For the next month, Cashman will be so stoned on pain-killers that he thinks Danny Tartabull is playing right field. And for what reason? So he can impress the Army-endorsed social debutantes of Tampa with his manhood?
OK, it was for charity, I get that. But you can collect bottles for charity. You can clean highway exits, and if the Wounded Warrior is your calling, you can visit V.A. hospitals. I’m sorry. A guy sky dives for excitement, for the adrenaline boner, and to prove he’s got a little blood his testosterone vein. Cashman apparently feels a nonstop need to prove his toughness. He must be wearing so much Adrogel that Suzyn Waldman should watch it, or she’ll finish the season with a beard. Good grief, he must be so stoked on royal jelly that, if he reads this post, he’ll wheel over to my house and hit me over the head with his crutch. What’s next? The Sons of Anarchy? Damn, it must hurt for him to watch Zero Dark Thirty, because he missed out on his chance to kill bin Laden.
Listen: Jumping out of planes is fun, fun, fun till your daddy takes the t-bird away. Cashman has been a nonstop news machine for two years, and considering the state of the Yankees this spring – (Not his fault, you say? Well, somebody is advising/enabling the owners through this austerity crackdown) - we now add a personal life that makes David Wells look sedate. (He traded David Wells, didn’t he?) Whenever his stalker/ex-mistress pens a note from jail, it winds up in the NY Post. Now this: For the rest of spring training, he’ll be answering to the name “Fido.” It’s time to ask who are the Yankee assistant G.M.s, folks, because we don’t have a G.M. now. And frankly, it’s time to start looking for a successor. I nominate Alphonso!