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Ode to a heartbroken Padres fan (me)

Here's the thing with the Padres. I've been a good fan. I attend games. I watch faithfully. Listen to the radio for day games. I buy the gear. Sure, I may not have a season ticket package, but I've considered buying one.

I've read The San Diego Padres 1969-2002: A Complete History.

I mean, sure, there might be bigger fans than me, but I figure I'm right up there. I'd never bet against them. When somebody's on the team, I adopt them as if they were one of my own. I even started a blog. Heck, I started two blogs.

I've tried to stay positive for the most part. I don't boo when I go to the games, and any frustration that I've had over the season has always been offset almost right away with an apology and a sincere hope that the Padres are on the verge of turning it around.

Well, I've had enough. There are only so many times the Padres can come home from work and slap me around. I slave over this hot stove all day and what do I have to show for it? A black eye and stew that goes uneaten. So I've decided to become stronger than that.

I will go on. I will survive. You hear me, Padres?

Yo vivire.

I don't care what you do now. Go ahead and win the dumb division. Or just keep crapping all over yourselves. I could care less either way. I have the Chargers and my Gloria Gaynor CDs.

I'll go to the game tomorrow, but won't buy a hot dog. I may not even swipe my Compadres card. Compadres don't treat compadres the way you've treated me.

Maybe someday I'll come back to you, but there will have to be changes. I can't even begin to talk about what needs to be changed. Just know that it won't be easy.