Booing Johnny Damon

I attended opening day in Kansas City this year. AGAIN. This was the first time in my life where there was no excitement or enthusiasm for the coming year, and to be honest, there is no chance I would have attended at all if Zach Greinke weren't pitching the game. It was an added bonus to see Justin Verlander pitch for the Tigers. They're two of the top five starters in the American League.

This is a little about sports, and I suppose it's a lot about patience. I've come to believe that maybe I'm too damned patient with the ship of fools most people call the Kansas City Royals. And I've almost certainly been too patient with their idiotic fans. I'll get into that in just a moment here, but for the two or three people who might actually read this, if you have no interest in baseball whatsoever, this post will not be for you. I won't do this again, in all likelihood, because we don't have baseball in Kansas City. I can tell you this much in advance--it won't be funny. It's just a description of misplaced anger and collective stupidity, and the part I've come to play in it...

I grew up with the Royals of the seventies and eighties, so in my world, the Royals were always at or near the top. It never seemed they would quite get over the hump, and it took a little luck and a lot of perseverance to finally gain their only World Series title in 1985. They probably had the best team in baseball a couple of other years, but they lacked a closer in the late seventies. Then, as now, the guy who should have been a "fireman" was more an "arsonist". I'm not talking about Soria here, he's great, but he's irrelevant. The team doesn't use him, so he might as well be stationed on the moon...

But I didn't know any different, and I kind of danced through my childhood thinking that the Royals would always be a reliable and well run organization. I never agreed with the Whitey Herzog firing after the 1979 season, but that was my only real complaint with the team over about a decade's time. It always appeared they were trying to be successful. The teams they put on the field were always entertaining and competitive. I almost forget what that's like.

Well, the Royals today are reliable. They are as reliable in their behaviors and decision making processes as a monkey fed overdoses of crack cocaine. You would like that monkey to pass out before he commences his next stupid act, but that goddamned monkey just keeps feeding itself more crack. It's sad, unless one enjoys watching the same train wreck repeatedly.

All this being said, the Royals still have some fans. This is, in and of itself, remarkable. But I'm sitting there on a Monday afternoon, wondering what in the world these other 40,000 people did for a living. I had to think it was more interesting than sitting in that ballpark waiting for this season's train to derail. I was never at ease there--I don't handle crowds as well as I used to--and I just don't much like the organization anymore. I still root for them because they're all I've got. My "rooting" is much more a deeply based cynicism than anything else this year. I know they will fail, it's just a question now of how miserably they will succeed in this endeavor of hopelessness.

But anyway, Royals fans are jaded. For good reason. They're in the middle of one of the worst fifteen year stunts in the history of baseball. There aren't ten other organizations that have piled up as many losses over that period of time, and professional baseball has been played since 1876. That's a big sample size, and there isn't any reason for hope anymore. It can get worse. It will, barring a miracle of luck, because the people with the pursestrings don't care about anything but the bottom line. More about that in a moment. The organization still has no concept that the team should at least occasionally be competitive.

When former owners Ewing and Muriel Kauffman passed on, the Royals were without ownership in one of the most turbulent times of baseball's history. The Kauffmans' set up a succession plan by which the team could be run by a board of directors until an owner or ownership group could be established that would guarantee the team could stay in Kansas City. The intent here was good--the results couldn't have been worse. Miles Prentice (who has since declared bankruptcy) was denied ownership of the Royals despite garnishing local support of fifty percent ownership. These potential shareholders included Tom Watson, George Brett, and so on and so on and so on. They were flatly denied by MLB, because they saw something in Prentice they didn't like. So be it. It's a private organization, and they can and will do what they want. So they did. They sold the team to David Glass at a thirty percent discount over the market bid, and now we sit where we are today. Glass has run a remarkably profitable organization, because he doesn't put any good investment toward the product on the field. He knows how to sell a five dollar hot dog, a nine dollar beer, and he's pretty sure it costs about fifteen bucks to park a car. He's not a shithead, he's just an asshole who knows how to make a buck. Being CEO of Wal-Mart for over a decade teaches valuable life lessons about how to destroy communities in a highly profitable manner...

So now we have an owner (who is not local, by the way) that attends about as many Cardinal games as Royal games who doesn't give a shit if the team wins or not. He can tell whatever lies he wants, but that's the truth. He'd rather camp out in the Ozarks than watch this team play firsthand, and I can't say I blame him. He's making money, and he doesn't have to do a goddamned thing. So he doesn't. Unless he wants to prove in new and interesting ways that he doesn't give a flying shit about winning baseball games.

On January 8, 2001, there was a three-way trade involving the Royals, A's, and Devil Rays. Kansas City sent Johnny Damon and second base prospect Mark Ellis to the A's. Oakland sent Ben Grieve to Tampa, and SS Angel Berroa and C A.J. Hinch to the Royals. Tampa sent P Cory Lidle to the A's, and P Roberto Hernandez to the Royals.

Even if you know nothing about the people mentioned above, know this: The two people the Royals coughed up in this deal are still playing major league baseball, and Damon is well on his way to a Hall of Fame career. Ellis has been as steady and reliable in an everyday role in a second-base slot as any team could ever hope for. He's been with the A's since the deal. Damon has started for two different World Series winners, and neither club would have pulled it off without him. So that's who the Royals gave up here...

Now know this: Four of the others involved in this deal are out of baseball, and one is dead. Lidle somehow passed on without ever bearing the disgrace of donning a Kansas City uniform, so his soul probably rests in peace. The others are all now nothing but footnotes in baseball history. I'll say this again: This was a trade. Damon was dealt by the Kansas City Royals before the final year of his contract, perhaps because David Glass couldn't stand the fact that we might have the best outfield in baseball two years in a row. And Glass could take further pleasure in fucking over Royals fans with the handling of Jermaine Dye and Carlos Beltran in the future. He likes to spread out the misery from time to time, but I insist that this is the worst trade in Major League history.

Some will say: "But Damon wouldn't sign with Kansas City. The Royals had to do something with him." Okay, shithead. I understand your argument, and here's why you're a dumbass: The Royals hang on to Damon, and they could have received an additional number one compensatory pick in the upcoming draft. Or, they could have hung on to Damon for the year, and dealt him on the open market to teams in contention. They might have gotten some value in the deal. But Glass wanted to save a little of that $7 million contract that would be due Damon in that year, and the decision was purely financial. He's got the organization by the balls, and he doesn't give a shit about the fans. And the fans continue to appreciate his abuse. My argument, as I stated before, is that Royals fans are idiots. Here's why:

Back to the first inning of Opening Day. Up comes Johnny Damon, now with the Tigers. Over half the fans boo. For whatever reason, I didn't see this one coming. I never really paid any attention when the fans were booing Damon when he was with the Red Sox or Yanks because, hell--those are players to be universally booed in KC. When he was with Oakland, I honest to God thought the fans were booing the horrific quality of the trade! (I admit it--I was drunk at the time and probably wasn't thinking too clearly) I didn't think it was personal...But these shithead fans--they're BOOING JOHNNY DAMON HERE!!!

WTF?!? They're booing the guy for kicking ass here for six years?!? For having the common sense to want to win the game?!? WTF?!? I was truly in disbelief. HE GOT TRADED!!! The Royals traded him away. He didn't leave town rambling on and on about ownership's failures and miserable decision making--that was his agent, Scott Boras. His only detrimental comments about the Royals involved their inability to commit to winning baseball, and he's right. He never said anything detrimental about the fans--though now he should. Somehow, in the bizarre world inside the head of Royals fan, Johnny Damon is to blame for this team's continued demise.

Wake up people. It's time to boo the real person responsible for this debacle, and that's Mark Ellis. Next time he's in town with the A's, I'm going to get a front row seat, and I'm going to tell him exactly what I think about his "decision" to get traded off this sinking and suck-ass ship some people call the Kansas City Royals.

The Easy Way Out

I'm not sure how it exactly went down, but I'm almost sure there was a conversation between a couple of troublemakers. In my twisted mind, it went something like this:

Setting: Probably some bar somewhere. Houston, maybe? Dane Cook is sitting and drinking Zima alone, and is approached by a stranger.

Satan: Something troubling you buddy? You look down.

DC: Now that you ask...yeah. Can I buy you a Zima?

Satan: You could, but I'd have to leave. (To bartender): Just bring me a bottle of whiskey. (To DC): So, what's on your mind.

DC: It's just...I try and I try to draw attention to myself, but it appears I'm never going to be famous. Nothing ever seems to work!

Satan: What kind of attention are you looking for? There are a lot of...methods by which one can stand out from the crowd.

DC: Do you ever just wish you were famous? It's all I think about. All the fame, and the fortune, and all the hot young boys in tight pants that must come along with that fabulous lifestyle!

Satan: I know exactly what you mean, Dane.

DC: How did you know my name?

Satan: You're wearing a shirt that says, "I'm Dane Cook. Look at me."

DC: Oh, yeah. I had about fifty of those printed up last year...sometimes I forget.

Satan: Do you ever wish you didn't have to wear that goddamned shirt everywhere?

DC: Well, as far as wardrobe goes, this is pretty much what I'm down to now. I have them in five colors! The hot pink is fabulous!

Satan: That's great, Dane. Really great...but don't you think there's a better way?

DC: How do you mean? I've tried everything I know to do?

Satan: Maybe you just don't know very fucking much. There are shortcuts out there. I know people who can give you a lift.

DC: I do too, but the blow just doesn't cut it like it used to, and it's getting hard affording the stuff on my...

Satan: (Cuts Dane off): No, no, no! People who can get you where you want to go in your life. You must understand, however...there's a tradeoff.

DC: You mean...I could be famous?!?

Satan: That's exactly what I mean.

DC: Tell me more...I'll do anything!

Satan: I know you will, Dane. I know you will...that's why I'm here. (Satan takes a slug from his bottle and offers it to Dane) Here. Drink. It seals the deal.

DC: Ewww. That stuff makes my breath yucky!

Satan: Drink it, you goddamned Nancy!!!

DC: (Reluctantly takes a tiny shot, starts gagging and coughing, while Satan laughs in obvious pleasure) That's dreadful!!! (Dane grabs for a napkin to dry his eyes and starts fanning himself with both hands, as if his head is on fire)

Satan: Here's what you have to do: (Satan reaches in his coat pocket, and pulls out a business card) Here's the number of a guy I know that runs a comedy club downtown. That's where you start. Get up on stage, and just be yourself. Everything else will fall into place.

DC: But I'm not funny...at all.

Satan: That won't matter. Trust me. Just be yourself. Except for one thing--you can act as gay as you want, but during your act you should talk extensively about your sexual exploits with women. Project the lie. Have fun with it! You're a good enough looking guy, and you'll want to appeal to all the clueless and humorless broads out there. It's the "Ricky Martin" phenomenon. These bitches will want to think you're straight, and therefore you'll be good for something to them besides picking out curtains. Maintain the illusion. I did a deal with Ricky in Miami a few years back. Worked out okay, eh?

DC: Do I have to come up with an act?

Satan: Of course not. Just do whatever it is that you've been doing, keep powdering up your nose if you have to, and twit and flit all over the stage, and some people will find you hilarious. Hell, flop around on the stage like a dying manatee if you want. Just keep in mind that people without humor think that some things are funny too. Those things just aren't ever funny, and you don't even have to try to be funny. It's a huge market. We're gunning for dullards here, Dane. Look at what I've done with Leno. He still has to edit the scripts personally on a daily basis to reach the right market. Those writers just don't goddamned get it! All you have to do is be yourself. In addition to being my bitch for all eternity.

DC: Well, you're cute enough, so I could handle that part of the deal, but I don't know...when I get in front of those lights on stage...I'm afraid I might sweat a little. I'd look all yucky.

Satan: (Puts an understanding hand on Dane's shoulder, and says with a smile): That's just the look those hot young boys in tight pants are looking for, Dane.

Example 2

I thought about naming this post, "Slade Dillon, Kick-Ass Mechanic." But then I thought about it a little more... I've got close to $100 tied up in parts for various tractors, lawnmowers, and vehicles from just this week's tinkering. I have no idea at the point of purchase if any of these parts are the parts I'm looking for, or if they will actually do the trick.

I've always thought I would look cool with an eyepatch. Or at least that people wouldn't bother me so much if I wore one occasionally. That would, of course, backfire, and I'd spend a hell of a lot of time answering questions about the fucking eyepatch. So I don't wear one. I think I should, however, have a dedicated blindfold or bandanna in the glove box for my future trips to the auto parts store. I've begun to develop a rapport with the local outfit, and they already know I'm completely clueless. It would be a nice touch if I went in and randomly picked something off the shelf, with no real idea what I had until I got home. No difference from the present experience, except for the additional excitement of the uncertainty.

Some people play the lottery. Good for them. There's a chance at a payout, albeit a temporary one, since something over 90 percent of the winners of such contests end up more broke than they were before they won. For me, buying auto and engine parts is kind of the same venture. If they work for a while, great. If they don't, there's no surprise, because I know only enough about fixing anything mechanical to get myself into a great bit of trouble. And I know that no matter what happens, I'll be back at the auto-parts store.

I got to work this morning at daybreak, and before rush-hour even had started, I'd broken something on the job. Early morning is a great time to curse in public. For those people in the neighborhood who had slept in a bit too long, I've already spared them the trouble to hit the confession booth for taking the Lord's name in vain.

On a side note, I guess a great deal of the time I spend yelling "Goddammit," I think I really mean it. At the time, I do, at least. Maybe that's why things break around here as quickly as I can fix them. On various episodes of irrational impatience, I've wished God to damn, in no particular order: The truck, tractor, lawn tractor, push mower, bathroom sink, toilet, shower, kitchen sink, vacuum cleaner, and various other pieces of equipment, vehicles, and mechanical devices. They have all been damned in some way, shape or form. My prayers are most certainly answered!

I'm not at all the most deeply religious of persons, but it seems to me that a great deal of the Old Testament is dedicated to God damning this, that, or the other, and much of the time there's not much rhyme or reason to it anyway. It doesn't seem that God's chosen people can do a hell of a lot to appease the OT deity anyway, and even when they do what they're supposed to, sometimes they're caught up in a whirlwind of irrational punishment or unreasonable demands...Job is my favorite of the OT books.

But anyway, the pressure-washer is down, (Everything is broken in the Spring--it doesn't matter if it's been used or not) and I have to burn $5 in gas to buy $1.61 in plumber's tape. I've got probably fifteen rolls of the stuff at home, but that doesn't do me any good here. I get it fixed, and the clouds are starting to stir...

I'd left home at about 6 in the morning. I did that mainly to return some concrete I'd been carrying in the back of the pickup, and I knew it was going to rain at some point during the day. The NOAA website said we'd probably be okay until about 1pm. That didn't look quite right to me from the radar spools, but I was out the door to see what I could do in the meantime...but here it is, not even 8, and I'm back at the hardware store spinning in circles.

The washer gets fixed easily enough, and I spent the rest of my morning scrambling to pick up the things I'd strewn about in advance of what was certainly an imminent storm. The sky gets green on the Plains during the spring and summer. Green skies are generally a bad sign...

So now it's hailing, but the truck won't start. I'd been arcing the relay switch in order to produce the charge necessary to engage the starter for some time, but for whatever reason, it wasn't working very well in the hail. With hail, one almost always has lightning. I'm not sure it's possible for conditions necessary for hail to exist without lightning. Standing in an inch of water smacking a battery with a hammer is probably a bad combination of above events...but after fifteen minutes of cursing and arcing, a charge was produced, and I was able to experience for the first time this hail from the comfort of the cab of the truck.

Patient people probably don't hydroplane very much. I hydroplane more than most. The common remedy to this problem is to slow the hell down, but that is completely contrary to my nature when I'm in a vehicle. The only reason I'm in that thing is to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible. There are no more joy rides in my world. I've already done enough of that, and since I'm probably predisposed to die in a vehicular accident, I want to get in and out of the thing as quickly as possible. Each time I shut down the vehicle, a bullet is dodged. I think we see the problem here...anyway, it was a rougher drive to the auto parts store than it probably needed to be.

I finally get there, and I ask the guy behind the desk about this electrical problem.

"Is the battery okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, it's fine."

"Do you think the alternator is holding a charge?"

"I think so. The lights don't dim or anything with the rev of the motor," I told him. "The thing will start occasionally when I smack the relay with a hammer to create an arc."

"That's the starter solenoid. And you shouldn't be hitting it with a hammer," he said. "You just need a screwdriver to create that arc."

"It doesn't say anything in the owner's manual about not hitting any of those parts with a hammer. And that wouldn't even be an issue if they worked."

So he shook his head and rang me up, and this particular part proved to be the right remedy to my situation. We just had a fundamental difference of opinion on arriving at the destination.