Johnny's Bronx Defection

An Essay about the Defection of the Red Sox's Johnny Damon to the Evil Empire.

How Jesus and the Devil Worked Out the Terms of a 4 Year Deal
Or
How Johnny Damon Broke the Hearts of Everyone in New England

         My favorite ball cap has always had a prominent red “B” emblazed on the front of its otherwise empty field of dark blue. I grew up in Massachusetts and always dreamed of playing in front of the Green Monster and smashing the game winning homer off of Peskey's Pole (back then it was the only foul pole with a name). This was back when the Curse of the Bambino still had a strangle hold everything the Sox did. The team usually did well despite the curse and won more games than they lost, so a visit to Fenway Park, the pine tar chapel, the Mecca of Bean-town usually meant watching the Sox win. I knew all the players and positions. I was dazzled by “The Rocket” Roger Clemens as he warmed up in the bullpen. The crack of the catcher’s glove after one of his famed fastballs could be heard even where I sat at the top of the bleachers. I never understood why anyone would want the nickname “Oil Can”, but we had one on our team. We even have the Big Papi. The list of favorites range from Lynn, Rico, Yaz, Fisk, Evans, and Rice to Mo, Nomar, Pedro, Manny, Schilling, and Damon.

         Damon, yes Johnny Damon, who was the lovable everyman. Throughout New England Damon was a cult figure. Some said he looked like a caveman. Some say he resembled Jesus. I just liked his oddball antics. The year after “Cowboy Up” didn’t help the Sox past the Yankees, Damon announce the team was just a bunch of idiots. The idiots tag stuck and was fitting for the team that ended the 86 year drought. They were a rag-tag, but talented collection of players. Manny Ramirez had his afro-dreadlocks, Bronson Arroyo’s head decked out in corn-rows, and Kevin Millar sported a shaggy goatee. To say the Sox were a motley bunch is an understatement. But they were eclectic; they weren’t just white, or dark, or Latin, but a diverse mix of men. Every nationality had some sort of representation on the team. It was a melting pot and felt truly American and Damon helped to lead the charge.

         Time has past, and with another champion team crowned this year, it seemed early on like next year’s team would be of a different sort than the one which I thought was the best squad ever. Manny had been demanding a trade. He’s done this before and so I wasn’t surprised. (Though, I do admit I’d rather he didn’t leave, more so because his is the only official jersey I own and I like wearing it.) Deals were made to strengthen the pitching rotation and quite quietly Johnny Damon entered the free agent market. Anyone who has lived in New England over the past 4 years knows the phenomenon that is Damon. His skills as a player; his speed, his patience at the plate, his wide batting stance which helps him to turn on almost any kind of pitch, and his all out drive made him a favorite with just about everyone. And this week all over New England he became the biggest traitor sine Benedict Arnold by becoming a New York Yankee.

         My anger wasn’t as much directed at the Why as it was the How. I’ve been around baseball enough to know the why. Money. The Red Sox aren’t a team of Boston boys looking to take on a bunch of New York ragamuffins. They’re paid professionals with no loyalty to the area. So the Why didn’t bother me much, but the How was a killer. How did this happen? How unbelievable is it that he quickly slipped into the Yankee mold. The cookie cutter that anglo-fies (or WASP-atize if you please) even the most ethnic of players. A-Rod, Jeter, Bernie, and Matsui have fallen prey to the evil that is the Yankees. Hair will be cut, images will be on the surface kept wholesome and clean, and the swastikas brands will be placed in discreet locations as to hide them from public view. The Yankees are evil personified. And it’s clear through the interviews with Damon they’ve been whispering in his ear for some time. When he commented on being the best leadoff hitter in all of Major League baseball, I could just hear the conversation that sealed the deal behind closed doors.

~ /// ~

         The room where the meeting was held is an unholy place. A long, dark, stone table which lay like a fallen obelisk takes up most of the space in the room. A giant chair at the head of the table remained empty, but all other the chairs are filled with creatures sent to tempt and persuade Damon into signing away his soul. The walls lined with black candles provide only the barest amount of light. There’s a fire roaring in the fireplace at the far end of the room. It is the keeper of hell’s flame on Earth.
         “They don’t see how important you are Johnny” hissed one of Steinbrenner’s lackeys (a lesser demon named Penserper from the 3rd or 4th level of hell).
         “Yessss, they might not see,” it continued, “but we certain realize that you’re the best leadoff hitter in the majors and possibly the history of baseball. Your speed, your drive, your skill, you have it all and they don’t even seem to care now do they?”
         The demon stroked a horn that grew like a goatee from the end of his chin. The other demon tempters began to giggle with glee. Had this been some sort of parable, the Jesus figure in our story would have smote the fouls beast in one stroke. But this messiah is a self-proclaimed idiot. And true to his title, the king of the idiots was slowly giving in to their coercion.
         “The Red Sox don’t love me like you guys do. You guys are awful nice.” Johnny confessed.
         The demons around the table cringed at the name of the beloved team from B-town.
         “Of course they don’t. They don’t understand what’s really important.” Responded the demon and with that, a giant, ancient chest appeared on the table. With a flip of its hand in the air the chest opened magically. Filled with gold, a Hall of Fame plaque baring his likeness, and three future championship rings. The light from the few dimly lit candles reflected off of them and filled the now glazed over eyes of the idiot.
         “Is that… Is that all for me?” Damon muttered.
         Then a loud and thunderous voice boomed from the back of the room, “It could be!” Steinbrenner had materialized and perched in the once empty chair, waiting like a spider for his victim to enter the web. Of course, Damon didn’t realize who just spoke as the true form of Steinbrenner is nothing like the old, convoluted man he appears as in public or in Seinfeld reruns. No here in the throne room, he takes on his proper form. Veins and arteries crawl like long multi-headed worms atop his red and black reptilian skin. Horns, massive and obsidian stretch out several feet above him. His lips are perennially curled back to expose rows of shark like teeth. His presence is powerful and meant to inspire fear enough to make mortal men forget about the grace of God himself. Damon, instantly frightened, steps away, but the devil has his own charms and curled his face into a twisted smile.
         “Johnny,” cooed Stienbrenner, “Do not be afraid. You need not fear me. You are to me like an old friend who has returned after a long and troubled adventure. You have done things you feel are unforgivable, but I can forgive and I will provide what others cannot or will not.”
         Without even releasing it, Damon’s fears washed away and he realized that there was the place for him here. Here, there was money and fame to be had. The Red Sox could give him the same, but they wouldn’t because they were jealous. Jealous of his abilities and his notoriety. He realized the old legends he had been told of the Evil Empire back in Boston were just old wives tales told to keep talent players like him from their destiny.
         “I’d really like to play here, I think.” Said Johnny.
         “Of course you would.” replied Steinbrenner, “Though, before that can happen, there are some, formalities, which will of course be necessary.”
         Again Johnny began to feel afraid, “What? What sort of formalities?”
         “A simple contract,” answered Steinbrenner quite offhandedly, “nothing of too much importance. Just legal matters and whatnot. However, as today is a holy day for us, you have until midnight to decide.”
         With a puff of smoke, a contract, written on the skins of angels and printed with the blood of one hundred sacrificed children, appeared in the hands of Damon. He trembled as he quickly tried to read the text before him. There were so many pages and some of it, though written in English, was beyond his comprehension.
         “Tick-tock,” Steinbrenner interrupted causing poor Johnny to look up. “Times almost up, do you want to waste you time reading or do you want to start earning the respect you deserve and spending your money.”
         Without anymore hesitation, Damon scribbled his name, which appeared to look more like a big “X” and a smiley face, on the contract and with another poof, it disappeared. The demons around the table shrieked with delight and Steinbrenner’s smile widened as Damon’s eyes glowed red and his essence filled with an unholy light. He was now a Yankee and his soul, his flowing locks, and his grizzled beard belonged to the devil.

~ /// ~

         Of course that’s not how it happened, but it would make me feel so much better if those were the facts of the case. That it was an evil force from beyond this Earth which tricked him into leaving. Truth be told, I found out about the Damon defection nearly a day after he agreed to a deal with the Yanks. I had been working 12-14 hour shifts. In the military this is common around the holidays as you’ll cut your manning in half for two weeks. Half work longs shift one week, so others can have time off to spend with friends and family. The next week the roles reverse. It’s great during the time off, but the extra hours are killer. Because we are a team and like a family, we work the long hour hours to help each other out, not for extra money. A group of likeminded individuals working for the good of the team and not the money. Yes, there’s a lesson in there somewhere I can feel it.

         In any event, exhausted I fell asleep on my couch. When I awoke and turned on the TV and there on ESPN was Damon’s picture wearing a hat with a white ‘N’ and ‘Y’ on it.
         “Whaaaa?” were the first and only words out of my mouth. I listened as the commentator laid out the details of the defection. They showed snippets of an interview where he said, “We” which meant “He” and the Yankee ball club. He smiled and said he knew the fans in Boston wouldn’t be happy, but he blamed the frigid response from the front office for him jumping ship. He was right about what the fans would think. However, despite his efforts to point the finger elsewhere, I didn’t aim my anger at the ownership or management of the Red Sox. The team traded or lost players I knew and admired before. Nomar hangs his hat in Chicago and I wish him and the Cubs the best. Pedro jumped ship to the Mets, but I still love to watch a highlight reel with him in it. If Damon had gone to any other team, I’d have wished him well and hoped he’d continue with the same level of success he had in Boston. But he voluntarily went to the team any decent, self respecting member of the Red Sox would rather die than get traded to. I’m a fan, not a Jimmy Fallon-“Fever Pitch” like decorate your whole house in Red Sox merchandise and name your children after all-stars type fan, but I did ask for a Red Sox light switch cover for Christmas, so I think that puts me in the above your normal fan category. So as a fan, Johnny’s right, I’m not happy. I’m down right disgruntle and I think he’s a wicked jerk.

         Anyone close to the rivalry that is the Sox verses the Yanks knows it’s personal. We don’t like them, they don’t like us and we don’t want it any other way. So for Damon, the apple of everyone in Boston’s eye, to just casually shrug off all loyalties and side with the enemy, well it’s just unimaginable. It seemed so fake, so staged, like professional wrestling. I’m not talking the white-trash soap opera that’s today’s WWE, but instead the old days of the WWF, back before the World Wildlife Fund took back their initials. Back when the good guys were the good guys and the bad guys were the bad guys. Back in those days wrestlers would stand in front of their logos and scream at the camera as if the audience was going to carry their message to their enemies. They’d say things like, “This week me and the “Crusher” are going to Atlanta and are going to make mince meat of the “Flying Squirrel Brothers”. They’re going to beg for mercy, but we’re not going to give’em an ounce, not one, stinking ounce. And when we’re done, we’ll hold the World Tag Team belts over our heads and everyone will know who the best tag team in the world really is!”

         Staged, hokey, and always hammy, you knew that eventually the Crusher and his partner would have a falling out and then one of them would have to become a bad guy. The audience would boo the bad guy relentlessly. That’s what you did to bad guys and the bad guy would love every minute of it. The jeers turned him on and only made you hate him more. Well, now the Hacksaw Jim Duggan of the Red Sox has shaved off his beard and trimmed his hair. He’s a bad guy now. He’ll stare into the camera and say such horrible things to the fans that loved and admired him so much. He’ll spit on their loyalty and devotion. He’ll smile and have a cocky laugh at their expense. If he was a wrestler back in the 80’s he’d be wearing red spandex tights with a yellow hammer and sickle. But because he’s a baseball player, Johnny Damon has done something much worse. He traded in his red socks for a faggoty-white pinstripe uniform.

         He took his cap, the one I love so dearly, and the chance to play in front of the Monster and tossed them aside. He is a different man now than the one I thought I knew. For the player I knew, I bought a tee-shirt with his image from his better days, his shaggy days. It reads “The Idiots Believe and So Should You!” It was printed prior to the 2004 World Series. Damon allowed his likeness to be used and a portion of the revenue went to charity. Outwardly, he genuinely seemed humbled and happy. He wanted to use his fame for the good of man. Prior to the start of last season, Damon even had his locks cut for charity, now he has them cut to line his own pockets and for a cheap publicity stunt. It sickens me and I now hide the tee-shirt at the bottom of a drawer covered by underwear. Why my underwear drawer and not the trash you ask? Well, what other article of clothing is better at covering up an unsightly ass. Lowbrow yes, but a cheap shot like that can be quite satisfying given the present circumstances.

         There is a ray of hope, however slim it may be. My hope is that Damon will be unable to blend in. The Caveman inside won’t stay hidden or be domesticated. By midseason, Johnny will have re-grown his mane and beard and paid the umpteen dollar fines Steinbrenner imposes. Empowered by his brash disregard for the system, other players will join him. Jeter will dye his hair blonde and A-Rod will grow an Abe Lincoln style beard. I want to see Sheffield with an afro and Bernie Williams grow a Tom Selleck inspired Mr. Baseball mustache. I want the team to have character, not because they’re told to, but because they want to. My only hope is that Damon changes the team into something better, something less fascist, and something that will be harder for me to hate. Somehow I know that’s not going to happen, and so that now makes Johnny Damon, the loveable Caveman, Jesus in the Outfield, the everyman, into the bad guy. And we all know what happens to the bad guy.