This I believe:
Somewhere out there, in some Midwestern pasture, or on a Tampa practice field, or on a far-flung Dominican hillside, the next great Yankee just picked up a stone and whacked it with a baseball bat, calling out Derek Jeter's name on an imaginary play-by-play, and wondering what it must be like.
He might be 18. He might be 11. It doesn't matter. He is exactly where he needs to be.
It may take five years. It may take ten. You do not get to watch many great Yankees in your lifetime. They cannot be bought on the free agent market. They can only evolve over long periods of time. Now and then, one just happens.
But he is out there. This I do believe.
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