He ran out to shag flies in left field - the ancient burial grounds of Knoblach and Yogi, of Ibanez and Ledee - the place where Yankee careers go to die.
I could sit in this crystal fortress, watching the lights dance upon the North Pole, for hours, and not think of a reason why Granderson should play centerfield, other than the kneecapping of Brett Gardner.
But it's not his glove that has signals Grandy's impending decline. I blame the home runs. They were like crack cocaine to him. He's hit more in the last two years than anybody else in baseball. Yet they stole his psyche.
Last year, Grandy didn't hit for average. He didn't hit with runners on base. He didn't didn't hit in the clutch. He didn't hit in the playoffs. He didn't play sterling defense. He didn't steal bases. He didn't do what the Yankees originally wanted of him, when they traded Phil Coke, Ian Kennedy and Austin Jackson - three damn valuable players - to pry him loose from our current masters, the Detroit Tigers.
He just hit home runs. Like Richie Sexton, Jack Cust and Jose Canseco... home runs. Oh, well... 30 HRs and .240... not bad for seventh in the order.
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