Dear Stuart Scott's dead eye,
Dear Stuart Scott's dead eye,
Please stop looking at me. You terrify me.
I've heard stories that you're dead. That Stu thought he had better hands than NFL receivers and turned down the chance to wear a helmet and shoulder pads at a training camp and, well, you paid the price for his arrogance. That you're no good, just a glassy white glob, taking up space in Stu's phat, ghetto fabulous eye sockets.
But I don't believe it. I think that you're just laying low. Plotting. Scheming. Waiting. Biding your time until the moment when you sprung back to "life" and the world changes forever.
I paused SportsCenter the other day and there you were. In HD, you're all too real. My own eyes began watering at the very sight of you. But you didn't flinch. Stu was off in his own world, his left eye trying to keep up with his rapid fire delivery of hardcore, thug life sports reporting. But you never moved and you never took your dead pupil off of me.
I sat on my couch. Terrified. Damn all my HDTV's pixels. I could feel you in very depths of my soul. I could feel you trying to take over. Trying to make me do things that I wouldn't ordinarily do. Like slam poetry about NFL labor relations. But that's what you wanted to "see" and Stuart Scott's dead eye gets what it wants or someone dies.
Like Barbaro.
Barbaro crossed you and you made that foolish horse pay. I won't let you take me, Stuart Scott's dead eye. I won't.
Maybe you're too much for me to handle. Maybe you’re a few ounces of jelly and infinite power but I can't sit back and let your reign of terror roll on. Someone has to stand up to you. Someone has to defend humanity against your treachery. I'm that someone. Stu's hip, rectangular glasses are all that stand between you and me and destiny.
Which I why I'll be in Bristol by the time you read this. This is like a letter from Future Jamie. You see, my deadline is Monday night but the paper doesn't come out until Wednesday. I'll be in your grill with a rusty spoon and a sharpened No. 2 pencil before you know what hit you.
I know you'll put up a fight. You always do. You've taken down stronger men than me. Whatever you set your gaze upon you destroy. But I will rally the people against you. I will inspire the huddled masses yearning to be free from your cloudy tyranny to rise up and confront you.
I'll say to them:
"My friends, my brothers, listen to my words for if you don't Stuart Scott's dead eye will come like a thief in the night and capture your soul and get to second base- up the shirt no less!- with your significant other.
Stuart Scott's dead eye's killing spree must stop. What you say, how can Stuart Scott's dead eye kill people; it's just a gross mass of smelly eye goo?
Just a gross mass of smelly eye goo? Hardly. That gross mass of smelly eye goo is a menace and its blood lust knows no bounds.
Barbaro was just the most recent victim. Stuart Scott did a live interview with one of the veterinarians caring for that valiant horse and two days later, Barbaro was dead. Coincidence? I think not. Stuart Scott's dead eye bewitched the soul of one of Barbaro's caretakers and the rest is, well, you know the rest. Barbaro gets a shovel to the head and Stuart Scott's dead eye glows just a little bit brighter.
Bo Schembechler. Killed by Stuart Scott's dead eye. Three days before the Ohio State-Michigan game, Stuart Scott does a story about the history of the rivalry and Schembechler is prominently featured. 72 hours later, he's dead. The CIA covered this up (the government fears a national panic) but I have it on good authority that the phrase "Stu's eye got me" was found next to Schembechler's body, written in the coach's own spittle.
Stuart Scott's dead eye killed Corey Lidle. That little orb of death hates pilots. The good vision and all that. Stuart Scott's dead eye couldn't stand Lidle. The flight instructor- Stuart Scott's dead eye didn't lose any sleep over him. No mercy. No surrender. The eye never sleeps.
Kirby Puckett's dead eye tried to fight Stuart Scott's dead eye. Tried to match wits with Stuart Scott's dead eye but it was no match. Stuart Scott's dead eye beat up on poor Kirby for years. It was Stuart Scott's dead eye that leaked the news about Puckett being a dirtball that liked to cop cheap feels. Stuart Scott's dead eye was Muhammad Ali fighting Ernie Terrell. Just kept Kirby Puckett on his feet so he could inflict just a little bit more punishment. That's how Stuart Scott's dead eye operates. It's a cold-hearted bastard.
Don't you see, people, Stuart Scott's dead eye is just getting stronger. Stuart Scott's dead eye took down Rex Grossman. That was just child's play, something to make Super Bowl XLI interesting. Maybe Stuart Scott's dead eye had money on the Colts or maybe the eye just wanted to teach the illogically overconfident Grossman who's really in charge. With the eye, you can never know.
So, my brothers, join with me. Get in your cars and make your way to I-84 in Connecticut. Make your way to Bristol. You can't miss ESPN; it's the only thing there. Take a right after all the satellite dishes, drive around back and just tell the security guard that you're there "to talk to HR about an issue with the talent." You'll be waved in without a second glance.
Then find me and join the fight. I'll probably be at the company store buying some dirt cheap video games or trying to figure out who broke one of the sinks at my wedding reception. Together, we have a chance. Join my fight! Join our fight! Or Stuart Scott's dead eye's next victim may be you. Or Jessica Biel. Do you want to be responsible for Jessica Biel's death? I didn't think so. Stop the eye, save the Biel."
See, Stuart Scott's dead eye, I have a speech all prepared and it's pretty good. It will get some people fired up. It's not Braveheart good yet but I have the whole ride down to Bristol to iron out the kinks. I'm coming down to Connecticut, Stuart Scott's dead eye and hell's coming with me. You hear me, Stuart Scott's dead eye, hell's coming with me.
You're going down, eye. You're going down.
Sincerely,
Jamie