Dear Buster Posey:
I love you.
There, I said it, and it's out of the way. It's totally normal for dudes older than you, who aren't Giants fans to profess their love for you. I was there with you in the days of Florida State, clamoring for my fantasy baseball league to allow us to draft college players even before they turned pro. At the 2010 draft, I silently waited for all the other morons to pay more for garbage catchers, and came away with my real prize for only $1. A dollar. In a keeper league.
I was there for your World Series, and I was there for your Rookie of the Year. I watched and winced with your gruesome ankle injury, and I've been checking your status ever since to see your progress.
And I get it... you wanted to marry a chick. I'm cool with that, I promise. You wanted to marry your high school sweetheart, Kristen (nee Powell) in January of 2009, and didn't want to marry an already married fantasy sports addict. That probably makes sense. After all, you got a real benefit out of never pursuing our awesome bromance, when Kristen gave birth to your first children, twins (son Lee and daughter Addison) on August 15 of last season while you recuperated. It's for the best, and you said so in your own words, when you told the San Francisco Chronicle,
"This is definitely the good thing to come out of this [injury]. Obviously, our kids aren't going to remember that. It's more for Kristen and more for myself to be able to share those first few weeks and months with them. Even though I wanted to be with the team, there's no other way I would have been able to experience what I did with them. In a way, I'm thankful for that."
Look, my opening salvo stands. I love you, and I'm not afraid to admit it. Even though this is my last season to keep you at $1 in my auction league, you can bet you'll be a member of my fantasy team (whose name is far too inappropriate to put in this post), for years to come.
Your creepiest fan/every one of your fantasy owner everywhere