I hear what they say. How Theo must’ve been taking hallucinogens when he signed me for barrels of cash. How I’ll be tits up by the third year of my contract. How I’m just not giving the kind of Return On Investment the Sox thought they’d be getting after I snuffed them out of the 2009 ALDS. That’s the trouble with people who measure success with such things as “wins” and “results.” And I feel sorry for those people. Because what they don’t know is that I feed on their resentment, their doubts, their slings and arrows. And I’ve been biding my time, letting it sink in real good. Right down to the marrow. And preparing to strike back. Looking for just the right opportunity. Consider tonight that opportunity, bitches. Like that time I deftly screwed the Columbia House Record and Tape Club out of seven LPs for a penny, then rerouted the bills to an elderly aunt in Michigan while I “rocked out” all summer, it’s going down. And tomorrow, when the Texas press grabs their telescopes and shovels to find Cliff Lee’s lost mojo, I’ll be accepting my award as The Guy Who Stopped the Second Half Skid. In the form of brewskis and women, of course.

I am John Lackey’s smirking revenge. And you’re gonna like me.