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.
Chas. Banks, 3d Base
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.
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