According to accounts, which are usually accountable, you've balked at the Yankees' incentive-based offer, because it's a minor league contract, like those given to your peers, Bartolo Colon and Freddie Garcia. You prefer the guaranteed gumbah.
I respect a player who fights for the best deal. Go for it. At age 36, you have one, maybe two years left. This deal will feed your family. Push the Yankees. They have the money and the need, and they've spent far more on worse pitchers than you. If this is merely a negotiating tactic, good show!
But... here's the rub. Your career is sinking fast. From all accounts -- and you know how I feel about accounts -- your choice is us or Cleveland. You can pitch before bellowing crowds in critical games, or pockets of disinterested drunks on Death to Disco night. The choice is yours.
Pardon us, if we judge you by it.
If you choose the certain bootie in Cleveland, sir, you deserve a minor league deal. You are a minor league deal. You just want to be paid, without having to perform. Good grief, if you're thinking of cashing out, taking the money and failing... please, please please sign with Cleveland. Chief Wahoo awaits you.
Last year, you went 4-16 with the Crapola-O's. This year, you have the chance to gaze in from a mound backed by A-Rod, Jeter, Cano and Teixiera. You have the chance to pitch in a World Series. The Fates have given you the opportunity to be a Yankee.
But the Fates are bastards. They've also conspired to let the world see what's inside Kevin Millwood. The lady or the tiger?
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