Say it ain't so, Johnny. Say it ain't so.
It was bad enough, Johnny, that you jumped ship from the
legendarily accursed
Boston Red Sox to that team's millennia-long
rival, the
New York Yankees. But the Faustian part of your bargain
was in taking the razor to your beard.
How could you?
You see that guy at the top of this column? Yeah. That guy. With
the beard.
Go ahead, just take a pen out of your fancy-shmancy New York
Yankees carry-on bag and rip it through his face, why don't ya?
Guys with beards have feelings, too, Johnny. You know how many of
us bearded guys are out there? I mean, not counting the ones in the
hills? That's right, not many.
You were a hero. With your hair hanging down to your shoulders and
your beard as bushy as the Berkshires, you stood apart. Guys in
baseball do not look like that. They look like what you look like
now. Presentable.
Oh, there is the tasteful goatee here and there. To which I say,
"Ptouie." Which is a sound I know you know well, it being the sound
of spitting, which is what
baseball players do all the time. What's
up with that, anyway?
But we're not here to talk about spitting. We're here to talk about
Eisenhower.
That's right: In one fell shave, you returned us to the Golden Age
of Conformity. We had been sensing its coming for a while now.
Things just didn't feel as freewheeling as they used to.
As if to confirm it, here, now, is your clean-shaven face. You know
what happened after you shaved? The
Florida Marlins manager said
that he wants to see no facial hair whatsoever on his players - no
goatees, no mustaches, no beards, no nothing.
Happy about what you started?
Yes, yes, yes, I know you've shaved your beard off before. But that
was for charity. This? This is for … the New York Ya … I can't even
say it.
I don't mind that you went to the Yanks. I really don't. What I
mind is that you gave them your beard. And why? Because they said
so? What kind of reason is that?
I don't mean to be a jinx here, Johnny, but I think it is possible
that this whole thing may backfire and backfire big. Like Babe Ruth
big. Like
the-Yanks-won't-win-another-World-Series-for-maybe-100-years
big.
Call it the Samson Effect. You lose your hair; they lose their
strength.
Think about it. Damon? Samson? Close enough.
Listen, Johnny, it's not all your fault. It's Al Gore's.
The 2000 Democratic presidential nominee, I'm sure you recall,
emerged from his postelection seclusion with a face full of, well,
there is just no other way to put it: hair. Here was a guy still
thinking he might run again for president. And the first thing he
does is show up with a beard?
Do you know which president last wore a beard? Rutherford B. Hayes.
Ever heard of him? I mean, outside of a bar bet? Didn't think
so.
When Gore reappeared, a poll showed that 62 percent of Americans
disapproved of his hirsute visage. Cartoonists likened him to a
Chia pet.
It's not a pleasant memory for any of us. But if we are to get past
it, we need to face up to it. Culturally speaking, Johnny, the
impact of Gore's beard has been considerable.
For, since then, the beard has become a divider, not a uniter. Gone
are the days of cheerful Santas, thoughtful history professors, and
passionate poets. Instead, beards became, simply, wrong.
Its wrongness is what made your beard so right, Johnny. You wore
your beard anyway. You said - well, your facial hair said - "You
know, I don't care if a guy with a beard can never be president. He
can be MVP of the World Series."
But now what? What have we bearded guys got?
Football, that's what.
The two starting quarterbacks in the most recent
Super Bowl both had beards.
We cheer them, but it’s not the same. When their helmets are on, you can’t even see their faces.
We can see yours, though, Johnny. Too clearly.
Where is the bush, the fuzz, the iconoclastic caveman shrubbery? Where have you gone, Johnny Damon? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.
Woo woo woo.