Regifting Johnny

Just over a year ago, on a day in October, the clouds broke and the sun shinned brightly. As bright as it ever has. The birds tweeted softly. The flowers were beautiful, blossoming in a time a year that it was scientifically impossible for them to do so. And the angels in heaven sang like angels do, which is to say, angelically.

The beauty of the world was so wonderful on that day, the Son of God himself wanted to descend upon the earth, but the Father held him back, just barely, with his great wisdom and foreknowledge, saying in his gentle, small voice, “Not yet, boy. Not yet.”

What the Father did not know, oddly enough, was that the Son had already, since the foundation of the universe, made plans to descend. He would allow his image to fall from heaven, and rest, like a dove, on one man. He would be a man chosen by the Son himself, for one purpose, one goal, one impossible task.

It was a task so great, so terrific, so unimaginably impossible, that for 86 years when mere men had tried to accomplish it, futility was the only result. Futility and frustration. Futility and frustration and fear that what was impossible would remain undone, unseen, unfulfilled.

But Lo, nothing is impossible with those who are called God.

And the Son, finding himself in such a position, and with a heavy burden for those who were created through him, those who had been faithful for so long, those who had called to him time and time again over the past 86 years with a single simple prayer: “Please, Lord, let this be the year.”

Their groaning rose up to the Son, and the Son heard their groaning, and the Son remembered his covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, as well as with the city of Boston. The Son looked upon them, and the Son took notice of them.

And so, when the Father wasn’t looking, he would allow his image to slip from his face, descend from heaven, and fall onto the face of a mere man. He called out, then, to mortal men and said, “Who shall take my image? Who shall I send?”

And Lo, a man stepped forward and said, “Here I am. Send me, Lord.”

And the Son said, “Yes, it shall be you. Go.” And he allowed his continuance to fall upon the man’s face, and his face was transformed and transfigured, so that it bore the mark of the Son, and a .316 batting average.

And Lo, his name was Johnny.

And so, Johnny took on the impossible, the unthinkable, the unimaginable -- but now empowered and transfigured, and with a bat made of pure Golgotha pine.

Marked with the face of the Son,
and with the B of Boston,
Johnny, proclaiming, came near,
“This will be our year.”

But Lo, a Beast arose from the depths of the hell, and just off the shore of Manhattan. It had nine heads and eighteen legs, eighteen arms, and eighteen red eyes. Its skin was like that of scales, and every other hand was covered with a glove, made from the skin of its wretched victims. To its left, and to its right, stood men who seemed to have control of the beast. They would command it, “Run!” or “Hold up!” But the Beast only heard these commands as suggestions. It ran wild, consuming anyone or anything that came into its path, in a series of world domination and destruction.

From a box floating in the sky, however, Satan himself wielded ultimate power over the Beast. He fed the Beast crisp hundred dollar bills, which it ate by the millions, building and constructing the monster into his own image. And that image was represented by the mark of the Beast. The mark was burnt into the Beast’s chest, and on the foreheads of each of its nine heads.

Its mark was not the golden radiance of the Son -- but rather that of evil itself, the mark of Pin Stripes and Dollar Signs. The Beast was hideous in sight and painful to hear. It loomed large, and drew the masses of humanity into its grasp. Somehow, by black magic or sorcery, the people could not see nor resist its evil. They ran to it, embraced it, even as it embraced and devoured them.

The Beast had dominated and devoured the people of Boston for almost a century, and this is why they had called out. This is why the Son heard there plea. It was for liberation and salvation that the Son had answered their groans. And for this reason, Johnny had come, wearing red socks.

Marked with the face of the Son,
and with the B of Boston,
Johnny, proclaiming, came near,
“This will be our year.”
That is, the year of the Son’s favor,
And the Day of Salvation.

Johnny gathered friends and faithful followers, all wearing red socks, so that he had bats and gloves to match each head of the Beast. They kissed their loved ones goodbye, and atop stallions named Mercedes and Lexus and Ferrari and Bentley, with Johnny leading the charge, they rode into battle with the Beast.

The residents of Sodom and Gomorrah, renamed Manhattan and the Bronx, as well as those of the great city of Boston, gathered to watch the conflict, their fates hanging in the balance. The battle of the century, for the salvation and redemption of a people -- for the liberation of Boston.

Tragedy befell Johnny and the Red Sox the first day, and they had to retreat. The second day of battle came to the same result. Three days, Johnny and his crew were beaten, defeated, and flogged. They could not afford another day of loss, their hearts could not withstand it, and the rules would not allow. Johnny turned to his crew and said, “Boys, we are in the shit soup.”

But after three days of defeat, Johnny and crew rose again
to the challenge of fighting the Beast. And on the fourth victory was theirs. And the same result on the fifth. Six days, and the number of victories was even, between Johnny, his Red Sox, and the Beast.

One last day, one final conflict, one ultimate battle and clash of the bats. A swing and a miss. A swing and a hit. Balls in the air, in the gloves, and over the fence. And finally the day was over and the battle had been won. The Beast had been defeated, and fled back into the depths.

Yes, behold, on the Seventh Day Johnny and his Red Sox stood victorious on the shore, the people of Boston liberated and freed from the domination of the Beast -- 86 years of frustration and futility and fear, redeemed and relieved. The Curse of the Pin Stripes and Dollar Signs lifted, the people could breathe and smile and laugh again.

It was Johnny, with his bat, who had struck the final blow.
It was Johnny, in his hat, who became the people’s hero.

And now the sonofabitch has left Boston to become a harlot, a whore -- a Yankee.

Bastard.