Open Letter to Hal and Hank: If you don't like baseball players, sell the team

Dear Steinbrenner boys:

I suspect that, in troubled periods of your life, you've wondered whether your dad loved Derek Jeter more than he loved you. Every kid thinks such thoughts. They're natural. They're unavoidable.

And there's nothing wrong with occasional fears of inadequacy, especially when you are inadequate.

Boys, rest assured, your father would never have traded you for Jeet.

But every Yankee fan in the world sure would. And we'd throw in Cashman, too.

This recent whisper campaign crapola against great Yankees -- rumor-mongering to the Billys and the Joels during slumps, and questioning the money that iconic players are being paid -- is starting to look like a deep-seeded anger toward the people you never could become.

This does not put the Yankees, their players -- and especially you -- in a favorable light.

When you boys took over the team, your first great act was to unleash the Kraken and sign the three best free agents on the market. We won the 2009 World Series and righted a listing ship.

Ever since, we have played whack the hero. We showed Johnny Damon the door. We traded Melky for Javier Vazquez... Javier Vazquez! We watched Boston assemble the AL's best team -- God, they are so much better than us that it hurts -- and last week, it seemed as if you were trying to humiliate Jorge Posada -- and maybe Jeter -- into early retirements.

Boys, this aint gonna wash. We lost Cliff Lee last winter, because he sensed something wrong with the Yankee picture. We're going to lose CC next winter, if you don't watch out. We're starting to resemble the Yankees of the 1980s, when free agents didn't even want to play in New York, because of the toxic air.

Listen: Your dad was a piece of work. But nobody ever doubted his love for his players.

Do you guys even like them?

Because if you don't... this aint gonna wash.

If you don't... you gotta cash out, find somebody who will.

Your dad loved you. But do you love what you're doing? 





We cannot continue to kill ourselves.

Yes, I understand - every game is a human life: We watch it come into the world, commemorating its first pitch with photos and celebration. We record the first baserunner, the first return home and, of course, the 15th out, knowing that a 15 minute call can save you up to 15 percent on car insurance. We watch our child grow into his middle innings, his Little Debbie snack break, and then, in the blink of an eye, it seems, he is being closed. Gone. In the books. Ballgame over.

But lately, the Yankiverse has gone through boundless negativity.