Owners aren't taught. They're born.
And the Steinbrothers certainly know how to flash ownership.
Yesterday, Bloomberg - the news outlet, not the pixie mayor - estimated the Yankees' current worth at $3.3 billion, the priciest tomato can on the MLB shelf. The Yankee Stadium urinals should be molded of platinum. If the team switched its business to the printing of money, it would lose money.
“The Yankees are as successful as you can possibly be,” said Lee Berke, a sports media consultant. “It’s the culmination of a perfect storm coming together: the nation’s number one market, professional sports’ most successful team and tremendously savvy and aggressive ownership.”
Tremendously savvy and aggressive ownership. Yep. When you make the skootz, that's what they say. On the spreadsheets, nobody cares who came in third.
Last winter, the Sons of Savvy pinched each dime until it squealed. They recycled outfielders through May, poor-mouthing to the courtier press that they couldn't afford to give two-year contracts because of that overbearing MLB luxury tax. From NYC to Charleston, the organization shrank like a Walmart burger on a hot grill.
Monday, they bundled up all their front office failures into a "strength coach" and fired the lugnut, apparently sending the others back to their offices to practice their putting. Now, they're supposedly planning a big free agent spending splurge, because - hey - that's their style: Wait for the team to implode, then spend, spend, spend! They think it worked in 2008, though it's also why they fell into this well, and now can't get out.
They have been swept aside by their arch rivals, with nothing in the pipeline, so they'll dish out a new set of bloated contracts to thirtysomethings on their last legs. Forget the draft. Forget the farms. Just spin the wheel on more time and hope that between now and the next collapse, a new Jeter and Mariano evolve from thin air.
And throughout everything, over the last 10 months, they increased their worth by $500 million. That, my friends, is owning.
Pick me! Pick me! You NEED another mid-thirties guy in the outfield with a multiyear, big-buck contract. I'll be all healed up by April and I won't go all "Swisher" on you when we charge into the post season. Promise!!
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