"Dear Mr. Steinbrenner": What Aaron Judge Should Negotiate For.

"Dear Hal (if I may—that's the sort of things we polite kids from the Heartland who were raised right, say when we talk to our elders):

So here we are again, ready to talk contract. What a difference a year makes!

I know a lot has been said and about how I "gambled on myself" this season, and won. That's overblown. Every professional athlete, every major-league ballplayer, gambles on himself all the time. So, for that matter, does every single mother, working two jobs and going back to school at night.

I decided not to sign, I had a fairly good season, and it worked out. Good for me.

But if I gambled on myself this year, now I'm back to gamble on myself—and the New York Yankees.

Here's my offer: whatever final numbers we arrive at, you take $100 million off the top, and invest it in trying to make the Yankees a real winner again, not just a contender.

I know, I know: easier said than done.

I know you've spent plenty of money on this Yankees team already. I know you've spent plenty of money on me, already, and for that I will always be profoundly grateful.

I'm not asking you to guarantee results. If you take that $100 million you were going to give me—and, yes, some more of your own money—and somehow it doesn't work out...well, hey, that's just the way the ball bounces. I know, I play in the same town as the New York Mets.

If building a winner again—a REAL winner—doesn't work out during my remaining time in the game, I will understand. I promise: I will continue to be the goodhearted, cheerful, clean-cut face of the New York Yankees and major-league baseball that I have always tried to be.

So what are we talking about with this money? Oh, maybe a free agent here or there, if that gets us over the top. 

But most of all, I'm talking about making a clean sweep of management, top to bottom.

That's right: I'm talking first and foremost about replacing Brian Cashman.

I know that's hard for you to hear. I realize that you and Brian probably have a brother thing going, that you bonded dodging the wrath of Old George in his ruin. I'm not asking you to toss out your brother, or humiliate him. Bump him upstairs, put him in charge of some other part of the empire, if you like. Make it seem like a promotion. You know how to do that corporate stuff. Me, I'm not corporate. I'm just the greatest athlete in the biggest market in the country.

But Brian has got to go.

So does most of his subordinates, who have proven themselves so woefully bad at identifying talent, drafting it, developing it, nurturing it. No more motivational coaches, showing us movies about the Red Sox. No more trainers who stand by and watch half the team get hurt, every year. No more admonitions to "Hit strikes hard." 

Did you see me hit any strikes soft this year?

No more algorithmic wizards, who don't understand the game of baseball and never will. Hell, who don't even understand the algorithms, and never will. (Sorry for my language there, sir. Sometimes I get a little overwrought when I'm talking about the game.)

And no more Brian. That's one big reason why I'm writing you, in private. I don't want him in here on these negotiations.

I don't want him going on about my poor postseasons. Hey, I've had some bad playoffs. I admit it. I won't always.

I don't want him leaking everything to his pals in the press, and distorting it all to make himself look like a genius. I don't want him trying to go all Troy Tulowitzki on me, the way he did with Derek Jeter.

How's that Troy Tulowitzki workin' out for you, sir? Was that a good use of your money? How can you stand to see it thrown away, year after year, on guys everybody else knows won't work out?

Trust me—you'll be fine. There's tons of front office talent out there, in Tampa Bay, and Oakland, and St. Louis, and Seattle. All those towns where they stay competitive with us, and even eat our lunch, year after year after year.

Don't you think there are plenty of guys who would love a chance to play the big town? Who would come to New York, work like hell—and NOT spend part of every afternoon telling reporters what geniuses they are? Who would produce terrific, well-balanced teams, year after year?

Don't you want to be a champion? 

I realize, with the hole we're in now, that I may never get to see the promised land. But I won't kick, as long as we're on the way. If you want, you can lay the whole new direction of the New York Yankees on my shoulders. They're big shoulders. I think things would probably work out best if you made out that all of this was done at your initiative, but if you don't want to, I'm happy to stand up and take the heat. 

I'm a stand-up guy, in case you haven't noticed.

And if you let me walk, I will hurt you. I don't mean that as a threat—just the truth. If you let me walk to San Francisco, or Boston, or especially to Flushing, you will see me drinking champagne and raising that World Series trophy. Just think about Dave Winfield, winning a Series in Toronto, once your dad cut him loose.

I don't think the fans would ever forgive you or the Yankees for that. 

But what do I know? I'm just a kid from the heartland. And by the heartland, I mean the heartland everywhere. The heartland of Northern California, but also New York City, and the Midwest, and the South, and the so-called Rust Belt, and even Red Sox territory, in this sadly divided nation of ours. The heartland, too, of the Dominican Republic, and Puerto Rico, and even Japan.

I'm everyman, in case you haven't noticed. Pretty much all races and colors, grown to legend size. A great big kid with a gap in his teeth and a shy smile. With the kind of grace and laughter that makes old men look at me and want to fall in love with the game again.

That's what I have to offer. Plus that $100 million. Take it, use it, have fun with it. (Frankly, Hal, it never looks like you're having much fun.) Time to be great again. Great on your own terms, not your dad's. 

They'll all love you for it. Trust me.

Sincerely,

Aaron Judge"