Write Tina Cervasio. Explain that me and the kids are just fine and that Boston is beautiful this time of year and that we’re all probably better off with this arrangement. Sign it “Cesar Crespo.”
Lock myself in the shed filled with Curt Leskanic mannequins.
Call up Heidi. Brag a bit.
Explain to anyone who will listen that the Sox gave up on John Smoltz too soon.
Read.
Devolve into unbridled alcoholism.
