To John Madden of Football, Broadcasting, and Video Game fame:

I am afraid, Dear John, that I now write you a Dear John. I remember when we first met. It was '95 and you were just a little cartridge in my Sega Genesis. You had not learned of pass interference then and I took sore advantage of you with Rod Woodson. I would push your wide receivers and somehow leap fifteen or so yards for an interception. You were so naive. I was so cruel. But, somehow, we worked it out in those days of the dawn of our time together.

(Things started so well. But we were both young and foolish.)

Then there was that time about the year 1999 when my wandering lusts cast you aside and sought fulfillment in another. Along came a younger, sexier, more fun version of you named 2K sports. It came in disc form, and I had a Sega Dreamcast. It was exciting at first, but it just felt wrong. I played 2K furiously and, for a while, I didn't miss you. But, you won out. When you found out what was happening to your market share, you killed the Dreamcast and bought exclusive rights to NFL trademarked material. I have always begrudged this of you, but we made up and reunited.

(I wasn't proud of 2K. But I don't regret it.)

Then there were those glorious days of Wii Madden. I remember how we made a mockery of defenses with Reggie Bush. The thrill of buttonless passing. The sound of Hoss throwing his controller in rage. I thought those days would never end. We both know too well that they did. Even when things seemed perfect, we could not get past our problems. There was your random holding calls, your moody receivers dropping balls with no explanation. And then you came out with '08. I thought I'd never forgive you.

(I don't blame you for stopping the Bush era. I blame your faulty programming.)

But I gave you one last chance. You cajoled me into buying '09 with sweet talk of improved physics. You said that you would no longer sack my quarterback two seconds after I've pushed the pass button. You told me that I would not be magnetically sealed to blockers (Madnetic blocking, as I have been wont to call it). I was promised the world . . . and given New Jersey. Sure there was gang tackling, and your graphics were improved. But your linebackers jump four feet into the air for interceptions. Your defensive ends run 4.2 40s. Cris Collensworth's commentary makes me want to punch my dog. And I still can't see my wide receivers. But, still I played you, or rather you me. And, like a battered spouse, I excused you and kept coming back for more. But no more! I am leaving you, Madden '09. I've met this sexy new game, Rock Band 2. Rock Band treats me right. Rock Band makes me feel wanted. Rock band drives a convertible and lives in a condo.

(Your heart is colder than the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field.)

The time is now, Madden '09. Consider this my last goodbye: Boom!