An Open Letter to the Departing Iron Monopoly Token

Dear Iron Monopoly Token,

I owe you an apology. Since I was a kid, I’ve played Monopoly hundreds of times. And, all those times, I could have chosen you.

But I hardly ever did.

As a boy, I would typically go for the racecar or dog. Then, as I got older, I'd pick something more eclectic, like the hat, wheelbarrow or cannon.

And when I was really feeling like pushing the envelope, I'd select the thimble, smirking inwardly, knowing my selection would momentarily knock my competition off-balance.

But, in all those times, on all those days, throughout all those years, I rarely chose you.

Looking back, I'm not quite sure why. After all, you tried to be accommodating. You were light, flat and thin on the bottom, and also had a handle that made it easy to move you around the board.

Yet, somehow, I believe that lightness kept me away.

Because how could I hope you'd hold your own against the solidity of the other tokens?

But now that you're going away, replaced by a cat, I'm feeling regret.

How could I have treated you so poorly?

As if you didn’t matter.

And now it's too late. I can write you letters, send flowers, even fill up your voicemail, but I know you won't return my calls. Instead you'll just move on. Probably to another game. In fact, I've already heard rumors that the Candyland people are in negotiations with your agent.

So, I guess I'll just wish you well. And say that, once again, I'm sorry.

And that I've learned my lesson. I'll never take another token for granted. Even those non-descript plastic Trouble pieces.

I wish you well, Mr. Iron.

Press on...

Take care,

James Warda