Hal Steinbrenner, this is your moment to step up.

 

All right, we all know what's going to happen here. 

We can debate, as much as we want—as I was just doing with Hammer—who exactly we should get to fill in which of the many gaping holes in the Yankees' lineup, bench, rotation, and bullpen in 2022.

It's a fun game. It's what we fans do. And we might as well be playing Rotisserie Baseball. 

Because we know that, under Food Stamps Hal, it ain't never gonna happen. Hal Steinbrenner is never again going to spend the sort of money needed to make the New York Yankees a consistent contender, never mind a perennial powerhouse.

Not unless and until the team in Flushing starts to steal away large portions of the Yanks' market share in this town. And I mean a BIG share of it, to the point where everyone, everywhere on the street is wearing little Metsies hats, and the Seven Line Army outnumbers the Russian military. (They could already beat them.)

So how about this: hold the line on the uniform ads.

That's all I'm asking here, Hal. Sure, scrimp and save every single dollar on not bringing in the big free agent stars the way your father did. Go ahead and rip off every taxpayer in the city of New York by killing our Staten Island farm team. Charge every dime the market will bear for tickets, parking, TV access, souvenirs, refreshments, etc. 

We know you will anyway.

But spare us the uniforms.  

All it will take is a simple statement saying that, while you don't know what other, lesser teams will do, the New York Yankees will always decline to desecrate the sacred pinstripes by sticking an advertisement on it. 

Tell the world that we're not some Little League squad playing for the greater honor of Joe's Auto Repair.  Tell them we're not some collection of Euro soccer trash, advertising the airline of a Middle Eastern potentate.  

Tell them we're the New York Yankees, and we don't wear other people's brands on our backs. Or fronts. Or caps.

Tell them, Hal. Swear to it. It won't cost you a dime. All it will mean is forgoing some infinitesimal amount of pocket change for some Steinbrenner descendant eight or ten generations hence, bopping around the Red Dust Mall of Mars.  

Do it, Hal. We know you're not going to sign Freddie Freeman, much less Carlos Correa. We know you're going to keep Brian Cashman running this coughing, banged-up old Cadillac of a team into trees until one day it finally stops running altogether.

But spare us the pinstripes, Hal. Give us that, at least, and maybe one day we—or our children, or our children's children—will come back to that big, lifeless collection of luxury boxes and luxury restaurants you built on top of a beloved public park in the Bronx.

Maybe.