By Stephen Cooney

Dear Mr. Sean Avery,

I am real sorry to hear about your spleen. It is a shame that you suffered that laceration in a devastating loss to the Pittsburgh Penguins. I feel terrible that you will not be able to finish the rest of the playoffs, but God willing, you will heal quickly and be able to start your summer internship at Vogue promptly.

You are the heart and soul of the New York Rangers. The team will surely not be the same without you. They may even show some class. I however respect what you do from day to day. What would the world be without pests? Plants would grow wild and the ecosystem would go unchecked. There would be no hunger, and global warming would have never come to fruition. As flies are to an early spring picnic, you are to hockey: nothing more than a nuisance.

Congratulations on being one of the most hated things in the entire universe, but really Mr. Avery, some of your actions are questionable. I have come to forgive your actions on the ice, your tough guy façade is almost believable, but at every corner you have done all you can to prove it false.

Really man, you posed in Vanity Fair and you have obviously spent more time in the tanning bed than you have in the boxing gym. How do I know this? The orange glow on your face is pretty obvious, and all things considered, I have never seen anyone fall into the “Oh God, please do not hit me” pose as fast as you can. You know, the one where you push the guy all confined in his goalie pads or the littlest guy on the team, puff up like a puffer fish, and try to bang your chest like Donkey Kong? Then when someone, usually with less than five goals and over a thousand penalty minutes, throws his gloves to the ice, you cover your face, bend over, and pray for the referee. It is fine though because what else would you expect from a future fashion editor?

Your personality is truly unique: all at once you are considered a thug, and then openly admit to giving fashion advice to your girlfriends. It is pleasing that in this new wave American culture of sharing and taking advice from the opposite sex that they have listened to you about fashion the way you have listened to them about how to play hockey. You are like everyone’s first girlfriend: always complaining, never happy, and always wanting to fight. The only part is when everything comes to a head you never want to take part in the action. It is a shame that someone like you can get away with everything they have done by simply refusing to drop the gloves. I actually heard that you Velcro them to your jersey just in case they fall off. I hope this isn’t true because I do not know if Vogue would agree that Velcro is in this season. I am sure that you have no problem defacing hockey, but I can reason that offending the lords of fashion would truly hurt your heart.

In conclusion Mr. Avery, I am truly sorry that you hurt your spleen, and it is never good to see a competitor go down. I applaud your ability to finish the game and also walk into the hospital after. I am sure you were showered and dressed in your very best to arrive at the emergency room. I truly do hope that you get healthy, and I understand why you are important to the game of hockey. It is, however, a shame that no one will be able to see Georges Laraque beat some sense into you, but surely you would be able to match the black eye you would inevitably receive to a nice purple shirt.

Your Friend,

Stephen Cooney