Thursday, December 22, 2016
Posted by el duque at 6:49 AM
Supposedly, that's what the Chicago White Sox wanted from us this week, and I sincerely hope that Brian Cashman promptly took off his belt and wielded its sharpened buckle like a cat' o' nine tails. Obviously, the White Sox GM has spent too much time listening to Hawk Harrelson broadcasts. He must think Quintana is Clayton Kershaw. I'm reminded of what biographer Frances Wilson wrote of Thomas DeQuincy, in that this nasty fellow resembles "a ghost crab inhabiting another's shell." (Top THAT, River Ave!) For any insult that personal, it's not enough to just say no. Cash should have counter-offered with Nick Goody, Tito Polo and the ghost of Bubba Trammell.
Seriously, where do the White Sox get off, demanding so much for a No. 2 starter? I don't care how cheap Quintana will be over the next three years, that's a deal that would wreck whatever rebuilding project the Yankees plan... before the kids even play a game for us. With Quintana, we might chase the 2017 Wild Card one extra week into September... just as Frazier, Severino and Mateo could be coming of age.
Listen: I get it that the Yankees must be willing to trade prospects. They're not Pokemon cards. You don't "gotta get 'em all." But the roots of our last five wretched years have been the owner's half-assed vows to "contend" every season, while rebuilding on the fly. It didn't work. The Yankees are on the verge of reliving the horrible 1980s - the 14-year barf - unless Hal Steinbrenner makes a plan and actually sticks to it. Last July, we traded our three most productive players for a hopeful future. Now, we would trade it away for Jose Quintana? Fuck me.
I get it that Frazier, Serverino and Mateo could all turn out to be punch lines, future shorthand definitions of failed potential. But our hopes hinge on a few key prospects evolving into stars. They must either sink or swim. Why in God's name would we trade them for a No. 2 pitcher, and never even see what they can do?
Any of you ever make me an offer like that, you better be thinking about what's inside that box of chocolates you'll be carrying home. And to you, Chicago, merry fucking Christmas.