Bill Madden of the Bailey's News does what he claims the Yankee Tampa-Gitmo braintrust is afraid to do: Rip catching prospect Gary Sanchez for strutting around spring training like a Kardashian on Adderall - which, if you're scorig at home, is a Kardasherall.
To his credit, The Mad has been scorching in his criticism of this year's Yankee organization, which still seems clueless about dealing with the new Selig spending limits - aka the Yankee Unilateral Disarmament Treaty, which kills our ability to spend, after tying up a generation of old MLB stars with massive deals. Every news story, post and bathroom graffito written about the Yankees should note the team's painted-in-a-corner dilemma. Madden never flinches.
But today, The Mad takes it one step further: He rips the team for failing to police Sanchez, a 20-year-old purebred French poodle. First, he notes that Sanchez hasn't bothered to learn English. Then he hits him for being the lone catcher to not wear a helmet during pop-up drills.
"What’s with the bare-headed guy?” I asked another camp observer*.
“You mean Sanchez?” he replied. “He beats to his own drum. They think
he can do no wrong and they spoil him. They’re all afraid to tell him
anything or set him straight.”
Just another example, I thought, of how things have been allowed to
slip around the Yankees since George Steinbrenner faded out and passed
away. If the old Steinbrenner had been watching Sanchez participating in
the drill bare-headed while all the catchers had on their proper gear,
the kid would have been banished to the minor-league complex down the
road, never to be seen the rest of the spring.
*I assume this means a fellow Gammonite.
OK, we all know the plot arc. The ol' writer (Dabney Coleman) performing as de facto coach. It's the "Welcome to NY, Rook," column. Presumably, Sanchez will read the article - wait, he doesn't know English! - and wear a helmet today, with a couple YESSIRs and NOSIRs thrown in for good measure.
Is The Mad right? Who knows? Old sportswriters are notorious blowhards, walking beer-bellied diatribes, with noses the color of Baltimore Ravens merch, and god help the soul who sits in their personalized, back-supported seats. Let's assume somebody with actual knowledge is speaking through the writer, saying in public what the Yankees are afraid to say in private. If so, god help the organization.
The wheels just keep wobbling, folks.
One of these days, we're going to hear a thud.