BUY MY BOOK: BARD OF THE DEAL: THE POETRY OF DONALD TRUMP
Friday, February 15, 2013
Posted by el duque at 7:08 AM
I think it was Charles Dickens who said, when you're standing on the gallows, and the noose tightens around your drainpipe, it's too late to say you be sorry. The Mumford & Sons mob doesn't want to hear that you've changed your mind, you'll now support Justin Beiber for the Grammy. No, sir. They won't wait for you. You're the nightly show, and they're not going home without a free swinger.
Yesterday, you told the Gammonite world that you'll always be a Redsock. Oh, well, there's that little thing about wearing the Yankee uniform and the funny NY on the cap, the minor details. But don't worry, Boston, in his heart, he'll still be bleeding Schilling catsup red.
Well... OK, fine. I get loyalty. What I can't understand is stupidity.
Do you really think the Fenway mob will be appeased? Or that the Yankiverse will ever trust you?
This is not to suggest you don pinstripes and quickly start trashing your old homies - (who, by the way, were scattered to the solar system by the corporate overlords.) It's not that you should swear allegiance to Randy Levine, who is only Larry Lucciano with Bozo the Clown hair. But you should know better than to think the Fenway Nation will be yelling "Youk" when you come to bat -- unless, that is, you're hitting .190.
Yep. Hit .190 and they'll be chanting your name. Suck for the Yankees, and you'll be a hit in Boston.
Listen, Kevin: You're not a prisoner of war, bruised from a blackjack, reading from a card at gunpoint. You're the guy who took off his uniform, hid under the bed, and then cut a deal with the first rival army that marched through town with a checkbook held high. You joined the Yankees, the enemy, whose fan base remains deeply divided over your clean-shaven mug. Hit .190, and the only cheers you'll hear in NY is when you're walking to first, trying not to rub. Compared to you, Eddie Lee Whitson will be Thurman Munson.
And if you believe the Fenway faithful will love you, "good ol Youk," because you still love them, good luck with that. Hit a home run in Boston, and they'll scream things about your wife that would put Don Rickles into therapy.
Hit for the Yankees, and you'll be a Yankee. Suck, and one year in New York - assuming you survive - will feel like 10.
If you think you can appease the Boston mob, think again. You might just have two mobs lighting torches. It can get lonely on the gallows.