Dear Mr. Duncan,
Run.
Wear a dress. Kiss a catcher. Rub peanut butter over your body and froog naked around the clubhouse, singing "Barack the Magic Negro." Do whatever it takes.
Get away from the Yankees.
We have nothing for you.
I say this out of respect and admiration for what you have brought to the Yankees, the only baseball organization you've ever known. Two years ago, you climbed out of the Scranton mines -- nobody held a slot for you in spring training -- and lifted the team. Remember that 9th inning, two-out, three-run homer to tie the game in Baltimore? And when dugouts emptied, it was you who protected Arod, back when Arod was worth protecting. (Lately, maybe he could use a punch in the nose; ahh, but that's for another day.)
And when that Tampa Bay hockey thug wannabee leveled our catcher, Franciso Cervelli, you were the lone Yank to retaliate. All frickin' year.
Run. Fake an Ebola outbreak. Steal Jeter's glove. Do whatever it takes.
Get out of this team.
You're... what? Thirty? (Nope. Just looked it up. You're 29.) If lucky, you have maybe five years. You need a shot. Now or never. On this team, it's never. It won't happen. We'll break camp with more corner outfielders than Hershey, Pa., has "highway" jokes. Each of them will be paid 10 times what you earn. They cannot be cut! Even if you hit .500 this spring, you go to Scranton.
There, you might as well re-enact miner tragedies in the Anthracite Museum. That's how buried you'll be.
Run. Flee. As that house in Amityville said, GET! OUT!
While you can.
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