Hey. Oliver. How's it going?
Yeah. We need to talk.
We're...this just isn't working out.
But you knew that, right? Didn't you see the writing on the wall?
It's not you, really. It's me.
We had some good moments, Ollie, but they're behind us.
I remember what promise you showed in San Diego and Pittsburgh, and when those flamed out I thought about what you and I could be together.
We will always have Game 7 of the 2006 National League Championship Series.
I can't believe how clutch you were in your Mets career.
You put Tom Glavine to shame in 2008, a year after he crapped the bed on the season's final day - you at least gave the Mets a fighting chance. Better than a fighting chance.
But those times were few and far between. Too often, you were more trouble than you were worth.
You have to admit - I stood by you longer than most.
But it's gotten to a point, Ollie, where I just have to let you go. Please, don't make this harder than it already is.
I'll help - I'm not going to write about you anymore. We're completely done. I won't even joke about you. If someone has control issues I'll compare them to John Maine, not you.
You're a nice enough guy...you're just a little, well, you need to clear your head.
I mean, it's kind of obsessive now. Get the hint - I don't want you around anymore.
First, last year, it was the minors. Now it's the demotion to the bullpen. And I'm trying to get you out of the bullpen and back into the minors now, but you won't even go. I want you to go.
You need to go.
You know what, Ollie? I'm not going to lie and protect your feelings anymore.
It's not me. It's definitely you.
Just go away.