To Whom It May Concern, which, per the org chart, is me, writing to myself.

I am in receipt of your automated warning regarding three severely delinquent accounts.

First, rude.

Second, before we get carried away with phrases like “failure to collect,” “departmental negligence,” and “why is the hourglass in the break room filled with sand from Cancun,” I would like to remind the system of this department’s overall record.

Perfect.

Undefeated.

The saying is about me. I had it framed. It used to hang above the copier, before the copier jammed during the 2004 Red Sox postseason and I was asked, unfairly, to remove motivational materials from common areas.

I retired Michael Jordan. Twice. Do not start with me about Washington. A win is a win. I got Ali. I got Ruth. I got Gretzky. I got knees, backs, shoulders, Achilles tendons, reaction time, first steps, second jumps, and the human body’s deeply annoying habit of eventually becoming a group project.

I have done the work.

And yet.

Regarding the three accounts flagged in your notice, I respectfully request another extension.

My coffee is cold. My scythe needs sharpening. My inbox says “final warning,” which is adorable, because I invented final warnings.

Please see below.

---

Precedent: Account #12 - BRADY, T.

Before addressing the active accounts, I refer the system to Account #12, closed in 2023 after a 23-year collection effort that nearly bankrupted this department.

Subject won a Super Bowl at 43 with a new team, retired, un-retired out of spite, and even in “defeat” merely transferred to television, where he now wears expensive suits and explains coverages to America.

We do not discuss Account #12 in the break room.

The intern once said, “At least we got him eventually.”

The intern is now a sundial.

I would additionally like to submit into evidence a photograph taken last week at one Michael Rubin's Fourth of July gathering - the famous "White Party," where the guests dress in all white, presumably so I can't see them against the upholstery.

There is Account #12. Reclined on a sofa. Receiving fluids. Intravenously. At a party.

The man went 23 years drinking electrolyte water and treating nightshades like contraband, and now, two summers into retirement, he requires a medical-grade drip to survive a cookout in the Hamptons. I want to be clear that I take pleasure in this. I take enormous pleasure in this. I have printed the photo. It is on the department fridge.

Account #23 - JAMES, L.

Delinquent since approximately 2016.

Collection attempts: numerous.

Status: getting worse.

The subject is 41 years old and has just left the Los Angeles Lakers to enter Year 24 as a free agent, which is not how this is supposed to work. Forty-one-year-old basketball players are meant to have a podcast, a wine label, and opinions about the pick-and-roll...nvm he has all three. They are not supposed to be taking meetings with title contenders like a 26-year-old wing who just discovered Pilates.

We have sent letters.

They come back marked RETURN TO SENDER.

We have sent strongly worded letters.

They come back with chase-down blocks on them.

The issue, as the department understands it, is that James has constructed a human body that operates less like a body and more like a Fortune 500 wellness campus. Hyperbaric chambers. Cryotherapy. Personal chefs. Trainers. Recovery specialists. Sleep science. A reported seven-figure annual maintenance budget.

My counterproposal is a scythe purchased in the Bronze Age and a chair with questionable lumbar support.

Last season, the subject averaged 20.9 points, 6.1 rebounds, and 7.2 assists, which his defenders called “decline.” This is a serious compliance problem. Most players would place those numbers on a billboard and ask for a max contract. James files them under “Taco Tuesday.”

Forget the fact that he plays with his OWN SON.

He has also played against players whose fathers he also played against.

I checked the math three times.

Then I checked my birth certificate, which is a cave wall.

Account #10 - MESSI, L.

Delinquent since Qatar 2022.

Scheduled closure date: missed.

Status: active crime scene.

We were told Qatar was the farewell. We were told the tears, the trophy, the robe, the slow-motion walk into immortality - all of it - represented a natural closing point.

Lovely ceremony.

Beautiful paperwork.

Completely useless.

The subject has since turned 39 during his sixth World Cup and continues to treat the tournament like a private group chat he forgot to leave. He currently appears atop the scoring chart for the Golden Boot (tied with The Dictator who is 12 years his junior). He appears in the middle of every Argentine rescue mission. He appears, most cruelly, when a match has reached the point where everyone else is tired enough to make decisions they will regret.

This week, Argentina was wobbling against Egypt. Two-nil down. The room was tense. The system briefly celebrated.

Then Messi started walking.

This is the infuriating part. James has a laboratory. Djokovic has a diet that could discipline a monastery. Messi? Messi strolls. He looks around. He thinks. He waits. He wanders through a match like a man trying to remember where he parked, and then, without any apparent change in speed, ruins an entire nation’s evening.

Our department can slow the legs.

We have no jurisdiction over the brain.

That is the problem with Messi. He plays the sport from the neck up, and unfortunately for us, the neck appears to be under separate management.

Effective immediately, I am removing his closure date from the calendar.

We have been burned before.

Account #24 - DJOKOVIC, N.

Delinquent since approximately 2022.

Status: escalating, as of 72 hours ago.

The subject is 39 years old and just won the longest quarterfinal in Wimbledon history: five hours and fifteen minutes against Félix Auger-Aliassime.

For the record, five-hour matches are supposed to be my weapon.

The subject stole my weapon.

There is a reason tennis matches are long. They are designed to introduce doubt. Cramps. Tightness. Heavy legs. The tiny private conversations a person has with his own hamstring at 4-4 in the fifth set.

Djokovic hears these conversations and files an appeal.

He has now reached another Wimbledon semifinal. He is chasing another major. He bends in ways that violate several bylaws I personally wrote. He stretches on court like a man assembled from rubber bands and passport stamps. He eats like he is preparing to be inspected by customs.

I once closed Ken Rosewall’s account. Fondly. Simpler times. Paper forms. Respect for process. Nobody was sliding into a split after midnight and then discussing recovery protocols.

Federer, Account #20, closed 2022. No complications. A pleasure to work with. Beautiful penmanship.

Djokovic is not that.

The most alarming development came after the five-hour epic, when the subject joked that it would be nice to play like Messi.

Please note: the delinquent accounts are now citing each other.

I am requesting escalation to whoever is above me.

There is no one above me.

That is also the problem.

Attached Complaints

The record shall reflect that I did successfully close several of their teammates.

Do I get credit for that? No. Apparently not. Nobody sends an automated notice when Gronk has a podcast on Tubi+ (really?), or when Di Maria is seen dancing in the box seats.

Root cause analysis is ongoing, but the early findings are grim: sports science, money, load management, sleep tracking, nutrition, did I mention money, and a generation of athletes who have decided aging is not a law but a scheduling conflict.

In my day, athletes trained on cigarettes and steak.

Was that better? Absolutely not.

Was it easier for me? Considerably.

There is also a hockey file marked OVECHKIN, A., which I am not opening today because I have one lunch break and I deserve peace.

Request for Extension

Here is the truth, since this email is to myself and no one reads these anyway.

I am not requesting an extension because I am failing.

I am requesting it because I do not want to close these accounts.

Every extra LeBron season is borrowed time. Every Messi World Cup touch is stolen time. Every Djokovic fifth set is time snatched back from the place where all things eventually go.

And I know what extra time is worth.

Of course they will lose to me. Everyone does. That is not a boast. It is the job. The sun sets. The knees bark. The jumper flattens. The first step goes. The second serve gets careful. The great ones become statues, then stories, then highlight clips on YouTube spliced to "Lose Yourself".

But these three have made the losing feel less like surrender and more like a negotiation.

They are not beating me.

No one beats me.

They are simply showing how much living can be crammed into the delay.

That matters.

Even to me.

Especially to me.

Accordingly, I am snoozing the notification.

Again.

Remind me after the Wimbledon final.

And the World Cup final.

And Year 24.

Actually, remind me never.

 

Father Time
Undefeated*

*See attached.

 

PS - Please don't show this to Mother Nature.