Last night I thought I'd come to terms with it.
If Johnny Damon thinks 13 million dollars a year is so much better than 10 million dollars a year that he's willing to cut his hair and abandon Red Sox Nation for the Yankees, then the hell with him.
But this morning, the pain is back: the sick clutching feeling in my stomach, the anxiety about what the future will bring, the free-floating fury that doesn't know where to land--on Johnny, for doing the deed? Larry, for apparently screwing up everything? Theo, for abandoning us first? John Henry, for letting it all happen?
At least if Theo were still around, we might maintain the illusion that this happened on purpose, that it was part of a bigger plan. And maybe it is. But it's pretty hard to have faith these days.
[And of course sports are the opiate of the masses, to bastardize Nietzche and Marx, and it's all just big business as usual, except...well, except that it's not.]
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1 comment:
This is why I had to stop paying serious attention to professional sports. I can't take the emotional tie. It's like breaking up with your longtime boyfriend and finding out that during your relationship he was actually cheating on you the whole time.
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