Dear Mr. and Mr. Wilpon,

Hi. You don’t know me, and you probably never will. My name is Christina Cola, (but you can just call me Cola, we’re all friends here right?) and I’ve been a Mets fan since I was eight years old. When people ask what my longest relationship has been, I jokingly tell them, 20 years with the New York Mets.

I knew what I was getting myself into. My father and my uncle warned me countless of times that this journey I decided to embark on with this team would not be easy. But all my favorite people in my life were Mets fans. They were the team I could relate to. I was the underdog and so were they.

I grew up a tiny Italian gal in from Brooklyn, admiring Mike Pizza and the glorious defensive infield of the 90s. I sat sulking in the corner when we lost to the Yankees and my mom and my sister celebrated. And then I waited. Sometimes patiently and sometimes (most times) shouting obscenities at the tv screen for the Mets to make it back to a championship series. I waited 15 years for another World Series appearance. All the while thinking “it should not have taken this long.”

Mr. Wilpons I know who you are. You’re white men with too much power and money. People like you are the reason most of the things I love in life are ruined. You buy things because you can and you’re bored.

You bought an Overwatch team. I still don’t quite know what that is, and I don’t really care to be honest. Nothing against Overwatch in particular but when your first home is on fire, typically, you try and put that out first. Instead, you went and bought a beach house that’s 3000 miles away.

If you really felt the need to spend money. Why, and I ask this with all sincerity, why can’t you just spend the money where it matters for your baseball team? Mets fans, we joke and we complain, and we yell, but it’s only because we’re tired of waiting. We’re tired of being made into fools, with you constantly buying players and pieces that our past their prime and then, trying to pass them off to us as “good enough.” We’re tired of generic, you have enough money. Pay for the name brand.

I get it. I may not be a billionaire, but I’ve made some bad purchases in my life. I still don’t know why I bought a Nook e-reader, I clearly like holding an actual book in my hand. Books smell better, it’s just a fact. But you know what I do when I buy something that I realize was a mistake? I sell it. Because it’s something I know I won’t put the time into using, or buying e-books for, or taking care of.

Mr. Wilpon I don’t fault you for growing bored with your baseball club when their are so many other shiny new toys for you to play with. I fault you for hanging on to something that has expired at your hands and then dragging the carcass around behind you. You’re putting a bow on a dead dog and trying to pass it off as a World Series winner.

That’s not how dogs, or bows, or anything else works. Let it go. Sell the team. For the sake of the perhaps the most loyal fans in baseball that deserve so much more than what we’ve gotten in the past 20 years. For the fans that despite all your bullshit continue to stick around. For the fans who so desperately want to boycott the team that they love just so that they can hurt you. But they can’t. Because it would hurt them too.

There’s no dumb gimmick from me here. I’m not going to tattoo my face or eat a bunch of roaches. All I want is effort. Effort to try and give us the best. And Mr. Wilpon, if that’s something that you can’t give us, then sell your team.