Monday, April 13, 2015
Posted by el duque at 7:26 AM
Nevertheless, desperate times call for desperate measures. Despite last night's luxurious blowout - (thank you, Clay Buchholz) - the Retrieval Empire still occupies a ledge that overlooks an abyss known as "2015 and beyond." We won't soon have a Betts or Bogaerts, or even a Moncata or Castillo. But we do have some options.
I say, hire Curt Schilling. Buy him out of his ESPN contract. Put him on YES or the Yankee Radio Network (which is currently driven by Cheap.) Pay him a boatload of money. Turn him. Leash him. Make him our pet, our bitch, our Hannity.
We might not sign international stars, but at least we can own a stable of talking clowns, especially those who are already elbow deep in debt. It's always fun to watch them turn into Yankee homers.
In the 1980s, the Yankees returned Tom Seaver to NYC, installing him in the booth with Phil Rizzuto. It became a wonderful alliance, showcasing Seaver's wit and winning personality. We came to love the guy. In fact, it was nearly as satisfying as watching Scooter's long friendship develop with Bill White - another former Yankee killer. (When they first hired White, many Yankee fans were incensed that they weren't giving an ex-Yankee the golden retirement ticket.)
The fact is, the best Yankee home announcers come from our opponents. It's rewarding to watch them morph from anti-Yankee soreheads into contented sucklings of the Steinbrenner teat. As much as I may want to hate Schilling for his politics and career legacy, it would be nice to have him slowly evolve into David Cone.
Currently, I rate Coney as the most boisterous Yankee homer. With him, the Yankee glass isn't half full; no, it's a golden pitcher of ambrosia, awaiting the touch of your pursed lips. Before Cone joined YES, most people considered him a former Met, or even KC Royal. At the end of his career, he even pitched for Boston. Now, though, he's a Yankee, pure and distilled, for life.
It's time for the Evil Empire to pluck some ex-Redsock lug nut off the golf course and convert him into our mouthpiece. Schilling would be the perfect prize.
In fact, last night became more enjoyable by the fact that Schilling had to watch his old friend, Buchholz get chased around the barnyard like a stuck pig. I say, let's buy the bastard and lock him in the booth with John and Suzyn for - say - 150 games. Let their cosmic truth rays bombard his Redsockian, lizard brain. He'll learn to scream with delight over the sight of Chase Headley. We are no longer an Empire. But dammit, we can still do Evil.