — not yours.

Now, I’d say, “Don’t hate the player, hate the game, Kyle,” but I know that’s already too late for you. You hate me. You fear me.

I imagine you put on a fake mustache and pretend to be me, but let’s not get into that.

Other times I picture you wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, victimized by yet another Pobereyko fever dream — the sight of my flat, mid-80s fastball missing your barrel time and time again, the unsettling fact that you’re a career .000 hitter off me. Your therapist says these nightmares will go away, but deep down, you’re terrified they won’t.

But years have passed, Kyle; we all know it’s time that you let go. I’ll be honest; I no longer derive any pleasure from living rent-free inside your head. I’m ready to move on. And it would be best if you did, too. I mean, your Twitter bio says, “be yourself.” Well, I’m here to tell you to take your own advice.

Kyle, I’ve already proved that I’m the superior athlete. It’s like you, a minnow, versus me, a killer whale. Sure, technically they both share the same waters, but several tiers separate the two within the food chain. In other words, it’s useless to keep comparing yourself to me. You’re only ever going to come up short.

Was I supposed to be impressed that you went on to win the Golden Spikes Award in 2016, which is presented annually by USA Baseball to the best amateur baseball player in the United States? Or that you were drafted 11th overall three years later? Please, Kyle. Do you not realize that I ended my college career with a sparkling ERA under six runs per nine innings pitched? Sure, I didn’t get drafted that year, but everybody who’s anybody knows that call is very much still on the way. These last five years, you see, the Chicago Cubs have just really been mulling over how much money they’re going to give me. Word is, it’s a lot.

But honestly, when that call comes in, I’m probably going to tell them no. Why’s that, you ask? Well, I don’t want to flex on you. I mean, talk about beating a fossilized horse. I’ve got this sick gig slinging pizza pies for the best pizza truck patrolling the frost-bitten streets of Marquette, Michigan.

Your 2020 Rookie of the Year award means nothing to me. For pete’s sake, Kyle, do you not know I’m capable of topping a standard pepperoni pizza in under 60 seconds? Do you not understand that I can cook four pizzas at once in our oven and most of the time not even burn the crust on three of them? Have you no clue that I’ve rarely, if only those few times, forgotten that I put a customer’s call on hold then, I don’t know, went to go grab a beer?

It doesn’t matter if you hit .400 this upcoming season. Hell, you could break the single-season hits record, and your stats would still pale in comparison to Smelted Wood Fired Pizza’s excellent, near-five star rating across multiple social media platforms. Yes, that includes Yelp, thank you very much. The crew and I (shout-out to my co-workers, Roland and Kenzie) are hitting 1.000 on pizzas, Kyle, and we’ll continue to. We can’t help it. You can’t teach this sort of talent.

So, in short, it’s an insurmountable margin you’re up against, Kyle. My only wish is that when you do come across this article — you obviously Google me every night before you go to bed — that you take my words as completely and utterly serious. When you make a bunch of All-Star teams in the future, please don’t do it to even things between us; do it for yourself. If you can’t do that, then do it for the sea turtles — the ones that get straws stuck in their noses.

Enough said. I can’t spend all day trying to help you see the light. I’ve got pies to sling.