Screwged

Hal Steinbrenner was eating his usual breakfast of old hot dog rolls and ten-year-old crackerjack in the Yankee Stadium executive suites on Christmas morning, when he heard the dreadful, scraping sound of chains being dragged over the concrete floor, somewhere deep in the bowels of the Stadium.

Up and up it came, level by level, over all the already cracked and stained pavement of the Stadium walkways that had been put in place less than ten years ago.  He rolled his eyes, and stuffed another stale bun in his mouth.

Closer and closer the dreadful dragging sound came, accompanied now by an awful wheezing noise, as if drawn from a creature in terrible distress.  It was at the mezzanine level, then at the upper grandstand—then the door to the executive suite burst open!

There stood none other than the ghost of Hal's father, dead these eight long years.  The dreadful apparition howled to wake the dead, and shook the long length of chain he carried behind him.

"Holy hell, who the fuck turned the elevators off?" wheezed the spirit of George Steinbrenner, bending over to catch his spectral breath.  "You know, people have elevators for their damned cars nowadays, and I have to haul all this up the whole fucking Stadium?"

"I have 'em turned off for the winter.  Saves on electricity," Hal told him, popping some candy-coated popcorn in his yaw, and almost gagging on the taste.

"How the hell are people supposed to get to their offices?"

"They want to work for the New York Yankees, they can take the stairs.  Besides, weren't you the man who once fired a woman for getting your the wrong tuna fish sandwich?"

"She knew what she was doing!" cried George, shaking his chains angrily.  "Besides, I hired her back the next day.  With a raise."

"And fired her the week after that, am I right?"

"Well..."

"So.  You again.  What is it this time?" asked Hal, before slurping down some Mountain Dew from a case stamped "1977."

George stared around the room in amazement.

"What, didn't the goddamned spirits show up last night?  These union rules—"

"Oh, they came all right, just like you said," Hal interrupted him, in a manner that would have earned him a swift backhand across his mouth for most of his childhood.

"So?  Why the fuck hasn't anything changed?  Why don't you have that insane little elf who likes to climb buildings in here, on the horn to Harper's agent?"

"In case you forgot, it's Christmas Day."

"I don't care if it's goddamned Guy Fawkes Day!  C'mon, business is business!  I signed Catfish Goddamned Hunter on New Year's Eve!  Didn't you hear a thing the damned spirits told you??"

"Oh, they were something all right.  Babe Ruth as the Ghost of Christmas Past.  Very cute.  He kept popping hot dogs in his mouth until all the rat droppings made him vomit."

"Didn't he show you the glories of the storied Yankees past?"

"Sure he did.  Then we got to my past.  You know what he told me?  'Kid, I had it better in the orphanage.' "

"Why that big, fat ape!"

"Uh-huh.  And then that bald, smirking bastard as the Ghost of Christmas Present.  Hey, is it just me, or is Derek Jeter beginning to look more and more like Nosferatu?  Good thing he married that swimsuit model with the horse."

"Well?  Didn't he set you straight?"  George screeched.

"Mostly, he kept needling me about the Stanton deal.  Making those straight-faced little jibes he loves so much.  Even tried to give me a gift basket.  Says he does that for everyone he screws."

"God-dammit!"

"And then that little boy for the Ghost of Christmas Future.  Thing was, he couldn't look up from his phone."

The ghost of George Steinbrenner sat down heavily in a cushioned chair, sweating profusely and looking more than a little discouraged.

"What the hell is wrong with you? And what in the name of Beelzebub is that you're wearing?" he barked at his son.

"What, these?" said Hal, flirtatiously extending his legs.  "These are my kinky boots.  They gave me a pair to keep, after the parade.  Don't you just love the sequins?"

"What are you, some kind of goddamned pansy—"

"I am what I am, and that's no longer any concern of yours," Hal told him.

"But what about this business I built for you?  Why, I crawled all the way up from hell to warn you how it's about to go down, you ungrateful little creep!"

"Oh, yes.  The New York Yankees.  The love of your life.  Not mine."

"C'mon!  Don't you wanna do it better just to stick it to the old man?"  George asked, pleading now.  "That's what kept ME motivated."

"How is Grampa, anyway?"

"Eh, it's an adjustment.  The Lord of Flies has him running this hurdles race every afternoon, where the hurdles keep getting higher and higher, until he lands flat on his face.  I gotta say, it's a big hit in hell.  Cracks me up every time."

"What you rebuilt—and ripped to pieces, and built again—was the greatest franchise in a dying industry."

"What in Lucifer's name are you talking about boy?"  George said, rising up again and shaking his chain, making the odd brass trophies attached to it rattle and bump along the floor.  "Look at them!  Seven World Series trophies!  Why, I've been dead eight years, and you've yet to add a single one to YOUR chain!"

"Pops, pops, pops, you rotten old scoundrel," Hal chuckled indulgently.  "Don't you see how limited your way of thinking is now?  I AM going to surpass you, all right.  This family is building a global empire well beyond anything YOU ever conceived of."

Hal went over to the window, beckoning his dad to come with him.  When he did—after much more bumping and clattering and wheezing—Hal waved his hand toward a swathe of dilapidated building in the Bronx below.

"You see that old parking garage there?"

"Sure!  That was part of my very first rip-off of the City of New York, when I acquired the Yankees!" George chuckled in a hellish manner.  "Lindsay, Mike Burke—what a couple of rubes!  I took them for so much—"

"It's going to be a new soccer stadium.  For our NYCFC club."

"Whoozit whatzit?  Nobody's ever made money on soccer in this country, son!"

"They will now.  Changing demographics.  Plus, we'll get the rights to surround it with luxury condos.  But that's not all.  Next we'll take over Man City."

"A city of men?  I worry about you, boy," said George, staring nervously at the boots again.

"It's a soccer—excuse me, football—club in England."

"Aren't the majority partners those A-rab sheikhs you pal around with nowadays?"

"For now.  How long do you think THEIR money is going to last in the age of climate change, when the whole world goes off oil?  After that—the Nets."

"Doesn't one of Putin's pals own them?  You'd better watch your ass—"

"How much longer do you think Putin will last?  Or, maybe once Jimmy Dolan gets finished wrecking the Knicks I'll snatch them up for a song—and Madison Square Garden.  He's really not such a bad guy, you know—Jimmy. We spend a lot of time together, talking about fathers."

"But-but-but—what about THIS?" George cried, turning to gesture at the Stadium playing field behind them.  "What the hell do you think is going to happen to the YANKEES if you don't spend any money on them?"

"Why, you showed me the future on that one, Pops.  That kid with his eyes glued to his phone, the Ghost of Christmas Future.  Sure, we'll keep the Yanks going for a few years more, until MLB finally goes RIP.  Milk every last dime out of those rat-turd swilling altercockers.  But we're not going to spend one cent more than we have to, I don't care how far down the standings we fall."

Hal's eyes glowed, as his hand swept across the horizon.

"Then, we make it over.  Picture it, Dad:  the world's biggest gaming pavilion!  We'll slap a roof on it, put in a casino where the bleachers are, and charge the kids $50 a head to watch OTHER people play video games, the way they like now."

The Ghost of George Steinbrenner stood stock still, tears rolling down his face.

"Forgive me, son," he said.  "You're a goddamned visionary!  Think of how upset everyone will be.  Think of how degraded our culture will be.  Why, you'll wreck my creation just as surely as I ruined Gramps' shipping business!"

"That's right, Dad.  I thought you'd see it."

George began shuffling toward the door, dragging his chain of World Series trophies behind him.

"Son, I never thought I'd say this, but:  I'm proud of you.  Now, as to Hank—"

"Thanks, Dad," Hal cut him off again.  "Now, I've got work to do.  On the future."

George paused at the door, taking one last look back.  He raised a hand, in affection and in tribute.

"See you in hell, son."

"See you in hell, Dad."