....I'm on a roll with my blog letters....aren't I?
Your wife called me the other night. She told me you're getting a wee bit anxious about getting your Lapband. Yeah, I know you know all about our conversation. And, I know you and I talked all nice-nice when she put you on the phone. But, now that your wife ain't around...let me give it to you in straight locker room talk--you gotta stop this shit,buster.
Let me talk to you in your language, coach. Your team needs you. Yeah, they might be putting points on the board but they're missing field goals. And, you want to know why they are not racking up those extra points? Because they can't do it alone. And, to be quite honest--they don't want to do it alone. They see you struggle with things so they hold back. They would prefer to be with you than punt without you. Oh, shit, I don't know if that makes any sense, coach. I don't know much about football. (Except, of course, the Steelers are one game away from the Super Bowl.) What I am trying to say is this--you have a wife that loves and adores you and wants to experience a long and active rest-of-your-life with you. She wants to walk and talk and dance and laugh--with you. You have the most amazing kids who count on you to be their leader and their guide. They can't imagine a world without you in it. And, you have those gorgeous grandkids who want to have tea parties with their grandpap and catch ball with him and talk sports with him. And, you've got that little girl of yours who you need to walk down the aisle and dance with. In a tux. Don't miss the field goals, coach.
Here's the thing, kiddo--it's time. So, stop all this worry and fret and get on with it. You've come this far...just lay down on the table to do it. You've got a cheering squad that spans Route 22--over mountains and freeways and parkways and cobblestone streets. And, that cheering squad is led by none other than your #1 cheerleader from way back--my cousin--your wife. She loves you with a fever that keeps on burning. She doesn't care if you weigh 500 pounds or 200 pounds. She has enough Tony-love to love it all....from your titanium knees to your cherub sweet Italian face. Throw the ball, coach.
I have no clue if you read my blog. But, I know there's someone out there on your cheering squad who does. She'll rally the troops. I've got no doubt about it. She's got DiPippa blood running through her veins. And, there is no stopping a DiPippa. So, pack your bags, sweet Tony--jump in that car, whip a smile on your face and put that can-do football coach attitude in gear....because you are taking off those gutchies and doing it! Sure it's going to hurt. Sure it's not going to be a walk in the park. Hell yes, you will be a miserable sonofabitch for a few days. But, let's face it--you beat cancer, you got new knees, you lived through chemo and you made it through your almost-Lapband moment last summer. You're not going to pussy out now, are you?
Oh, you're thinking I'm getting a little rough on you, do you? You think I'm getting a little too sassy, huh? Well...guess what....this ain't nothing. If you don't do this one thing for yourself then sweetheart--consider this fair warning. You know that wedding you've been saving up for? Yeah....well...I'd think twice before you invite any DiPippa's. Cause we'll stomp all over your tuxedoed ass. Your tuxedoed big ass. Then, we'll drink all the wine and tell you what we think...
Oh come on, stop shaking, boy. If you want to watch that Super Bowl filled with hope.....let Dr. McCloskey take her scalple to you. I promise you, from the bottom of my much smaller belly that you will be happier and healthier and more hopeful than you have ever been! You're gonna win the game.
Just make the damn touchdown.....