When Johnny Damon was here, he was the toast of the town. The ladies loved him. The guys dug his Spicoli-like nonchalance. They also dug his wife, who wasn’t too tough on the eyes. Once, people left work to watch him shave. And we’ll never forget how he almost single-handedly buried the Yankees in Game Seven of the 2004 ALCS, going yard twice, driving in six runs, and sucking the very life out of the New York City air.
A couple years later, he dumped us for the Bronx, following the money like so many before him. Not that we were going out of our way to lock him up at Fenway forever. But it stung to see our one-time folk hero moving to the dark side, even though he was just one of many from the ’04 team to join the Yanks – including Mike Myers, Alan Embree, Doug Mientkiewicz and, God help us, Mark Bellhorn.
If he’d gone to the Twins or the Rangers or the Manheim Steamrollers, we’d have given him the sort of hero’s welcome that every member of the 2004 squad got when they returned. Christ, Orlando Cabrera got the full Paul McCartney treatment when he re-entered Fenway as an Angel; one can only imagine what we would have done for Damon.
Now, he’s in Detroit. And he’ll be back on Fenway green this year. My question is, now do we give him the love?
Myself, I say we do. Because it shows that we hate the pinstripes, not the player. But it’s not about what I say. It’s about what you say. Lemme know.
