New York Giants
Polo Grounds, NY
Dear Mr. Banks:
I am a 12 year old boy and I am dying from malaria.
Please hit a home run for me because I don't think I
will be around much longer.
Last week it was the plague. Now it's malaria. What
do I look—stupid to you? Your lucky I do not send
somebody over there to tap you on the conk. I am
inclosing one last picture. Do not write to me again.
Nobody asked for your damn picture. I never even
heard of you before. And you can forget about the
home run too. The only reason I needed one was
because the bullies who keep beating me up
somehow thought you were my best friend and the
homer was supposed to keep them from slugging
me anymore. Thanks for nothing.
Can I go on a road trip with you?
Your arch enemy,
"Somehow" they thought I was your best friend?
Where did they hear that from? A Nazi spy?
J. Herbert Hoover? Franklin Delano Biscuithead?
And didn't I tell you not to write to me anymore?
Go bug DiMaggio.