Magic Jewball

I’ve been a sports fan for a long time. First hockey, then tennis, and then baseball. Even before I was a baseball fan, I was a Yankee fan. This is both because I grew up in a mostly Yankee New York household and because I read a biography of Lou Gehrig as a child and was entranced. When I saw the movie and realized that Lou Gehrig was actually Gary Cooper, well, there was no looking back. It was only later that I began to actually enjoy the sport itself and not just reading the score in the paper.

But this is the part I have always had trouble with: the trade. As I sit through this afternoon’s telecast of the Anaheim, or LA, or Anaheim of LA, or LA of Anaheim game, I am again pondering the mystery of it. I think I have finally accepted Johnny Damon. Maybe.

You remember Johnny Damon with his head of Breck-girl hair blowing masterfully in the Fenway wind. Now he is a Yankee. Or so I have been commanded to accept. It’s not like this is my first day of trying to wrap my mind around this. Oh, I saw the pictures of his fancee haircut over the Winter. Then I went to Spring Training opening day in Tampa and saw him wave cheerfully at our crowd of tourists and Floridians (Tampons? No, that can’t be right). And now it’s been a week of doubles and base hits in the far West. But it’s still hard.

Imagine this. Our commander in chief, I forget his name, conducts a press conference where he announces that after gathering together our millions and millions of dollars, we have finally signed Osama and as soon as he has passed his fitness test he will be on a plane here, beard shaven, to don the US Army uniform and terrorize other nations on our behalf. “I’m proud to wear this hideous shade of khaki,” Osama says through his translator. “Clearly Al Qaeda didn’t appreciate my efforts and my option came and went without a word to my agent. Now that I have been signed, I can tell you it has always been to my dream to play in the land of Benjamins. See you in April!”

Not that I am comparing the Red Sox to Al Qaeda. Seriously. But you see what I mean? Isn’t sports supposed to be like war? This must be why I also love tennis. You can’t exactly trade Andy Roddick, can you? Although these days I wish I could. I wonder how Johnny Damon’s forehand is. He could even grow out his hair, no problem.

But back to baseball. I know what you’ve been thinking as you read this. “Yankees? You lost me, Becca. I don’t care who wins this year as long as it’s not them.” That’s OK. I don’t mind. But consider this. The Yankees are America. Wait! Hear me out! You know, the richest, the most successful, the arrogant one, the one with the megalomaniac leader, the one that draws the talent from the rest of the world because this is where the money and success are. You know it’s true. So hate the Yankees if you must but you’ve just answered that “why does everyone hate us” question once and for all. Go ahead, root for your hometown team (you should!) but if you’re just rooting for the team that hasn’t won lately, well, Go Russia!