01:00 AM EST on Thursday, December 22, 2005

So ends the Red Sox career of Johnny Damon, the poster child for the contemporary player, now gone to New York, where he will be clothed in pinstripes.

Not because he didn't like it in Boston.

Not because the Sox didn't want him back.

But for one reason: the Yankees offered him more money.

So much for loyalty. So much for all his professed affection for Sox fans. So much for the fact Damon said back in May he could never see himself going to the Yankees.

Fifty-two million over four years can change your mind.

Not that we should be surprised. Didn't Damon do the same thing to Oakland four years ago, leaving to come to Boston because the Red Sox offered more money?

In the end, Damon is just the latest sports mercenary, here today, gone tomorrow, choosing money over cheers and affection, choosing money over memories and the great relationship he had forged with Red Sox fans.

Because there's no question that it was here in Boston that Damon found his fame, his moment. He was the self-professed "idiot," the guy who grew his hair long and went from relative anonymity to superstardom, complete with his face on the cover of Sports Illustrated, and an appearance with Letterman, in the middle of celebrity's cross hairs. The guy who posed on the cover of his book with his tongue out.

Yes, he'd been a good player, one of the best leadoff hitters in the game. But that's not what made Damon a celebrity. Not even close. His hair made him a celebrity. Part rebel. Part retro. Part whatever. The cute ballplayer. No matter that it was all skin deep, all about fashion, a guy who grew his hair long and discovered chicks liked it, no different than every other rock musician for the last 40 years. It was all part of Damon's charm, made him different, and in a baseball world that still often operates as though the clocks stopped in 1957, Damon became a genuine star.

Ah, America in the new millennium.

No matter that Damon now is going to have to cut his hair and shave his beard, the two things that transformed him from just another player to the Sox' matinee idol. Not that that apparently matters to him, either. A few weeks ago he said he'd have no trouble changing his image if he went to the Yankees, well aware of the Yankees' corporate image. So much for being the rebel.

Fifty-two million over four years can get you to a barbershop, too.

So now Damon's gone, an anouncement that came late Tuesday night, amid the perception that it caught the Red Sox off guard, that they didn't believe that (1) the Yankees weren't all that interested in Damon, or (2) Damon ever really wanted to leave Boston.

Shame on them.

This is no small thing, considering the newly constructed front office, and the speculation that it's still in a certain chaos. The last thing Larry Lucchino needs now is people thinking this is a rudderless ship.

You can debate whether the Red Sox should have tried to match the Yankees' offer. Damon said they never did. Sox owner John Henry said Damon never gave them the chance. Take your pick. You also can debate whether a 32-year-old center fielder who can't throw is worth $13 million a year for four years, but that's a baseball question. Damon's departure is more of a perception question.

The symbolic end to the "Idiots."

The further dismantling of the 2004 title team.

The fact his departure leaves one more position this team now has to fill, one more position the Sox will go into the new year with a new player.

And he's going to the Yankees, no less.

There's no getting around the fact Damon's exit is magnified by his going to New York, that in this ongoing chess match between the Sox and the Yankees this is a good move for the Yanks. Let's not kid ourselves. This wouldn't sting as much if Damon were going to the Dodgers.

Instead, he's going to center field in Yankee Stadium, the one position where the Yankees needed help, and to the leadoff spot in the order. This is not insignificant. Damon makes the Yankees better and the Red Sox worse. Losing Damon also means the Sox have to go out and replace him, a potential deal that probably means they will lose a pitcher. None of this takes place in a vacuum.

In the end, though, Damon made his choice.

"It's time to move forward," he told WBZ radio.

Maybe.

But I suspect Damon will come to miss his time in Boston, that it won't be replicated in New York, that his best years belonged to a certin time, a certain place, a certain image. One that by the time next season starts will be as gone as yesterday's cheers, right there with the hair that made him famous.