I probably shouldn't address you in such a familiar way. We are not friends. I see you pretty regularly at The Cell, and I finally received confirmation from you that you recognize me. When I see you, whether it's throwing long toss pre-game, or pitching on the mound, my cheers for you are always calling you "Johnny D."
I remember when the White Sox traded for you, a young, handsome southern boy with a big smile and a heck of an arm. Everyone was so excited. You were the hope for the future. By 2008, you lived up to every word of the hype. You were outstanding. And then there was the Blackout Game. You destroyed my beloved Twins, who also played pretty well that day, and pitched 1-hit shutout baseball for 8 innings to win the division. You were everyone's hero.
You signed a big contract and then your shoulder blew up. People were mad. I never get why fans get mad at a player when he gets hurt, as if it doesn't kill you to sit the bench. As if it doesn't kill you to take your time getting well. As if it doesn't kill you to know that the choices you make for recovery can make or break your career.
As if it doesn't kill you to see that you can't do what you could do before.
As if you wouldn't do anything to fix it.
As if you don't work your tail off trying to be the pitcher you were and the pitcher you know you can be.
That's what makes the contracts important--you've put all your chips on this one talent, and if you don't make it...there's no way of knowing what comes next.
I guess the truth is, you were never the same. Is that traitorous for me to admit? I can say that because you know, just as I know I can't play the game the way I used to, but nothing is at stake for me, and everything is for you. Your fall from golden boy only made me cheer harder and louder. Everyone knew that I was a Johnny D fan. Some people, I admit, tried to talk me out of it, but they gave up. Most people agreed with me, although not quite so ardently as I. DJ and Farmer on the radio were two guys who always talked you up. I remember one home game when you left the game to a chorus of boos after giving up just two runs in 6 innings, they were talking about how it was a quality start, and how fans didn't get it. They were pulling for you, too. But cheers and encouragement is sometimes hard to hear when the boos are deafening and ignorant and mean.
You had moments where your talent shone as bright as anything. I don't know how you did it. I don't know how you dealt with the boorish fans booing you when you allowed even one run. And when you were good, you were SO good. Everyone cheered.
There was often talk of trading you. I hoped they wouldn't. I believed in you. I believed you would come back, because I'd seen it in you so many times. You didn't get traded, and I was relieved. That meant I still got to wave to you before games and sometimes talk to you. You were always so friendly and talked to me like I was a human, even though I had trouble acting like a human around you.
I became friends with Cisco, the parking lot security guard, because he saw that I was your fan. He was (still is) your fan, too. He told me that you were the most stand-up guy he knew, how when other guys were into shenanigans and doing things they weren't supposed to, you remained close to your morals. He talked about admiring your faith and that you were one of the best people he knew.
I remembered the game you pitched, when your brother Jordan drove in the winning run. What a cool memory to have with your brother!
You signed for me a lot. Any time you had a chance to sign, you always signed more pictures and cards for me than anyone, and I am hoarding all of them like a creepy miser. Every autograph and every picture represents a memory.
I will never forget Minnesota this year, when you tossed me the ball, then came over and signed some autographs for me and took a picture and talked. You only talked to me. You knew I'd come a long way and that I was a real fan. It made me feel special. It's a memory I will always treasure.
Today I received messages from various friends who know how much you mean to me. They all gave me the bad news that you were DFA. I was sad, but I am going to tell you something awful right now--I was also kind of relieved. I've grown weary of the booing. My stomach sinks and I feel so bad for you. And now I think, I KNOW, that you will sign with a new team. You will have a new environment, and you will have new fans and new coaches. You will go out there without the expectation that you will pitch like it is the last game of 2008 and it's win or die. You will simply be John Danks, pitcher, with a clean slate. You will thrive. I truly believe that.
And when you come to town, whether on the North Side of the South Side, I will be there at every game. You'll hear me. I'll be the one yelling "Johnny D!" at the top of my lungs. I will always cheer for you. I will always support you.
I've always had trouble separating the person from the player. I could never run a team. The GM sees business, but I see potential and friends, and I can never think of any of you guys in terms of dollars and wins. Especially you.
Thanks for all the memories and for the kindness and the thrills. You will always have a fan in me.
No comments:
Post a Comment