Are we not men??? No, we are devo. But time to take action anyway!

 

I largely agree with our Peerless Leader's assessment of Aaron Hicks. Sure, I wouldn't have turned out that sort of Cash cash, even if I were, well, exactly what I am now: a grizzled old, toothless reprobate, who never was much good at anything beyond sifting mud through a miner's pan and gumming wormy biscuits.

But I digress.

Much as I don't (primarily) blame Mr. Hicks, his burgeoning cluelessness has now officially reached my last nerve.

His latest remarks—apparently made to a reporter in the locker room before Sunday's game—sunk to a new low:

"I have no idea what my role is..." Hicksie tantrumed like Maria Callas after catching Ari sniffing through her understudy's lingerie drawer. "I just want to play. I don't want to come off the bench and face closers all day. I want to play the field. I want to play every day, and it's just what I want to do. I want to start. I really don't know what else to say."

I want to be me! as the Sex Pistols sang. 

Don't worry, Hicksie, you've said plenty. And who cares if it doesn't make sense? (You don't "face closers all day." You face them once. Because they're closers.)

We can all remember the many times that Mantle, called from the bench with his head the size of a beach ball and his left leg tucked neatly into his back pocket, used to whine and complain, "Don't put me in a clutch situation, skip! Don't do it!"

Sorry, Hicksie. Sort of hard to dictate your own slots after four years of awful play mercifully interspersed with injuries. Some guys would feel themselves vastly lucky to be with such a dunderheaded forgiving organization. Some might even have blamed themselves, for not having more success against a "closer" in the midst of such a meltdown. 

But not our Hicks.

But let's take a cue from our errant outfielder.  The time to keep whining about this is done. Time to take action now. This is what I propose:

—First, we have to suss out Hicksie's favorite watering hole. Ballplayers all have them, I've read that. The hotel bar, or maybe Toots Shor's, or Mickey Mantle's.

—Then, we sidle up to the bar next to him, and engage Aaron the Lesser in sympathetic conversation for as long as it takes. Even 6, 7 drinks. I know this is the hard part, but I think this bunch is up to it.

—Remember, sympathy is the key here! We nod understandingly while Hicks tells us what a raw deal he is getting. We tell him he shouldn't have to take such blatant disrespect. We subtly suggest that the only way Hicksie can get the Yankees to respect him is to walk off the team. 

And if they don't budge...what does he need that big old contract for, anyway? Why, we've seen his golf game. He could make oodles more on that new pro tour the Saudis have started to whitewash their journalist-dismembering image! 

Don't quit until you have him on the horn to HAL Steinbrenner, to give that fool a piece of his mind!

It's a difficult job, men, but someone's got to do it. First drink's on me.