I’m a Boston Red Sox fan. Born and raised in Alabama. I’ve never been to Beantown. May never go. But I have lived and died with the Sox, Celts, and Pats since I was nine years old.

Why nine?

I was born in ’77. Which made me nine in ’86. What happened in ’86? Think hard. Game 6 of the World Series. 10th inning. Two outs. Mookie. Buckner. Routine ground ball that was anything but routine. Stayed on the rug as if the Babe himself was blowing it under Bill’s mit. Boston collapsed. The Mets recovered to win the Series. Curse continued.

Why would such an infamous moment, a moment of failure, draw in a young boy? During the twenty years since that night, I have wondered why that particular game birthed a lifelong love affair. And I think I know the answer. It was the first time in my young life where I truly realized the passion that sport invokes. And that sometimes this passion is strongest in moments of defeat. That’s what Buckner did for me.

I remember watching game seven of that series, remember what it felt like when the Sox held then squandered a three run lead, and remember thinking, “This is my team.” I witnessed one of the most infamous moments in the history of the franchise and it owned me. And I have been owned ever since.

With the fiasco surrounding Johnny Damon this week, I have at times laughed at myself and at others. I am an educated guy, pretty well-read, mostly even keel emotionally. I had been following the Damon trade talks, and knew what would probably come of them. That is why I was so shocked by what happened. Not that Damon was traded. But my reaction to it.

Why did I feel like I had been kicked in the stomach?

Damon only played for Boston for four years. He played in KC for six years, for cryin’ out loud. Oakland for one. He didn’t come up through the Boston system. Why the attachment? Why have most Boston fans treated this as if Teddy Ballgame up and joined Joe D in the Yankee outfield?

I’ll tell you why. For the same reason a young boy got hooked on a then-cursed franchise: passion.

To Boston fans, Damon became the personification of Boston’s baseball plight. His attitude represented the collective attitude of Sawx fans everywhere, an attitude forged by years of “you’ll never be better than second best” futility. At some point, you just say “what the hell.” That's exactly what the ’03 -’04 Red Sox did. This attitude birthed the merry band of “idiots,” of whom Damon (along with Millar) was the ring leader: Manny, Papi, Varitek, D Lowe, Trot, Arroyo, Schill . . . And something happened along the way. Damon and the idiots ended 86 years of baseball purgatory. And did so in dramatic fashion. Damon’s Game 7, Yankee killing grandslam may be one of the greatest moments in baseball history.

Damon endeared himself to fans in a way that few players ever have or ever will. He was that big in Boston. That’s why this hurts. Somehow, in a weird sort of way, it takes away a little of the magic from that oh-so-magical season. It’s not that Johnny left. It’s who he left for.

Forgive Sox fans for their moments of hyperbole, for overstatement, for emotions that swing too far to one side of the pendulum. In our hearts, we know that it’s a business, we know fans are the ones who put the emphasis on loyalty, and we realize somewhere way down deep that Johnny made the right business decision.

Even if we know it’s just a game, it still hurts. But somehow, kinda like that groundball in game 6 of the ’86 series, the hurt will keep us coming back.