A Christmas Carol. Or Something.

 

Hal sat in his kitchen, sipping a cognac, and thinking about the year nearly past.  As the clock struck twelve, he heard the dreadful clanking and dragging of the chains begin, deep in the basement.  Followed by the sound of a large man in an ugly turtleneck bumping into things, and cursing vociferously.

"Goddammit, who moved the exercise equipment?"

Hal sighed, and walked down the basement stairs, to look upon the dreadful apparition there, so recently emerged from the depths of Hell itself.

"Hi, Dad," he said.

"What the fuck are you doing with all this junk down here?"

"There've been a few renovations since you came by last—" 

"Rowing machines, treadmills, Nordic tracks—don't you use any of this shit anymore? Why, my father—"

"I know, I know, Dad. He coulda won the 1924 Olympics."

"Except he wanted to get married. Why, if he hadn't done that instead—"

"You told us, Dad. Where would we all be now?"

"Damned straight!"

Hal Steinbrenner took another long breath, and tried to compose himself.

"How's Hank holding' up?"

A puzzled expression crossed the face of the apparition who had been George Steinbrenner.

"I dunno. He's in the Other Place. Something about a goddamned 'Bad Childhood Exemption.' As if HE had a bad childhood!"

"You told us a thing or two about that. And how granddad coulda been the greatest hurdler in the world."

"Well, it's true, dammit! And another thing—"

"Dad! Why the hell'er you haunting me? I got that party tonight, the in-laws coming over in ten minutes."

Old George's face split into a big grin, despite the fifty-foot long chain of cash boxes and money ledgers manacled to his legs.

"I see you got into the game at last, son. Forty million a year for the big guy in right, who's already 30. Another $162 mill for a pitcher with the name of Jap movie monster who's never won more than 14 games in a season—"

"I know, I know, Dad. I had to do it."

"I've never been prouder of you son."

"Whaaaat?"

"You finally broke out of playing cartel patty cake with that collection of CPAs they call MLB. That Manfred guy must be having a fit!"

"Dad, you see, I had to do it—"

"No more of that soccer nonsense. Don't think I don't know about your little stadium over in Queens! Good God, the fucking MLS?"

"How could you possibly know about that?"

"What do you think they make us watch 24/7 in Hell? The soccer channel, of course! Not that that wasn't a great final in Qatar. But penalty kicks? I saw Satan laughing with delight when Argentina won it."

"Dad, what's your point?"

"You finally realized this is the big time, son. The New York Yankees. This is the big top, and you're P.T. Barnum! By the way, he sends his regards. You know, he's a hunchbacked midget down here. Sorry, 'little person.' "

"I had no choice, Pops. Look at what Steve Cohen and those Mets are doing—"

"Bushwa, son! You think I didn't have competition in this town in my day?"

"Oh, what? M. Donald Grant? The Wilpons? Yeah, that must've been tough."

"Hey, when Nelson Doubleday started signing the checks and they brought in Frank Cashen in the 1980s—"

"Still nothing like Steve Cohen."

"You think so? Don't let it get around, but the word down here is that Carlos Correa's leg is a lot worse than anybody's letting on."

"I knew that was a mistake!"

"Don't get ahead of yourself! You still need a left fielder, a bullpen, and you gotta replace 3/4 of your infield. And Frankie Montas' right arm is already down here in the seventh circle—"

"Cute, Dad!"

"You re-signed that little twerp, too, am I right?"

Hal looked down at the bear paw Christmas slippers on his feet.

"I know what's it like," George told him. "Does he still give those great massages?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"Uh-huh. And the way he'll do absolutely anything you say. Anything at all! 'Brian,' I used to tell him, 'I want you to find a way to take out Jerry Colangelo.' And he's get right on the horn to his mob connections, before I had to tell him it was a joke."

"I know. Once I told him Boone had to go. He looked like he was going to cry for a whole afternoon. It's irresistible."

"I always used to say, no one kisses ass, man, like a Cashman! But hey, you're in the big time, now, son. You'll never win a damned thing until you fire him."

"I know, Pops. But he's so much fun."

"Look, I gotta get back. Beelzebub wants me to lead the daily calisthenics again. He says nobody can torture a lost soul the way I can."

"When can I expect the other spirits?"

"What?"

"You know. The ghosts of Christmas Past, and Christmas Future."

"Oh, that. They're not coming, son. For the Steinbrenner family, nothing ever changes. There's just good luck like you wouldn't believe, morning, noon, and night. Not that we ever stop complaining!"

Hal's eyes suddenly welled up.

"I-I miss you, Dad. But I guess you're doomed to an eternity in the underworld, huh?"

"What?' George frowned. "Oh, no, son. I don't have to stay in Hell. In fact, Lucifer tried to peddle my ass to Limbo a few years back. I invoked my no-trade clause. Hell is the best place in the (next) world! It makes a man out of you!"

"See you next fall, Dad? At the ticker tape parade?"

"I dunno, son," George said, waving as a fiery portal opened under his feet, and Jason Varitek stood by waiting to push the down button on the elevator that suddenly appeared there. "You still ain't gonna win shit without a left fielder!"