In a terrible literary application, the Yankees are belatedly visited by the Christmas ghosts of Madden, Kay and Sherman

Not sure how far I should go with this, so bear with me... 

It starts on Dec. 24, Super-Spreader Eve, Hal tells poor Brian Cratchman he has to work tomorrow, because Socrates Brito remains unsigned. Arriving home, Hal sees his dad's face in the door-knocker and thinks, "The chin needs polishing." 

So, we jump to Jan. 7, when Hal gets visited by the Ghost of Yankees Past, Billy Madden, who writes in the Daily News that the Yankees are hamstrung by an owner who only cares about money, which pisses off Hal, because he can't access the full story due to the firewall, because Hal refuses to subscribe, because - bah - it doesn't grow on trees, people! And who stole the nickel bottle deposits? 

Then comes the Ghost of Yankees Present, Michael Kay, who haunts from his studio, yelling at Hal along with Vinnie from Bayside. He shouts:  

“You can’t sit here until February and allow DJ LeMahieu to make a decision! And if you’re DJ LeMahieu, you can’t sit there and let the Yankees play their game! They both have to come together: ‘What’s your best offer for me right now?’ And if DJ’s agent said (to the Yankees), ‘The only way we’re going to get this done is five years’ when he knows he’ll take four … They have to come to a come-to-Jesus meeting and say exactly what the deal is because if all of this posturing cost you your plan B, not good!"

Okay, moving along. Next comes Joel Sherman, yadda yadda, who appears as a tweet - Xmas future, get it? - and says:

And before Hal can bah, Cratchman calls to say he's signed Jhoulys Chacin. And there it is, as sad a literary application as we can get, beyond attempting "Valley of the Dolls." Three Yankee ghosts in one week, shaking their chains. And this is the message:  

The Yankees look like a team without a plan. 

As they wait on LeMahieu - trying to lowball him - their options are vanishing.

And their owner is most concerned with wheedling his way out of luxury taxes. 

Welp... the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls, and tenement halls: The Mets are rising, and air is leaving the Death Barge blimp. Does anybody have a plan? Who's in charge here? Are we getting anywhere? 

God bless us all, everyone. Hey, what's Jacqueline Susann doing these days, anyway?