But I dunno what to make of it. Really. I just dunno...
Tell me we should celebrate. Convince me. I'll drink the Kool-Aid. But I dunno. I can't help but think we're looking at the 40-year-old barmaid and seeing her as the prom queen she was 120 pounds ago. Yeah, we can take her home. We can turn out the lights. We can relive the big win over Sayre. But sooner or later, the bed is going to break. And if renting Youk takes Hal 2000 off the hook of Yankiverse indignation - the Gammonites have been reporting fan base anger - he can let the Hamiltons and Greinkes redefine the AL, while we settle for Miss Elmira 1984.
Put on your reading glasses. Take a close look at Youk's beautistics.
Yesterday, a Redsock fan told me he can still handle 3B - but who trusts a Redsock fan? They'll tell you lies, thinking you have a direct line to Cashman. In fact, just hearing a Redsock fan claim Youk can play 3B has me doubting he can play 3B. If Satan says DRINK, I don't know about you, but I set the bottle down.
Then again, wadda I know? We have nobody else to play 3B, unless Cody Ransom turns up, with his famous standing power jumps, or we learn that Celerino Sanchez was cloned. And if we get Youk, at least there would never again be a downside to him getting beaned: He'll put a Yankee on first!
I dunno. I just dunno. There are times when you get a really expensive Christmas gift, and you're grateful, because it's the thought that counts. But you wish they just gave you the cash. And if the barmaid says yes, I'm wondering how we'll feel tomorrow.
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7 comments:
don't want him. It just shows how desperate we are that we are filling gaps with Boston cast-offs, who, as you say, are beyond their sell-by date. He was a very good player once, and who knows, he might get hot for a week or two, even do some sort of tap dance on the Redsocks face one night. Nonetheless, he's just another slow, old guy who's likely to get injured. Don't we have enough of those already?
The uniform will reject him. Hell, I got a rash the first time I put it on!
Please, Youk -- take the two-year offer from Cleveland!
We signed Gardner! We signed Gardner! Allll riiiighttt!
OK, that's as much false enthusiasm I can generate today. Yooook had a few nice years in the Land that Segregation Forgot. Then slid. To be fair, he was playing less...ok, at least a little less...due to platooning and injuries. It's not like he's that old, I mean, cripes, 33 makes him practically a fetus on the Yankees. Guys can still play at 33. In some weird cases, 38, 40 or even 43.
12 mil is a little steep for my blood, all things considered, but it's only one year. Say he comes onboard, hits .250, 15 HR, 50+ RBI, maybe a .285, .290 OBP. Is that really much different than what we got out of third base this past year? I don't think so. And he can still play defense. Not great, but OK. Lest anyone turn their nose up at that 'OK', see Granderson, Curtis: Defensive Ability, or the similar entry for Ibanez, Swisher, et al.
Would I look forward to seeing that ridiculous, hateful, spasmodic batting stance all or most of the season? No. Would the 'Yooook'-ing of suburban Yankee fans (or whatever they are) drive me nuts? Yes.
But, the guy is not some reject utility journeyman. He's been in big games, he's been in the Series and won, he's shaved off that assinine facial hair that made him look like a member of the Spin Doctors.
He is not a perfect man. Who--I ask, who--among us is? And take a moment to dream....Youk coming up at Fenway wearing pinstripes, men on base, Bucholz or the great Lester on the mound. And the pitch...a long drive to left...this one is high! It is far! It is...over the Green Monster! The Yankees win! The-e-e-e-e-e-e Yankees...win!
(Look, I know a Yankees homer could never be a walkoff at Fenway, just give your head some room and enjoy the scenario.)
Oh man, I would put up with a lot of crap next year just to watch the Red Sox Nation's collective face. Grandy could strike out 300 times, our catcher could be a sandbag wearing a mask and shin guards, Texiera could bat .220 and Mo would hardly ever see a game because we're never ahead in the ninth. That one moment would just be so sweet.
12 mil? Make it 13, Youky. Forget the past--the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Ish.
Only if Youkilis also takes on the role of catching Joba in the bullpen. If so, then a great time to work on that knuckleball, Joba. I can see them now, sitting together out there in the bullpen, reminiscing about the good old days, Youk showing off the scars and bruises.
I won't ever watch a Yankee game in which he plays for us.
I would rather lose them all. Let Joba play third.
'Twas a night in the offseason, and all through the land,
Not a creature was sitting in the stadium stands.
The stirrups still hang by the lockers with care,
In the hopes that opening day soon would be there.
Cashman was nestled by hot stove (still heating),
While visions on the Post showed Jeter (still eating).
And Mo in his rehab, and Arod’s aging bones,
Make the upcoming season a cistern of unknowns.
When out in cyberspace there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from football mode to see what was the matter,
Away to the internet I flew like a banshee,
Opened up Firefox and googled “new Yankees.”
The mood on the blogs of the new-written posts,
Was resignation at best and murderous at most.
What to my wondering eyes came upon,
Was news of acquiring Beezlebub’s spawn.
An old Boston fielder, so much of a dick,
I knew in a moment this must be a trick.
More preternatural than picklebacks, this must be a fluke.
Now joining the Yankees is none other than Youk.
“Now Andy! Now Pineda! Now D-Rob and CC!
On, Texeira! On Cano! On Gardner and Cervelli!
To the top of division, to the top of the east,
You’ll have to make nice with this ex-Red Sux beast.”
As stomachs that turn before taking the stage,
I felt sick and uneasy, and somewhat enraged.
His bellicose stance compares to rhinos when mating,
Or Soda Popinksi--it all compounds my hating.
And then in a twinkling, I read on the twitter,
The hemming and hawing over our new 3B hitter.
As I drew in my breath, and was taking it in,
I tried to envision when baseball begins:
Youk’s all dressed in pinstripes, from head to his foot.
And his helmet’s all tarnished, with pinetar and soot.
Wagging his bat, parallel to the dirt,
Like some roided up yoga he’s trying to exert.
His eyes—so depraved! His hair—doesn't exist!
His goatee is like dead moss, his brow—homo habilis.
His skull cap of a head is puffed up like toadstool,
And the beard of his chin makes him all the more a fool.
The wad of his dip once held tight in his cheek,
Distended his jaw and made him look like a freak.
He has a broad frame, and was called “roly poly,”
And laughs like the Pinnochio villain, Stromboli.
He’s not a Greek god, he’s not even Greek,
He’s just a Moneyball prototype, who’s already peaked.
A high and in fastball will cause him to riot,
And not all the tea in China could keep his ass quiet.
I’ll speak not a word when he first dons the stripes,
When opening against Boston (hashtag media hype).
And raising his finger may work in Fenway,
But you’re a Yankee now, bitch. So shut up and play.
He sprung at the deal, to the Sox said adieu,
Now we wait out the winter, for the season anew.
But hear me exclaim, ‘fore I cap off this prate:
“Happy Holidays to all, and to Youk: pull your weight!”
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