Guess Who’s Recruiting Johnny Damon?

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The Chicago White Sox are in pursuit of outfielder Johnny Damon, joining their fierce American League Central rivals, the Detroit Tigers, in the running for the free agent’s services.

A recent update to the story in the Chicago Tribune’s online edition mentions Damon recently went on a golf outing with White Sox catcher A.J. Pierzynski, who spent his time at the golf course lobbying for Damon to join the South Siders.

Then, a golf cart rolls up to the 13th green and a special visitor arrives.

Uncle Hawk: Gentlemen, let me tell you about the time Carl Yastrzemski and I first went golfing.

A.J.: (Rolls eyes) Here we go again…

Uncle Hawk: The year was 1968 and Carl had just went 1-for-4 with two runs scored and two RBIs in a 5-4 win against the Oakland Athletics on July 14.  It was an off-day for Carl, who arrived to the ball park late after a late night in a small Venezuelan town.  See, the Cubans had invaded Venezuela overnight and Carl was arguing with a cop over a speeding ticket that was issued as he rode his mule through town.

Boy, oh boy, that mule was built like ol’ A.J. here.  Fat.  Stubborn.  Covered in herpes sores.

Johnny: But what does this have to do with golf?

Uncle Hawk: Respect your elders son.  I’m gonna get to that part.

Johnny: Sorry.

Uncle Hawk: Now, where was I?  Oh, that’s right.  Herpes.  So, the Cubans are in yee-haw Venezuela, where it is nearly impossible to get out of a speeding ticket and one of them kicks Carl’s mule and it ran off.  I had never seen him so angry in my life.  It was worse than the time Rico Pertocelli pissed in Carl’s cereal during that 11-game road trip in June.  So Carl does what anyone would do.  He waged war against the Cubans.

Man, I’ll tell you.  Ball players these days would never defend the honor of their mules.  With all the advance in technology that has come around since my playing days, I haven’t seen a player ride a mule in about 25 years.  Except for the Big Hurt.  He rode a lot of things and I’m not talking about the bench.

A.J.: So, what are you talking about?

Uncle Hawk: A.J., SHUT UP.

(A.J. hangs his head)

I’m talking about bitches.  Hot bitches.  Drunk bitches.  Bitches you wouldn’t take home to your mother, even if she was blind.

The Big Man made Magic Johnson look like an amateur.

Now can I finish my story?

A.J.: Sorry.

Uncle Hawk: Not as sorry as those crazy Cubans.  Carl made those ingrates disappear quicker than David Wells could devour a burrito the size of his head.  That reminds of the time when Alex Fernandez got so high he thought Jack McDowell’s elbow as a Harold’s chicken wing and tried to eat it while they were sitting in the bullpen.  I’ll tell that story another day.

So Carl is swinging at everyone with a sombrero and a mustache until he could figure out which ones he was fighting for.  He swung his fists like Dirty 30 swung his dong, and just like Dirty 30′s dong, Carl’s fists always found someone’s face.

In the end, the Venezuelans were victorious and in their revelry they named a town after him.

Johnny: Really?

Uncle Hawk: Yep.  Now stands Carlacas, Venezuela.  Where speeding tickets are impossible to get.

A.J.: Don’t you mean Caracas?

Uncle Hawk: SHUT UP, A.J.

(Johnny Damon slowly backpedals away from golf cart and makes a run for the nearest exit)