Once upon a time, the Yankees had a can't-miss young pitching duo named Phil Hughes and Joba Chamberlain, and the Twins were priapasmic to trade their Cy Young pitcher, Johan Santana to New York. The world awaited news of the deal.
Then the Mets tiptoed in and grabbed Santana for four future icons of Meh!-ness Deolis Guerra, Carlos Gomez, Philip Humber and Kevin Mulvey. The Twins fell apart. The Mets fell apart. Hughes fell apart. Santana fell apart. Now, the Yankees are falling apart.
Yesterday, Hughes signed a three-year deal with Minnesota. Sometime soon, Joba will hitch his 270-pound walrus frame to some feed-barn. And Santana will do the same - he became a free-agent Nov. 1. The Yankees are throwing darts at anybody that moves (Santana last year went 6-9 with an ERA close to 5.00), so who knows what will happen?
Maybe Hughes was always fated to play in Minnesota, and Santana - no matter how humankind tried to avoid it - was inexorably moving to complete his destiny as a Yankee. This is like a Harry Potter movie, folks. No matter what happens to the side characters, Santana and Hughes might be astral Twins, circling each other in the firmament, Voldemort and Harry, awaiting the final confrontation, which will decide the fate of the world.
Well, that's how I'm calling it.
Ancient prophesies must be fulfilled. Only then can Yankeekind move to the next level, a farm system that actually produces players worth paying Yankee ticket prices to see.
It's easy to mock Yankee prospects who flounder. But considering our top choice crap-outs in recent years, Phil Hughes was no disappointment. He gave us one fine year out of the bullpen and occasionally pitched like a star. But you never knew which Phil was coming to the park. And Minnesota doesn't know which Phil it signed.
Today, I'm wondering if Phil would have rejected the one-year, $14 million qualifying offer, had the Yankees made one. If so, we would get a first-round pick for his signing. This would be where our supposed Yankee money would bring an advantage - if not for Hal Steinbrenner's $189 million budget. Oh, well, gone is gone. As for the fate of the world? Only God and Robbie know.
I'll miss Phil. God rest his soul.
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