Dear Cutch…

Dear Cutch,

Thank you.

You don’t know me (although you did sign a couple of baseballs for me once), but you gave me more than you can imagine.

I was born in August of 1993. Since the day I was born, my dad made me a Pittsburgh Pirates fan. While I always knew I liked the Pirates, I didn’t always love the Pirates.

Growing up in Upstate New York, all of my friends always got to brag about the Yankees, Red Sox, and Mets. They wore jerseys, shirseys, backpacks, and hats. I did every once in a while, but without the pride, and certainly not in October. Hell, the players on my jerseys were traded a month after we bought them.

Through it all, my little brother and I stayed Pirates fans. We went to a few games here and there, and watching and listening to the games with my dad was always a blast, but for 20 years, since the year that I was born, we were missing something. The worst part was I didn’t even know what I was missing.

As you and the rest of the Pirates began to build up steam in 2011 and 2012, I started to get this weird itch that I never had before. I was watching and listening to baseball games in late August and September. I was following the standings everyday on MLB.com. I was even looking at ticket prices and jerseys to buy with my absent bank account at 11:00 pm after re-watching a walk-off hit or diving catch.

Then, in 2013, it happened. The Pirates were finally playing meaningful baseball in October, and I wore my gray 22 jersey way too many times in a three-week span. I had just started talking to my now girlfriend of four years, and I can’t believe she stuck around through this stretch. The infamous throw home to clinch the playoffs was magical. The blackout at PNC Park and the “Cueto” chants and the Russell Martin homer were legendary. I could feel the pulse of the stadium through my TV. But that warm Sunday afternoon in Pittsburgh when the Pirates took game three of the NLDS was one of the best days of my life.

I don’t remember as much as I’d like about that day (no, not because of the alcohol; it all just happened so fast), but I do remember a couple of things. For one, after my brother and I surprised my dad with tickets to the game for his birthday (his first ever Pirates playoff game), I remember turning to him during the National Anthem (after chanting “MVP” when you were announced, of course) and seeing him cry for one of only a few times I can remember. I remember a few key plays throughout the game, too, but I also recall my quiet, emotionally reserved dad yelling and dancing down Federal Street on our way into Mullen’s Bar to celebrate the win, even though we had a six-hour drive ahead of us. I swear we almost convinced him to buy a hotel room and tickets for the next day’s game.

The rest of that playoff run wasn’t nearly as exciting, and neither were the playoff appearances to follow, but we were proud Pirates fans none-the-less. Actually, we were beyond proud; we were obsessed. My dad bought about 30 different shirts with goofy sayings, Cutch dreadlock outlines, and jersey numbers. We still to this day care about the Pirates and the guys who played alongside you way more than we probably should, but I love it.

You gave us a competitive team to cheer for.

You gave us a reason to brag to fellow baseball fans and boast black and gold colors at any time of the year, not just in April.

You gave us a role model who we could look up to, not just because he is good at baseball, but because he’s an awesome human being too.

You gave us hope every time the third position in the batting order came up (or the sixth for a short stint last year), that the game wasn’t over yet. Every time the ball was scalded to center field, there was a chance for a miraculous catch.

You gave us some freaking awesome walk-off hits, celebrations, and post-game speeches. You gave us secret handshakes and stupid sayings. You brought us closer to baseball, and each other, than we had ever been.

You gave me something to do most nights around 7:00 that made me truly happy, even when I had a rough day or a paper to write by the next morning.

You gave me a favorite player to draft obnoxiously high in fantasy baseball drafts, just so I could have another reason to be happy when you played well.

You gave me an awesome way to connect with my girlfriend, and now she hates me for getting her so invested in players like you, Gerrit Cole, and especially Jordy Mercer. She’s scared to death at the thought of Jordy ever leaving Pittsburgh.

You gave me a reason to love Major League Baseball, just like my friends, when I didn’t know what that was like for so many years.

You gave me so much that I could probably write a novel on the positive effects the Pirates have had on my life. Then I could write a sequel. All of that stemmed from you. Your success and drive was pivotal to the front office realizing they had something to build on. Your love for the city and the team that you helped build created an atmosphere that everyone wanted to be a part of.

You gave me nine years of some of the greatest overall outfield play Pittsburgh has ever seen, but you gave me, and other Pirates fans around the world, so much more than that. I’ve seen important players leave the teams that I love before, but it’s never hit home quite as much as this one has.



Non-sports fans who are reading this may not understand a word that I’m saying, but I think you do.

I hope this ride was as awesome for you as it was for me and my family. I can’t wait to see the reception and ovation that Pittsburgh gives you the first time that you come back home to PNC Park. I hope I can be there.

You gave me and my family so much happiness and pride. And I know I speak for all of them when I say I wish you the best in San Fran. You’ll make a lot of Giants fans happy, but they’ll never know you and love you like we did as Pirates fans.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart as an adult Pirates fan, but also as the kid baseball fan who will live forever inside of me.

Thank you, Cutch.

Sincerely,

Tom(my) Bellucco