Yanks Down on Santana Trade: Who are We Kidding?

Ourselves. That’s who.

For starters, if there is a more addicted guzzler of overpriced veterans in the universe than George Steinbrenner, it exits on some bizarre planet where rocks haven’t been invented. Then there is Hank, who in December practically got down on one knee to offer Minnesota a diamond ring in his teeth, begging them to take Melky, Hughes and somebody else – a trade offer so horrifying to Yankee fans that the organization has spent a month in damage control, pretending it was a crack hallucination.

Now, the official line is this: Santana? Pttuui. Bah. Pyush. We could care less. We prefer young players. We have no interest in, what was the name again? Santolo? Sanfrancisco? We have – say - are you going to finish that cigarette?

What a farce. They are like 5-year-olds skipping around a church basement in musical chairs, while the record player drones “Theme from Titanic.” One of these days, the music will stop, Minnesota will announce a pending deal, and we’ll watch Hank and Hal and Cash and maybe even the old man (bless his heart) scrambling for the nearest chair like Shriners at a peep show.

Melky? Kennedy? Hughes? Horne? Jesus Montero? Yeeesh. Those guys must shudder every time the phone rings. Next stop, Minnesota. Bring earmuffs and a cheese-slicer.

What a line they spout. Minnesota doesn’t believe it. Boston doesn’t believe it. The fans don’t believe it. So who are they kidding?