(EDITOR’S NOTE : It was reported by Larry Brown Sports earlier today that a young couple took the occasion of Matt Harvey getting his ass kicked by the lowly Indians to engage in public love-making in the highest reaches of Progressive Field’s upper deck. Since the only other person I know of who’d find himself sexually aroused by Harvey getting lit up is Bronx baseball executive / CSTB contributor extraordinaire Randy L., it seemed like a very appropriate time to revisit Randy’s first ever entry in these pages, one that (as you’ll recall) concerned a similar incident in The House That Randy Built (“the woman sat on the toilet as her enthusiastic male partner — who wore a CC Sabathia t-shirt and no pants — climbed on top of her amid a crowd of onlookers,”). From September 17, 2012, “GUEST EDITORIAL : When Romance Blooms At The Nu Stadium” – GC) :
Greetings, losers, shut-ins, finger-sniffers and Mets fans — or am I being redundant? Though I’m loathe to drop any wisdom via a blog that can’t sell one single advertisement, I’m told the publisher is a big fan of my unexpurgated Yelp reviews. Since I’m as magnanimous as I am well-endowed, here’s a freebie for the sports blog crowd. Even if this is barely one step above Live Journal.
Deadspin’s Issac Rauch — hopefully no relation to the pituitary freak stealing money from the Mets — did an adequate Mike Taibbi impersonation yesterday with “A Couple Humped In A Yankee Stadium Bathroom Stall For About Three Innings On Saturday”. Three innings! That’s supposed to be impressive? A little advice for the male heterosexual readers — it’s really not necessary to go on that long. Maybe you think you’re doing her a favor, but chances are awfully high she’s pretty eager to get it over with and get back to pretending you have any redeeming qualities.
I am certain this story is going to get a lot of play in today’s tawdry media sphere, and despite the absence of photos clearly depicting penetration, I can understand this. Publishers and editors are businessmen, not Zucotti Park-dwelling fantasists who have to smoke copious amounts of weed just to tolerate fuckin’ Tom Morello. They’re in the business of MAKING MONEY, just like me and the two genetic lottery winners I do all the heavy lifting for. I know, you’re already shaking your head, “sex sells, Randy, we know.” To which I’d reply, you’re the cynic, not me.
Unless each of this blog’s 12 readers have somehow morphed into Andrea Dworkin (and in some cases, that would be an improvement), I can’t believe I even have to spell out the distinction, but there’s a world of difference between random sexual encounters in a public place and true romance. The former are generally desperate acts committed by sad, lonely, friendless individuals. The latter? Well, it’s the sort of thing that renders almost everything else (save for 27 World Championships, a chauffeured town car and enough cash to fill the Grand Canyon) meaningless.
I know this might be the minority opinion, but the young couple filmed In flagrante delicto (that’s FRENCH, you ignorant little shits) were true romantics after my own heart. Note the guy’s refusal to dispense of his CC Sabathia tee — I like it. He’s paying homage to a lynchpin in our attempts to win World Championship #28. And if the shirt was seriously stained before returning to his seat in the Audi Club, he can purchase a replacement at the Yankee Clubhouse Store, a 5000 square foot facility conveniently located in the Great Hall right behind home plate.
How many times have you heard of a similar incident taking place at that aesthetic/commercial disaster known as Citi Field? Not once, and I reckon that speaks volumes about the building’s stench and the host team serving as the greatest anti-aphrodisiac this side of a Hammel On Trial CD. Some of you self-styled comedians have suggested we hand out condoms at the gate, and it’s an interesting idea (especially if we can get Verizon or Turkey Hill to pay for it). And we’ll look into it just as soon as our crosstown “rivals” take steps to confiscate razor blades.
That’s right. I WENT THERE. While Flushing’s embarrassment does more to keep The Samaritans switchboard busy than say, a Hammel On Trial CD, the 27-time World Champion New York Yankees are all about romance and repopulating the Yankee Universe with more exceptional young people, conceived in the most sophisticated of environments. Who amongst us can say that Saturday’s consensual encounter might not result in that most precious miracle of all,
Nick Swisher saying something interesting the gift of human life? Maybe the Baby Bomber in question will someday grow up to be another Derek Jeter, another Don Mattingly, perhaps the next Joe Pepitone?
And perhaps — if he or she works very hard, uses his or her imagination and never, ever allows the intellectual shortcomings of 2 overprivileged siblings to undermine self-belief — becoming the President of the world’s most successful and universally recognized sports franchise, is within reach.
Not fucking likely, but parents can dream, right? A toast from me and everyone in the Yankee organization to Saturday afternoon’s young lovers.
(EDITOR’S NOTE : From time to time, noted Bronx baseball executive Randy L. visits CSTB and weighs in on the important matters of the day. In February, Randy came to the defense of a colleague concerning the matter of a certain baseball franchise hoping to keep their most exclusive tickets out of the hands of the great unwashed. After HBO’s John Oliver ridiculed the Yankees and awarded the priciest of ducats to rank & file fans willing to wear goofy costumes on television, Randy asked, no, he demanded a right to reply – GC).
Greetings, members of the Yankee Universe and those slovenly, no-hopers with zero chance of ever entering its ranks. Nice 0-2 start to the 2016 season for that craven beaner-of-Yankees, Matt Harvey. I know, I know, “small sample size”, but let’s face it, Harvey’s already on the downside of his underachieving career and we’ve got our sights set on members of the Mets rotation who are proven winners. LIKE ME.
But I digress. As most of you might know, HBO’s John Oliver, ie. the only person in broadcasting less telegenic than Michael Kay, decided last week to play the class warfare card against this organization, and shamefully pandered to the sort of hoi polloi who believe they’re entitled to NYY Steak at Johnny Rockets prices. Yes, we all got a laugh out of Oliver currying favor with these losers by awarding them Legends Suites seating for a mere quarter, the caveat being they had to don costumes that may or may have previously been used for some sort of cult orgy.
The deep irony here is that while Oliver is making a knee-jerk appeal to Bernie Sanders acolytes who are hoping for a future where you pay NOTHING for anything of value, his employer, Home Box Office continues to charge an arm and a leg for substandard programming. How’d that second season of “True Detective” turn out? Serious question, I don’t know a single person who got thru the entire thing. How about the train wreck that is Martin Scorcese & Mick Jagger’s “Vinyl”? How do you put a thoroughly washed-up, completely out of touch relic like Jagger in charge of the musical contents when The National’s Matt Berninger is available the entire time? I realize this blog’s readers, most of whom are either still paying off student loans or continuing to sponge off parents (who are well advised to consider faking their own deaths and skipping town), believe our premium seats are unfairly priced, but let me ask you which is the greater economic travesty, $1600 to watch the 27-time World Champion New York Yankees or $55 a month to watch Lena Dunham run around naked? YEAH, I THOUGHT SO.
For the few of you who can can afford both the YES Network and additional pay cable channels, I would wholeheartedly recommend Showtime over HBO. For starters, they’re not the ones who’ve given a platform to John Oliver, but more importantly, Showtime is the home of my favorite serial drama, “Ray Donovan”. Maybe it’s not for everyone, but I remain impressed at the way the show’s creators are careful to depict every single person with a Boston accent as a lying, thieving, murderous thug. Scumbags, every single one of ‘em. So big, big points for realism.
I’m Still The Greatest,
(EDITOR’S NOTE : From time to time, Bronx baseball executive Randy L. stops by CSTB to weigh in on the important matters of the day. Earlier this week, New York Yankees COO Lonn Trost addressed the club’s attempts to stop StubHub from trading in premium Yanks tickets at discount prices, comments that Hardball Talk’s Craig Calcaterra considered, “snobby”. After reading Calcaterra’s column, Randy offered, no, he demanded to have his say – GC)
Greetings and a very happy Chinese New Year to all members of the Yankee Universe. With pitchers and catchers reporting to Tampa this week, I’d hoped that shitty, barely read or updated blogs like this one would be focusing on baseball matters, but apparently the genius entrusted with running it into the ground knows more about what drives traffic than I do. But I digress. As you probably heard, my colleague, the very handsome and accomplished Lonn Trost attempted to spell out for some slovenly members of the Fourth Estate exactly what this club’s intentions were when it comes to protecting you, the loyal Yankee fans, from the predatory practices of a company like StubHub. Sadly, Lonn’s words were badly twisted around by a journalist seeking to advance some sort of class warfare agenda that might fly at a Bernie Sanders rally, but less so when dealing with savvy readers like yourself.
“The problem below market at a certain point is that if you buy a ticket in a very premium location and pay a substantial amount of money. It’s not that we don’t want that fan to sell it, but that fan is sitting there having paid a substantial amount of money for a ticket and [another] fan picks it up for a buck-and-a-half and sits there, and it’s frustrating to the purchaser of the full amount . . . And quite frankly, the fan may be someone who has never sat in a premium location. So that’s a frustration to our existing fan base.”
OK, that all sounds pretty reasonable to me. But in the sick, cynical view of Craig Calcaterra, the following is considered a normal reaction to crowd-control realities :
“Mr. Trost: how often do you know how much the person next to you paid for their seat? And, more significantly, what about a person who doesn’t sit in premium locations might ‘frustrate’ your rich season ticket holders who do?”
Shall I go down a checklist? Hygiene. Manner of dress. Abuse of alcohol and other substances. Uncouth behavior not limited to attempting to engage in sexual congress. Are we expected to apologize for trying to maintain separate pricing tiers? Should this franchise simply allow every drooling patron who’d otherwise be pacified with a $15 Tommy Bahama Marlin Bar Classic Citrus Mojito to sample from my personal wine cellar at NYY Steak?
Of course not. I know there’s fantasists reading this who’d like to believe once we arrive at the ballpark, we’re all equal, but there’s always been a hierarchy in place. Sure, there’s a level of creature comfort afforded our premium seat holders your bleacher denizens can only dream of, but do you really believe Brian Cashman is allowed to use the same Executive Washroom as myself? There’s not enough penicillin in the Tri-State area for that happen.
While our crosstown rivals operate in a venue that spreads food poisoning to the paying customers and uniformed personnel alike, the New Yankee Stadium is a glittering, spotless monument to what can be achieved if you strive for greatness (or, in the case of Hank and Hal, you win the genetic lottery). Maybe socialism is making a comeback on college campuses and amongst the sports blog intelligentsia but my incredibly expensive shoes are firmly on the ground in a little place I like to call THE REAL FUCKING WORLD.
Legends & Champions Suites seating for Opening Day are on sale now. Make Ticketmaster Great Again.
The Randy L.
(EDITOR’S NOTE : From time to time, legendary Bronx baseball executive Randy L. visits CSTB to weigh in on the meaty matters of the day, sporting and otherwise. With the New York Yankees facing heavy criticism over their acquisition of All-Star reliever / accused domestic abuser Aroldis Chapman, Randy offered, no he totally insisted on having his say – GC)
Greeting and a very Happy New Year to all members of the Yankee Universe and the petty, envious, also-rans who typical hold us to standards they’d never dream of applying to a breeding ground for criminality like the one in Queens. But enough about Jeff Wilpon’s executive box, let me address some of your concerns surrounding our daring, you might even say genius move to enlist Aroldis Chapman in our effort to end a championship drought of some half-dozen years.
I realize some of the reports surrounding Chapman’s conduct in Cincinnati are deeply troubling, but are we really living in a society where a young man’s character can be judged by one isolated, albeit highly regrettable incident? If so, consider the virtual Old Timer’s Day lineup of Yankee greats who at one time or another received a first, second or third chance from the late, great George Steinbrenner, the man who frequently called me “the Jewish son I never had,” (decorum and simple human decency prevented me from recording Mr. Steinbrenner ever saying this out loud, but you could see the real sentiments in his eyes) ; Steve Howe, Darryl Strawberry, Dwight Gooden, Luis Polonia, Jose Canseco, David Cone, Chad Curtis, Jim Leyritz, Chuck Knoblauch, Joe Pepitone, Andruw Jones, C.C. Sabathia, Alex Rodriguez…need I continue?
You cannot fashion a 25 man lineup exclusively composed of choirboys. I mean, you can, but chances are very slim they’ll be any sort of a baseball team worth watching, even if their voices are fantastic and they’re quite handsome. I mean, look no further than our own General Manager, Brian Cashman, a man whose high-risk sexual escapades with dangerously delusional librarians exposed this franchise to at least as much ridicule as acquiring the game’s best closer. At least that’s what I told Cashman when ORDERING HIM to get the Chapman deal done, no matter what a bunch of social justice whiners had to say about it.
If it turns out after MLB’s extensive investigation that Mr. Chapman is guilty of serious misdeeds, I am fully confident that Commissioner Manfred will take appropriate action (even if he barely did dick about a certain contractual albatross that we’re still stuck with). But what kind of message would the World’s Greatest Professional Sports Franchise be sending if we denied an otherworldly talent like Aroldis Chapman the opportunity to make a living, while at the same time, burying Brian Cashman’s transgressions, pretending that he’s not a walking, talking trigger-warning for a large segment of our fan base (ie. every female whose spouse or significant other has internet access)?
I realize most of this blog’s readers are lonely, desperate males prone to project their predictable anxieties on others, but lucky for the Yankee Universe, I’m way more evolved. It’s out of deep respect for women that I routinely hold Cashman’s feet to the fire. And I’m not using a euphemism here. There’s an actual fire pit and I’m talking about his bare feet.
This entire matter can be resolved thru what I like to call “Goofus & Gallant” mentoring. If I simply provide Chapman with a married couple who can serve as role models (ie. Gallant), and a reprobate ex-husband who can serve as an example of what NOT TO DO (ie. Goofus), it’s gonna be smooth sailing for the 2016 New York Yankees. A weekend or two in the company of our Michael Kay and the lovely Jodi Applegate should be a behavioral blueprint. A mere hour or two watching Cashman swiping left and right on what he very hopefully calls a “smartphone” should also be a very teachable moment, if not one that is thoroughly nauseating.
(Editor’s Note : From time to time, Bronx baseball executive Randy L. graciously visits CSTB to weigh in on the major matters of the day, sporting or otherwise. Though Randy’s already offered his sage advice to Turing Pharmaceuticals’ Martin Shkreli (“From The Desk Of Randy L : I’ll Make A Respectable Businessman Out Of Martin Shkreli”), following the news of Shkreli’s arrest on federal fraud charges, Randy offered, no, he demanded, to take another shot – GC)
Greetings and a very happy holiday season to all members of the Yankee Universe, along with the classless, slovenly, moan-first-think-later goons who make up much of this blog’s sagging readership. Congrats on that NL pennant, Mets fans, happy that your fluke October brought such excitement to your sad, little lives. Where’s Daniel Murphy’s God now? Heck, where’s Jeff Wilpon’s?
Speaking of entitled, snotfuckers with no sense of style, decorum or sophistication, you’ll remember that I did my best to steer Martin Shkreli towards a brighter path. But rather than accept my offer of an internship, Shkreli graduated from collecting emo trinkets to overpaying for a Wu-Tang CDR and attempting to purchase Bobby Shmurda (whom I’m pretty sure ought to rename himself “Bobby Law-Abiding Citizen” if he wants to be taken seriously). The sort of false bravado exhibited by Shkreli recently can either be considered a blatant cry for help, or the greatest act of desperation since our oversexed/underworked general manager opted for multi-colored contact lenses in the hopes his librarian paramour wouldn’t recognize him.
However, most of this is the sort of overly-ambitious stuff that I can overlook. After all, wasn’t it The Boss himself who ran afoul of authorities simply because he believed in winning at all costs? But much as I’d love to keep the door open to taking Shkreli under my wing, he’s crossed a line this time that a reputable, successful, universally admired businessman like myself cannot possibly ignore.
If we’re to believe the reportage of a website I don’t typically peruse, Shkreli shops at Modell’s. Yes, I know, you love their bargains on tube sox and marked down Lawrence Taylor merchandise, but for fuck’s sake, I expect a person trying to make their way in the business community to show a little more common sense. Can you imagine Randy L. shopping at Modell’s? Can you imagine The National’s Matt Berninger shopping at Modell’s? Under what possible circumstances can you imagine DEREK JETER shopping at Modell’s?
I can, however, totally imagine this guy shopping at Modell’s — preferably for a size 2XL — in about 2 years after his arm falls off and there’s little to forward to besides the sort of bogus “celebrity DJ” bookings that even Rony Seikaly would turn down. Who knows? Maybe after Shkreli’s served a stint in country club prison he and Matt Harvey can launch a podcast together?
Have some self-respect. Or else.
(EDITOR’S NOTE : From time to time, Bronx baseball executive Randy L. weighs in at CSTB on the major events of the day, sporting or otherwise. Following this week’s outcry over Turing Pharmaceuticals’ decision to raise the price of a single dose of toxoplasmosis drug Daraprim from $13.50 to $750.00, Randy requested, no, he demanded to have his say – GC)
Greetings, Yankee Universe and all those who gaze upon it wishing, hoping, they could somehow manage not to get blown the fuck out on national television. But enough about our (alleged) crosstown rivals and the way they’ve beaten up on baseball’s worst division on their path to one of the flimsiest pennant victories in recent memory. No, instead, I’d rather concentrate on an entirely different breed of opportunist.
Turing Pharmaceuticals’ Martin Shkreli has raised the price of a drug that assists AIDS patients some 5000% and then has the unmitigated gall to masquerade his greed as some sort of research fund-raiser. If you want to put Shkreli’s pricing scheme into some kind of perspective, for what he’s charging for one little pill, you could take a date and your personal assistant to a 2015 Yankees postseason game and still have enough left for parking (provided you park at home and hitchhike to the Stadium).
Look, I’m no socialist but Shkreli’s me-first behavior is far too typical of the kind of callousness I’ve come to expect from the younger generation. I mean, it’s almost uncanny that a cursory glance at social media today turns up smug, sickening portraits of Shkreli wearing Brand New t-shirts, Shkreli brandishing the former credit card of the late idol-to-the-confused Kurt Cobain. I’m almost certain our own oversexed General Manager was in the bidding for that particular item, and I feel pretty comfortable in saying both of the punks in question have demonstrated poor judgement and blatant immaturity.
Shkreli doesn’t seem like the sort of person to take advice from a businessman many years his senior, but he’s gonna get it just the same. For starters, this fixation with “emo” music is not befitting an adult with professional aspirations (and you’ll note you’ve not read a word about any fans of The National gouging the sick or needy). Secondly, if Shkreli wants to torpedo his reputation with high-risk internet tomfoolery and twisted vendettas, he can be my fucking guest. But perhaps that particular skill set could be better directed towards assisting The World’s Greatest Professional Sports Franchise in carefully tracking the activities of a preening, supercilious, self-absorbed fraud that we (currently) owe a lot of money over the next two seasons. I mean, who’d know the type better?
I guess what I’m really trying to say is, it’s part of a Yankee tradition to offer second chances to those who’ve disgraced themselves elsewhere. And while you probably don’t see Martin Shkreli in a pinstriped pantheon of Darryl Strawberry, Dwight Gooden or Steve Howe, that’s why I’m a rainmaker extraordinaire and you’re a schnook reading sports blogs on a stained futon at 3am surrounded by roaches, vermin or both.
The internship’s yours if you accept the challenge, Martin. And don’t show up at my office in a Thursday hoodie.
(Editor’s Note : though Toronto’s been on a tear since the end of July and currently holds a half game lead in the American League East, the New York Yankees — winners of 8 of their last 10 — would still host Texas in the AL Wild Card game were the current standings to hold up. In spite of this, attendances have been underwhelming, leading the New York Post’s Larry Brooks to declare, “NY doesn’t seem to care” about the Yankees’ postseason push, claiming that during Monday’s matinee against Baltimore, “the stadium appeared half empty”. Following the publication of Brooks’ column, our good friend and decorated Bronx baseball executive Randy L. offered, no, he demanded equal time – GC)
Greetings, loyal citizens of the Yankee Universe and those of you still coming to grips with the craven, selfish, gutless machinations of our crosstown neighbors and their alleged ace, Matt Harvey. You know, there’s a saying in baseball that sometimes the best trades are the ones you don’t make. I’ve never really understood this adage — if you’ve not made a trade, how can it be considered a “best” trade? I’ve asked Cashman to explain this to me on several occasions over the years but nearly every time I try to talk to the guy, I walk into his office and he’s screaming, “I told you never to call me at work” at someone he claims is selling magazine subscriptions. Seems pretty suspicious — he’s got a secretary to screen that sort of thing.
But I disgress. Larry Brooks is a wonderful journalist and an all-time must-read in the Randy L. household. When covering hockey. When it comes to having any understanding of baseball and the real life obstacles faced by the World’s Most Successful Professional Sports Franchise, however, Larry’s dangerously out of his depth. For instance :
We can talk about ticket prices finally turning off a segment of the population. We can talk about the departures, one after another, of the charismatic and beloved Core Four. We can talk about the absence of charisma on this team in which low-key seems to be the favored octave of the organization.
The fact is that there’s essentially no buzz around this team that — still far from being a little engine that could at a payroll in excess of $200 million — goes out and gets its hands and pants dirty one day after another.
Excuse me, “NO BUZZ?” We’ve got a sure thing, first-ballot Hall Of Famer as our Designated Hitter, and he’s reaching career milestones almost every day. We’ve got a young shortstop whose solid 2015 puts him right on pace to someday supplant what’s-his-name in the hearts and minds of Yankee fans around the globe. Our starting CF is 195 pounds of pure sex appeal (or so I’m told) and our catcher is a 7-time All-Star who has forgotten more about how the game of baseball is supposed to be played than the Mets’ latest rental will ever learn. Or he’s learned more than Yoenis Cespedes will ever forget. One of those two. Damn you, Larry, you’ve got me all confused!
If our beautiful, historic venue was not full to capacity earlier today, to quote the Anti-Nowhere League, SO FUCKING WHAT? This is New York City, Brooks, a place with no shortage of cultural distractions. We’ve got Centerstage tapings, NYFC soccer matches, the ever popular “Is That A Member Of The ‘Mr. Robot’ Cast Or Just A Random Asshole?” game that’s fun for families to play during an afternoon in our own many splendid public parks (don’t ask Cashman about this, he’ll have no idea what you’re talking about). If one out of eighty one games is poorly attended, of course it’s likely to be during a holiday Monday against a team as ferociously dull as the Baltimore Orioles.
In conclusion, I’m deeply disappointed a quality newspaper like the New York Post would see fit to publish this type of trash. Larry, someday soon your employer is going to fill your space with someone who cuts and pastes screenshots of embarrassing Matt Harvey tweets (though it might be a two person job) and when that day comes, I’m moving your comp. seats to the upper corner of section 434B. Since I’m not totally heartless, however, I won’t make you sit next to Prime Minister Pete Nice (assuming he’s not in prison at that time).
yours in headed-to-the-playoffs-ness,
(EDITOR’s NOTE : from time to time, Bronx baseball executive Randy L. is kind enough to visit CSTB to offer his thoughts on the issues of the day, sporting and otherwise. In the wake of Wednesday night’s incredible scenes at Citi Field — in which a rumored deal for Milwaukee OF Carlos Gomez left Mets IF Wilmer Flores visibly weeping on camera — Randy offered, no he insisted on having his say – GC)
Greetings to all members of the Yankee Universe…and the dateless, friendless, often jobless losers who can only fantasize of someday entering its ranks. You know, I’m well aware MLB’s Trade Deadline represents a last gasp opportunity for some of the game’s more desperate franchises to knock the Yankees off our lofty perch, but once Toronto’s new acquisitions realize they’ve renounced their American citizenships (and any eligibility for Obamacare), I’m pretty sure morale in the Blue Jays clubhouse is going straight into the toilet. So even with our own oversexed GM doing little more than bringing Dustin Ackely into the fold (GET THAT PLACQUE IN MONUMENT PARK READY, CASHMAN), I’m not at all worried.
Which is to say, my calm, collected demeanor should be seen as being in stark contrast to that of our crosstown rivals, who once again managed to thoroughly embarrass themselves by letting the sensitive, young Wilmer Flores twist in the wind last night while negotiating a trade for Carlos Gomez that would ultimately fall apart on the advice of Mets team doctors.
That’s right, the same Mets team doctors that routinely tell guys with serious concussions to get on airplanes. The same collection of quacks that couldn’t keep Jose Reyes on the field and now seem to be bringing the same expertise to what’s left of David Wright’s career. Why wouldn’t you listen to those guys?
It’s the cruel, irresponsible handling of Mr. Flores that I find most objectionable, however. For Mets officials to act as though they had no idea what was being reported on Twitter Wednesday night is beyond disingenuous. This is like asking the public to believe the entire Mets front office staff isn’t following my Tweets with breathless anticipation.
You won’t catch me showing that sort insensitivity to our players in pinstripes. Anytime there’s even the slightest hint of negativity on social media directed at our former Third Baseman / current Designated Hitter, I am the first to bring it to Alex’s attention, be it via a direct message, a text, a phone call, maybe even an item posted to the Nu Stadium jumbotron. Some might call this overkill, harassment, even. But that’s the kind of executive I am. Possibly twice as magnanimous as I am handsome.
Were Wilmer Flores a player under Yankee contract, not only would I have personally made sure he knew of a pending deal as early as possible, but I’d have already made arrangements to have his locker cleaned out and belongings placed in a cardboard box on River Ave (or possibly put up for sale in our impressive Clubhouse Shop located directly behind home plate at the New Stadium).
I dislike being the one to say that my way of dealing with such an issue is the only way. So say it yourself. Out loud. Several times while staring directly into my eyes, wishing, praying that your sad sack, financially bereft ballclub had a decisive, paternal figure like me calling the shots.
DREAM ON MOTHERFUCKERS,
(FROM THE EDITOR : From time to time, respected Bronx baseball executive Randy L. visits CSTB to weigh in on the major sporting matters of the day. Upon learning New York Mets 3B David Wright’s injury rehab has suffered a serious setback, Randy requested, no, he insisted on having his say – GC)
Like so many of you, I heard the disturbing news about David Wright today and my first thoughts were with this fine young man and his family. Sure, he’s got all the personality of a slightly less douchey Gregg Jefferies, and now, it seems he might have the career to match. Still, David Wright might not be my intellectual equal, but really, who is? Can you imagine my embarrassment in seeing Brian Cashman and Hank Steinbrenner high-fiving each other after the former learned about the Wright story on his iPad (of course, when I asked to look at the screen, this is what he’d been paying rapt attention to). Not for the first time, I have to do all the creative thinking around here.
On numerous occasions I’ve used these pages to reach out to Fred Wilpon and Saul Katz to let them know that despite the crosstown rivalry between our franchises, I have only warm feelings for the Mets owners, not unlike the feeling you’d get if Shane Spencer was urinating on your leg. Though I have repeatedly made trade offers that would’ve dramatically bettered the Mets — history shows that I am as magnanimous as I am handsome — these proposals have gone unanswered. Now, faced with the loss of their only offensive threat (save for the threats Wally Backman makes every time he’s passed over for a big league job), I am again dangling sure-thing-Hall Of Famer and future All-Time HR King Alex Rodriguez for the mere price of Matt Harvey and Noah Syndergaard.
I know what you’re saying. “Randy, that’s totally nuts, Matt Harvey’s going down the toilet and he’s got a triple chin. You can’t trade a marketing juggernaut like A-Rod for a self-styled playboy with a triple chin.” Such talk doesn’t scare me one bit. We’ll figure out a way to get the slovenly, unshaven Harvey into Yankee Universe Shape if I personally have to show up with the medicine ball and supervise his training myself.
As for the thoroughly unproven Syndergaard, I realize Yankee fans are concerned that a guy who looks like he’s auditioning for Candlebox is a rather poor fit for the World’s Most Successful Professional Sports Franchise (HEY KID, WHO’S YOUR STYLE GURU, JACOB DEGROM?), but please keep in mind it’s difficult to get a decent haircut on a rookie per diem. Even in Queens. I hear the Mets had their own in-house barber, but apparently he objected at having to be the club’s general manager for the same salary.
All kidding aside, the important thing is that I’m committed to improving both teams (provided the Mets pay all of A-Rod, Harvey and Syndergaard’s remaining salaries), but if push comes to shove, I’ll settle for simply improving the Mets. It’s not like anyone else is going to.
alright. I’m Audi (Club) 5000.
(EDITOR’S NOTE : from time to time, highly respected Bronx baseball executive Randy L. visits CSTB to address the major issues of the day, sporting and otherwise. After last week’s highly publicized and debated premiere of Brett Morgen’s Kurt Cobain documentary, “Montage Of Heck”, Randy requested, no, he insisted on having his say – GC).
Greetings members of the Yankee Universe, lovers of high art and the jealous, unsophisticated, dull-witted persons who find trivia night at their local chicken wing emporium to be the highlight of their week. Speaking of which, when persons like this blog’s editor spent the early 1990′s chasing “speedballs” and fleeting, sleazy encounters with persons of indeterminate gender or planetary orgin at establishments like lower Manhattan’s Pyramid Club, I was busting my ass, honing the skills that would someday see me become the crucial individual leading professional sports’ most important franchise. As such, I cannot, for instance, tell you which member of Ugly Kid Joe would someday go on to shoot Osama Bin Laden. When you try to tell me a joke like, “what’s the difference between a back issue of The Big Takeover and the bathroom at CBGB?”, I simply have no idea what you’re talking about.
That said, I do make some effort to put popular culture in some broader context, and when a plaid-clad Brian Cashman announced he’d arranged an advance screening for Yankee brass of “Montage Of Heck”, adding in his usually smug fashion, “but you wouldn’t care about that, would you, Randy?”, I was all too happy to show that sniveling, overpaid/oversexed little creep that just when you think you know Randy L., it turns out you’ve got no fucking idea.
For starters, I thought the film was a carefully crafted portrait of a sensitive young man with extraordinary talent — alright, he was no Matt Berninger — who unfortunately, fell under the influence of a more assertive, possibly destructive female companion, and resorted to drug abuse at the height of his success.
(illustration courtesy Tim Cook)
It’s an American tragedy, and the film bore an uncanny resemblance to a collection of video tapes I’ve compiled from scenes shot in a number of midtown NYC penthouses and health clubs. You see, unlike the tawdry punk rock world inhabited by the late Kurt Cobain and the sickening creeps who read & edit this blog, baseball doesn’t look kindly upon defacing rental properties or using needles without the supervision of team-approved medical personnel. While it saddens me that Mr. Cobain didn’t live long enough to reap the rewards and gold CD statuettes he earned during his artistic tenure, a young Randy L. would’ve been the first person to offer his legal skills to a Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame seeking to deny entry, much as you’ll see Shannon Hoon singing “God Bless America” at the new Yankee Stadium before I sign a six million dollar check made out to a monumental fraud like Alex Rodriguez.
And for fuck’s sake, Cashman. Get rid of the skater shorts. It’s 2015.
(EDITOR’S NOTE : From time to time, noted Bronx baseball executive Randy L. takes to the pages of CSTB to weigh in on the major sporting matters of the day. USA Today published a column from former SNY staffer Ted Berg Friday in which Berg suggested that in the event Alex Rodriguez were to hit career HR no. 660 this weekend at Fenway— tying him with Willie Mays on the All-Time list and possibly qualifying him for a $6 million marketing bonus — Red Sox fans would be well advised to loudly cheer the Player They’ve Loved To Hate. Upon reading Mr. Berg’s column, Randy asked, no, he demanded to have his say – GC)
If the Fenway faithful are smart about it — or smaht, if you will — they should give A-Rod a standing ovation so long and so rousing that it interrupts the game. Force him to come out of the dugout and give a curtain call. And the Red Sox, in turn, should put up a special message on the scoreboard congratulating him and maybe show a video montage of previous A-Rod highlights.
Seriously, Boston, listen up: If A-Rod hits his 660th home run this weekend, everything you do to celebrate it will hurt the Yankees’ chances of saving $6 million. Think about that. Spread the word. Ted Berg, USA Today, 5/1/15
So we have an actual battle for first place happening in Kenmore Square tonight, and the best an alleged professional like Ted Berg can come up with is cheap shots at the greatest sporting franchise in human history? Clearly, all those years having to ask the Wilpon family to make good on bounced paychecks have left Ted a rather snide individual, the sort better equipped for “hot takes” on Michael Kay’s radio program (not that I’ve ever tuned in — he’s still on the air, right?)
If we were nearly as hellbent on diminishing Alex Rodriguez’ historical accomplishments, why would I have campaigned so openly, so aggressively, to have him traded to our crosstown rivals for a number of players that while flavors of the month they might truly be, all represent risks to this organization’s culture and commitment to winning? In fact, given the way Jacob deGrom has looked in his last two outings, I think we’re well within our rights to ask for David Wright as a throw-in. BUT ENOUGH ABOUT DEGROM’S HORRIBLE HAIRSTYLE.
No, what’s really most disappointing about Berg’s brand of humor is the staggering unoriginality. Consider if you will, my contribution to this barely-read blog from September 16, 2013, in which I took great umbrage at the Red Sox showing Mariano Rivera’s blown saves against their fluke-tastic ballclub during ceremonies intended to honor the ever-classy Mo :
Just for the sake of argument, however, suppose for a moment I buy into the idea that a little nudge-nudge, yuck-yuck at the expense of the universally beloved Mariano Rivera on what could be his final game in that cesspool was somehow an appropriate gesture. How might the World’s Greatest Sporting Franchise return the favor? What sort of highlights could we show on the New Stadium jumbotron during Manny Ramirez’ final game…no, wait, sorry, too late for that. Maybe we can find a clip of Nomar Garciaparra glued to the bench on his own volition while Derek Jeter makes a heroic leap into the stands in time for the former’s last game at….whoops, a little late on that one, too. How about some hidden camera video of Manny Alexander giving his car keys to the batboy? Josh Beckett loading up a baseball w/ KFC grease? Oh, sorry, those guys aren’t wearing Boston uniforms…or anyone else’s for that matter.
That’s because when it comes to dominating for generations rather than an isolated, aberrational year or two, there’s only one New York Yankees and there’s only one Mariano Rivera. Our pathetic, desperate neighbors to the north know this better than anyone. If you think I’m overreacting to the least witty exhibition to come out of Boston since the last time Sully Erna opened his mouth, rest assured, I know my way around a blooper reel, too. And in the not-so-unlikely event we face these Red Sox in the 2013 postseason, I’ve already begun production on a special video montage the Fenway A/V dept. can showcase in what
should could be Alex Rodriguez’ final game in Boston. Until then, I’m tempted to say of the Red Sox, “you’re better than this,” but we all know that simply isn’t true.
Yeah, I liked my version beter, too. “FTW”, my dick.
yours in excellence,
(Editor’s Note : From time to time, noted Bronx baseball executive Randy L. visits CSTB to offer his insights regarding the event of the day, sporting and otherwise. After Alex Rodriguez released a handwritten letter of apology in lieu of a Nu Stadium press conference, Randy offered, well, he demanded to have his say – GC)
Dear Members of the Yankee Universe and those equally sickened by today’s events,
Under normal circumstances, I would welcome any piece of baseball news that would overshadow the retirement of a reprobate like Jason Giambi (say, Johnny Damon selling his pubic hair on eBay). But when our disgraced third baseman blows off a carefully arranged ceremony that I’ve spent hours….arranging….I’m fucking pissed. Do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull to get A-Rod’s peers (Tino, Jorge, Andy, Mo, Chyna, etc.) to sit alongside him and solemnly nod their heads as he begged forgiveness for the 13th or 14th time in the last decade?
That Alex would once again, take the coward’s way out, is about as surprising at this point as our General Manager asking MLB security to protect him from another jilted librarian. But a handwritten note! So now we’re on the hook for $60 million for a guy who can no longer hit, no longer field his position, but possesses lovely penmanship? Fuck me.
All of that said, I realize some of the younger consumers of sports media have never actually seen handwriting before, and they might require some assistance in order to make heads or tails out of Rodriguez’ sad letter. And that’s why you’re so goddamn lucky I’m here to spell it out for you>
“To the Fans,
I take full responsibility for the mistakes that led to my suspension for the 2014 season. I regret that my actions made the situation worse than it needed to be. To Major League Baseball, the Yankees, the Steinbrenner family, the Players Association and you, the fans, I can only say I’m sorry.”
Translation : “I’m a huge pussy who can’t remember how to spell Randy’s name or how to apologize to him.”
I accept the fact that many of you will not believe my apology or anything that I say at this point. I understand why and that’s on me. It was gracious of the Yankees to offer me the use of Yankee Stadium for this apology, but I decided the next time I am in Yankee Stadium, I should be in pinstripes doing my job.
Translation : “When you look up the word “punk” in the dictionary, there’s a picture of me. And I don’t mean ‘punk’ as in Patty Smyth or Richard Marx. I mean the bad kind of punk.”
I served the longest suspension in the history of the league for PED use. The Commissioner has said the matter is over. The Players Association has said the same. The Yankees have said the next step is to play baseball.
OK, enough with the translations. THE YANKEES “HAVE SAID THE NEXT STEP IS TO PLAY BASEBALL”? DON’T PUT WORDS IN MY MOUTH, YOU PIECE OF SHIT. THE NEXT STEP IS MY FOOT ON YOUR THROAT.
This game has been my single biggest passion since I was a teenager. When I go to Spring Training, I will do everything I can to be the best player and teammate possible, earn a spot on the Yankees and help us win.
Translation : I’m a pathological liar who’s been
sticking needles in his ass honing his ‘craft’ since high school. And because I’m a preening narcissist with no regard for his colleagues or paymasters, I have now guaranteed I’ll be an even bigger distraction in Tampa than I would’ve been otherwise.
2018 can’t get here fast enough.
yours in vengeance,
(EDITOR’S NOTE : From time to time, noted Bronx baseball executive Randy L. checks in with CSTB offering his deepest thoughts on the issues of the day, sporting and otherwise. Following yesterday’s news that Alex Rodriguez had offered apologies to Yankees ownership and management for his involvement in the Biogenesis scandal, Randy offered, well, he insisted on having his say – GC)
“Sad, so sad
It’s a sad, sad situation
And it’s getting more and more absurd
It’s sad, so sad
Why can’t we talk it over
Oh it seems to me
That sorry seems to be the hardest word”
With the possible exception of The National’s Matt Berninger , Elton John and Bernie Taupin remain my favorite songwriters…but how could they have known, some 38 years ago, the above lyrics would summarize all-too-well, a situation so tragicomic, so pathetic, that even Jim Leyritz pities Alex Rodriguez? I’m usually not one to say, “I told ya so,”, but yesterday’s appearance of a timid, deferential A-Rod in our offices couldn’t have been in more stark contrast to the preening, arrogant legend-in-his-own-mind who had paraded thru the Yankee clubhouse before his banishment. Imagine, if you will, Freddie Mercury on stage,in his prime, suddenly morphing into Brian Cashman in the bedroom.
Now that I’ve got that sad image stuck in your fucking brains, get a load of this : during Tuesday’s apology tour, I couldn’t even get this 40-something Eddie Haskell-wannabe to look me squarely in the eyes. Sure, he hugs Hank Steinbrenner, weeps on the shoulder of Cashman, but was there any personal expression of regret towards the one man who has always been there as a real confidant? Of course not. Keep in mind, we’re dealing with a zero character individual here. The sort of person who’d throw a family member under the bus to save his own skin. The sort of man who’d turn his back on the lovely and talented Torrie Wilson, who clearly sacrificed any number of boat show and supermarket opening bookings in order to be by Alex’s side.
But I’m not the sort to hold a grudge. I know the Yankee Universe is more concerned with my campaign to return the franchise to glory than with any nickel & dime bullshit related to one fraud’s attempts to compile gaudy personal statistics. I pledge to each and every one of you that I’m ALL IN for 2015 and nothing is going to break my concentration, not our General Manager’s misadventures with this website, nor Mr.Rodriguez forwarding me a bill for some $32,000.00 for services rendered by a physical therapist. While the simpering fools I’m surrounded by continue to betray your trust, take the easy way out and provide flimsy “apologies” after they’ve fucked up, isn’t it great to know your pal Randy is still standing up for THE YANKEE WAY in an era when no one else gives a shit?
THANK ME IN OCTOBER,
(EDITOR’S NOTE : From time to time, noted Bronx baseball executive Randy L. visits CSTB to weigh in on the events of the day, sporting and otherwise. After USA Today’s publication of Howard Megdal’s “A-Rod’s comeback tour a gift that keeps on giving”, Randy offered, no, he demanded to have his say – GC)
Greetings and a belated happy new year to the Yankee Universe and all those who can only gaze upon it with a mixture of envy and desperation. USA Today columnist Howard Megdal undoubtedly falls into the latter category, a man so hopelessly frustrated with the thankless task of chronicling the financial straits of our crosstown rivals in excruciating detail, who could blame the guy if he asked to be reassigned to Fallujah?
Instead, Megdal lashes out at an organization that’s a paragon of fiscal stability! I was trying to enjoy an afternoon matinee of “The Wedding Ringer” (COMEDY, THY NAME IS GAD) when my Blackberry is suddenly blowing up with messages about this would-be shit-stirrer suggesting we have anything other than optimism surrounding Alex Rodriguez’ pending/heroic comeback? I quote :
What about how the Yankees have made it clear, over a multiyear period, how little they wish to have Rodriguez on the field? Can you remember a more adversarial relationship between player and team? Remember, until recently, Rodriguez had a lawsuit against the Yankees team doctor that suggested a conspiracy to keep him off the field. This isn’t Reggie Jackson ripping George Steinbrenner and Billy Martin in the news media. This is next-level acrimony.
GIMME A FUCKING BREAK. Just because Mr. Rodriguez is a delusional, paranoid fantasist who imagines conspiracies behind every corner (much the way he believes Joanie Laurer will someday rescue and drag him back to her cave) does not mean the New York Yankees haven’t been 100% supportive in his attempts to return to the field. I’ve personally done everything in my power to be a friend to our 3rd baseman, whether it means monitoring his training regiment or being one of his only confidants
that doesn’t resemble Tony Atlas in a sports bra.
I deeply resent the following passage : “Oh, and the reaction from the Yankees when he hits his sixth home run this year, reaching Willie Mays’ 660 and triggering a $6 million bonus in his contract? That’s going to be priceless?”
Does Megdal really believe a business genius like myself is sweating a mere $6 million? Shit, we paid that much money to a Jon Polito lookalike that played a whopping 24 games. Did you hear any stories about me slapping the face of our perpetually horny GM or ordering Nick Johnson’s remaining salary to be paid in pennies?
Of course not. That’s why we have a little thing called “non-disclosure agreements” that anyone who works in our offices is expected to sign. And when I find out exactly who’s been talking to this Megdal character, they’re gonna end up like Michael Kay’s simulcast (ie. never seen or heard again).
I’m Randy L. And I’m not fucking around.
(EDITOR’S NOTE : from time to time, Bronx baseball executive Randy L. takes to CSTB to address the important issues of the day, sporting and otherwise. After published reports this week suggested the New York Yankees would force disgraced veteran Alex Rodriguez to take the sort of spring training bus trips players of his stature routinely skip, Randy offered, no, he demanded to have his say -GC)
Greetings Yankee Universe and all who gaze upon it with their usual combination of envy and desperation. I know it’s been suggested that I hold future Hall Of Famer Alex Rodriguez is something less than high esteem, but if tempers have flared the last few years, that’s simply because both Rodriguez and myself are very competitive persons, hell bent on bringing the greatest city on the planet the World Series championship it’s been cruelly denied for the last half decade. And I’m not even going to dignify Nick Cafarado’s claim that we’re trying to goad A-Rod into retirement. BUS TRIPS? Are you shitting me? Do you really believe a man of my expertise, an executive with my resources can’t do better than putting a guy on a bus for a few hours? Do you have any idea how many people I’ve made disappear? I sincerely hope not…or you’re next!
Just kidding, folks. Cafardo can believe whatever sick gossip he wants, but the real scoop is my bold proposal that could well result in both of New York’s baseball clubs colliding next October. I know I’ve been rebuffed repeatedly when offering Alex Rodriguez straight up for the unproven, possibly disabled-forever Matt Harvey or the thoroughly unproven Jacob deGrom but a skilled negotiator like me doesn’t know the meaning of “fuck no, are you insane?” (did you teach your son to speak that way to adults, Fred?).
Instead, I’m prepared to pivot and shall reluctantly accept the contractual albatross that is David Wright, provided the Mets throw in Dilson Herrera. This offer expires at midnight tomorrow, or whenever David Samson returns my phone calls (whichever comes first). GET AT ME.
(from time to time, noted Bronx baseball executive Randy L’s musings on matters sporting and otherwise appear here at CSTB. Upon learning the Milwaukee Brewers plan to retire the uniform no. 1 in honor of former owner / retiring MLB commissioner Bud Selig, Randy offered, no, he demanded to have his say – GC)
So, did you all enjoy the dramatic events at the baseball temple known as Yankee Stadium last night? Unless you’re a sad, jealous crank like this blog’s editor (or perhaps a guy who changes sports media jobs more often than normal people change light bulbs) I’m assuming every last one of you. But I don’t suppose you had any idea that our oversexed General Manager had been petitioning the league office since early that morning to have the game called (something about finding “a dead ringer for Patricia Heaton” on this website) and it took my intervention to get the contest in, thus preserving yet another historic moment for our beloved Captain and the entire Yankee Universe.
But that’s the sort of thing I manage to pull off routinely. Who secured Metallica for Mariano Rivera’s big send off? That’s right, Randy L. Who maneuvered — at great personal risk & expense — to finally rid our clubhouse of a preening, primping presence, a crummy teammate whose lack of ethics were only matched by his disinterest in women who can’t bench press more than 400 lbs? Right again, genius! Randy L! Ever wonder who is personally responsible for the disappearance of that annoying “Freddie Sez” character?
I rarely take credit for these achievements because as the late George Steinbrenner once told me, “it’s not the name on the back of the uniform, it’s the name on the front.” “But Mr. Steinbrenner, we don’t put the players’ names on the back of their jerseys,” I told him. “Really? GREAT WORK, Levine.”
(then he mumbled something about leaving the franchise to me in his will, but I’ve been told several times this would go nowhere in a court of law.)
So go ahead, retire a number for Bud Selig. It’s not as though the Brewers don’t have plenty of numbers already available for that kind of thing. Here in the Bronx, however, we’re retired many numbers, 16 to be exact. True, I’ve never taken the field in pinstripes, but neither did Jackie Robinson, and his #42 is already on the do-not-use-list. I’m not suggesting for a moment this wonderful Civil Rights pioneer isn’t deserving of the honor, but since he isn’t alive to argue against my being honored in similar fashion, who are you to put words in his mouth?
I’m pretty happy with number 2. And because I’m as magnanimous as I’m handsome, I’m totally OK sharing it with Derek Jeter. Seeing as he’s the most unselfish Yankee, nay, human being of all time, I refuse to entertain the possibility he’s got a problem with the idea. That’s the difference between you and me (well, that and the size of our IQ’s and bank accounts) — I simply believe in Derek Jeter more than you do.
See you in Monument Park
(EDITOR’S NOTE : from time to time, Bronx baseball executive Randy L. graces CSTB with his observations on matters sporting and otherwise. In the wake of SNY “Loudmouths” co-host Chris Carlin calling Yankee captain Derek Jeter “a fraud” earlier this week, Randy offered, no, he insisted on having his say – GC)
Greetings, Yankee Universe (and the small number of this blog’s readers who can get this far without the help of a special-education tutor). The 2014 MLB season has been challenging for all of us. When we broke camp last spring, the organization had 3 simple items on our agenda. The first two — win our 28th World Championship, find a way to escape our contractual obligations to Alex Rodriguez —- have clearly not been completed to anyone’s satisfaction. But the third task on our checklist —- spend the entire year paying homage to the greatness, class and everlasting clutchiness (clutchitude? clutchworthiness?) of my captain and yours, Derek Jeter —- has in my estimation, been handled with all the understated elegance & grace you’ve come to associated with Jeter’s career.
As befitting our modern age, these efforts to honor Derek have not been without detractors. ESPN.com’s Buster Olney has the unmitigated gall to suggest our club would’ve been better off had Jeter been kept out of the lineup, a suggestion so fantastic, I am resisting every urge in body to have this columnist fired and then “disappeared” as some of my friends in the security business like to say.
Suppose, for instance, earlier this year, you purchased a ticket to see the Broadway musical adaptation of “Hedwig and the Angry Inch”, starring the multi-talented Neil Patrick Harris. Though upon arriving at the Belasco Theatre, you’re told that Mr. Harris is indisposed and performing in his place will an understudy, a person with no serious credentials to speak of and relatively little star power, charisma, skill, really, any redeeming qualities whatsoever. For the sake of argument, let’s just call this performer, “Brian Cashman”. Would you, the paying customer, welcome this pretender with open arms? Or would you instead, scream bloody murder and attempt to find the Belasco Theatre’s equivalent of well, me, and demand a refund? I think we already know the answer to this question.
That said, Olney’s attacks on this organization are mild when compared to the slurs delivered by the thoroughly unpleasant Chris Carlin. The latter expressed the ill-founded opinion that Derek Jeter is “a fraud” and seems to consider our shortstop’s Farewell Tour some sort of exercise in egomania.
It would be an understatement to say that I’m shocked. For starters, I don’t know what’s harder to believe, that anyone would pay Carlin to appear on television or that the New York Mets have some sort of cable channel of their own. Though I’m happy to know the production team behind the old Robin Byrd Show (ask your parents….or John Sterling) have landed on their feet with SNY’s “Loudmouths”, who the hell is Chris Carlin to be questioning Derek Jeter’s credibility?
I don’t suppose many of you are familiar with a piece of SNY lowbrow dross called “Beer Money”, but I have it on very good authority that throughout this game show’s run, contestants were routinely fed answers to questions in a manner not unlike the TOTAL SCAM depicted above. So really, Chris, who’s the fucking fraud now? A guy who’ll be in the Hall Of Fame on the first ballot or a local TV/radio schulb whose parting gifts to dates usually consist of penicillin and sealed copies of “Afterlife With Archie”?
But whatever. Who’d pick “Beer Money” or “Loudmouths” when you could watch Michael Kay’s “CenterStage” with Kevin Pollak instead? NOT ME.
Thanks for everything, Derek!
(Editor’s note: From time to time, noted Bronx baseball executive Randy L. visits CSTB to weigh on the events of the day, sporting and otherwise. In the aftermath of last Thursday’s Major League Baseball Trade Deadline activity, Randy requested, no, he pretty much demanded to have his say – GC)
Greetings Yankee Universe and those fortunate to gaze upon it with their usual mix of envy and awe. If you thought our moves at the trade deadline were underwhelming, well, you’re not alone. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to quote Newsday’s Ken Davidoff :
In terms of trades, Brian Cashman actually pulled off some pretty decent incremental upgrades, first with Brandon McCarthy, then Chase Headley followed by the deadline swaps for Stephen Drew and Martin Prado. No, the Yankees ultimately wound up losers because of what their AL rivals did to increase the gap between them. In desperate need of a No. 1 starter, Cashman could only watch as his division pals traded their aces — knowing full well there was no shot of either Jon Lester or David Price being traded to the Bronx.
In other words, “good luck, Randy, trying to sell $1695 Legends Suite tickets using the star power of Stephen Drew.” I made this very point to our no-longer-so-boyish GM, and received nothing but attitude in return. Apparently, our being a game and a half out of the wild card is some cause for celebration in shittier offices adjoining mine. And upon being told that even an exec with my unique skill set can’t possibly spin the acquisition of Martin (fucking) Prado as newsworthy in the planet’s media capital, Cashman has the unmitigated gall to say, “it’s not all about you, Randy. There’s no ‘I’ in ‘team’”.
Indeed, smart guy. There is no “I” in “team”. “MEAT”, however, is an anagram of “TEAM” and on more than one occasion, this organization has bailed you out for thinking with the MEAT between your legs rather than your allegedly keen mind. But don’t worry about it, dick-4-brains, I’m way too classy to remind everyone that your zipper problems have taken precedence over reaching, let alone winning another World Series.
But while you’re scouring the internet looking for librarians who have no idea “NSA” stands for National Security Agency, I’m still at the office, working overtime trying to return this franchise to the promised land. And that’s why once again, I have a bold proposition for our crosstown neighbors (I’m hesitant to call them rivals because the only thing they’re contending for is the “first baseball team in NYC history to have ConEd pull the plug for non-payment of bills”).
DRUM ROLL….. : JACOB DEGROM FOR ALEX RODRIGUEZ. I know what you’re saying to yourself, “Randy, have you lost your fucking mind?” Or am I the sanest person you know? Chance are pretty strong I’m the only person you know who owns his own automobile and sleeps on something besides a futon, so give me the benefit of the doubt for a moment.
I realize this is a radical move, but I am a firm believer the future belongs to those willing to wrest it away from someone else. As you know, I’ve tried in the past to help the Wilpons out of their sorry hole by dangling A-Rod for the classess Matt Harvey. Months later, how’d that work out for Fred & Jeff? We’ve still got a sure thing Hall of Famer on our roster for next season ; they’ve got a banged up starter who’s practically taken to food blogging.
Sure, DeGrom’s the toast of the town right now (or at least he would be if anyone was watching Mets games), but the clock is most certainly ticking on his moment in the sun. Think about it — A-Rod’s a household word, universally beloved in tanning salons, wellness clinics and on the female bodybuilding circuit. DeGrom’s merely a punk with a mullet.
So think it over, Wilpons. I can’t keep making these amazing offers every year. By the time you’ve finally come to your senses, Alex Rodriguez might well be done with baseball and you’ll have blown your chance to see him enter Cooperstown wearing a Mets hat. Maybe one of those cute camouflage models!
GET AT ME,
(EDITOR’S NOTE : From time to time, noted Bronx baseball executive The Randy L. visits CSTB to weigh in on the more pressing issues of the day. Upon learning of the virtual stir caused by a letter to Cleveland Scene, Randy offered, no, he totally insisted on having his say – GC)
I’m sure some of you think I’m all business-and-labradors, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. RANDY L LIKES TO KICK BACK. RANDY L LIKES TO ROCK. And when I’m simultaneously kicking back and rocking (and doing my best to put unsavory news stories out of my mind), I’m a devoted fans of musical artists who (like myself) are at the top of their games. Dave Mustaine. The National. Taylor Hicks. And lest you think it’s only modern, avant-garde talent that I’m down with, I’m a connoisseur of the classics, too. As such, I consider myself to be the continent’s biggest fan of George Thorogood & The Delaware Destroyers. At least I used to consider myself to be the continent’s biggest fan, as that was before I read the following letter that appeared in a publication far more obscure than the New York Yankees Magazine, Yearbook or Media Guide :
I wanted to contact you to inform you about a tremendous injustice happening in Cleveland. I wouldn’t believe it had I not only witnessed it, but I was also accosted by these perpetrators of complacency.
Last night, my wife and I attended the George Thorogood and the Destroyers Rock concert at the Hard Rock Racino and this is where the trouble began.
Let me give you some background on this just in case you guys are from Pittsburgh or Sacramento or Albuquerque. You see, growing up in Cleveland, we take our Rock N’ Roll seriously. Its not just some fashion statement to us. Its our culture and religion and the reason we get out of bed some days. Its the soundtrack to our lives.
We had visionaries like Alan Freed lead the universe to the drinking hole of Rock N’ Roll. We petitioned and won the Rock N’ Roll Hall of Fame and Museum. We are the Home of the Buzzard. Now, I know that doesn’t mean much to kids these days, but growing up in Cleveland in 70’s and 80’s, it means everything. And anyone who attends a George Thorogood concert should understand this without question.
So when you listen to classic rock in Cleveland, you will here Mr. George Thorogood and his Destroyers at least once every 2 hours. Cleveland supports George…until last night.
As I said, my wife and I went to what we thought was going to be the Classic Rock party of the summer. Unfortunately, our hopes were dashed moments into the first song.
Some rotten bastard had the stones tell us to “Sit down”.
Sit down for George Thorogood? Sit down for Rock N’ Roll? Sit down while George tore into a blistering opening opus. This somehow did not compute in my thinking machine.
Mind you, this wasn’t some security thug. In fact, it was a (gulp)…fan? I turned and looked and everyone was sitting. The entire place was sitting.
“Well, they must be tired? Perhaps they have been rocking with George for 40 years and they are tuckered out?” I figured. No mind, we shall stand for them and show Mr. Thorogood that Cleveland still appreciates his brand of Rock N’ Roll.
Then another person tapped my shoulder. This time it was younger gal. Clearly she had not been rocking with George for 40 years and therefore, could not be that tired. “We’re trying to watch the show. You guys need to SIT DOWN!”
“Sweatheart, why don’t you stand up and let that electric guitar flow through your soul?” I replied. And that’s when they ganged up on me.
This gang of sleepy golf shirted target demographics for Viagra all pestered us to “Sit down”.
Oh dear friends and neighbors, I’m here to testify that this really happened in Cleveland. Dear friends and neighbors, they were serious about sitting through this show. They wanted dinner theater.
I texted my friend and brother in Rock to ask for advice. Do we sit and be respectful to the crowd behind us or do we stand? He texted back and said that Rock N’ Roll has become complacent and that we needed to do what was right.
Well, this thing was bigger than the moment.
At that point I was so disappointed with the Cleveland Classic Rock fans, that I walked away from the thing and looked for someone from security to move us someplace that we could stand and be out of the way of the lethargic beer bellies.
Hard Rock staff was very understanding but would not move us. They said, we can stand in front of our seat. And they told the people behind us the same.
Of course that didn’t stop the complaining. They spent more energy and focus on us than the thunder from the Destroyers. They wanted to sit and rest their tavern tumors. As my brother in Rock said, “You can’t be a Rocker wearing Dockers”. And he was prophetic about this.
At this point, we just tuned them out and hoped that by the time George tore into “Who do you love”, these slumberous fans would press there Florsheims to the floor. No soap. They just sat there like grumpy curmudgeons from the balcony of the Muppet Show.
Look it, I just wanted to make you guys aware and perhaps through your power and influence on Clevelanders through Scene Magazine, we lift this listing ship of complacency.
Anyways, we have several more shows this summer. I will keep you abreast of this unsettling trend.
Respect the Rock,
Mr. Baker sounds an awful lot like me — a passionate, free spirit, somehow remaining youthful while surrounded by pocket-protected NERDS arguing that Aldo Nova‘s Greatest Hits “don’t make for a productive work environment”. Oh, really? So you mean scouring Craigslist’s “Librarians Who’ll Do It With Anyone” section has anything to do with the job description of General Manager? Hey, you know what’s great about George Thorogood’s “I Drink Alone”? The song isn’t called, “I Drink With A Delusional Blackmail Artist Who’ll Cost Me My Family And Maybe Even My Job (Unless Randy L. Bails Me Out Again)”.
So really, you white-wine-at-the-Eddie-Money-concert types can fuck right off, along with Brian Cashman. Dale Baker is my kind of American, and on this most historic of weekends, I’d like to personally invite him to dine with me at the New Stadium’s Hard Rock Cafe. It might not have the history of an Ohio greyhound racing track’s “Hard Rockisno” or whatever the fuck they’re calling such bush league monstrosities, but I can promise you, after I’ve brought in George Thorogood for a rare Bronx appearance, anybody caught sitting down is getting punched (females under the age of 10 and persons in wheelchairs excepted). RESPECT THE ROCK OR TAKE ONE IN THE GUT.
God Bless America,
(EDITOR’S NOTE : from time to time, noted Bronx baseball executive Randy L. graces CSTB’s vast readership with his thoughts on the events of the day, sporting and otherwise. Upon the the New York Yankees’ introduction of 3 Bombers-branded wines, Randy asked, no, he insisted on having his say – GC)
If we can adjourn for just a moment from thoroughly dull topics such as the Stanley Cup Finals, the Belmont Stakes and our crosstown “rivals” going into the tank even earlier than usual, I’d like to draw your attention to a unique opportunity to turn your shitty studio apartment / parents’ basement or Red Hook hovel that you share with a half dozen other aspiring artistic geniuses into a palace with all the ambiance of NYY Steak. If only for a night.
I am fully aware that most of the persons reading this haven’t been on a date since Waldman’s last pregnancy test (and the two dates in history might not be unrelated), but that’s why your best buddy Randy L. is here to add some class to your sad fucking existence. Not since Neil Strauss’ award winning “I’m A Schmendrick With Revenge Fantasies” DVD box set has there been a more sure-fire means of locking down an evening with that special someone. Whether you chose our 2012 Russian River Valley Chardonnay, the 2011 Paso Robles Cabernet Sauvignon, or our New York Yankees™ Reserve 2013 Finger Lakes Dry Riesling (do not worry, we can vouch for the fact Brian Cashman’s fingers have come nowhere near these bottles), you’ll have no trouble demonstrating to the object of your affections that you’re part of the same tradition, success and grandeur one associates with The Yankee Universe.
Every since we announced the launch of these excellent-yet-affordable wines, my phone has been blowing up with any number of Yankee alumni eager for free samples. Mickey Rivers, Jason Giambi, Luis Polonia, Joba Chamberlain, Shane Spencer, they’re all eager to find out just how special these wines are. Even Vin Baker’s been in touch, though I’m pretty certain he’s never been part of our organization.
Of course, all of he above are gonna have to pay just like the peasants reading this. We didn’t become the most successful professional team sports franchise of all-time by just giving stuff away.
(EDITOR’S NOTE : From time to time, noted Bronx baseball executive Randy L. takes advantage of the freedoms afforded him by CSTB to weigh in on the events of the day. Following this week’s dismissal of Mets hitting coach Dave Hudgens —- and Hudgens’ subsequent comments about Mets TV broadcasters and players’ difficulty coping with fan cruelty, Randy graciously offered, well, he demanded to have his say – GC)
Readers of this blog — all 4 of them — are no doubt familiar with the old baseball axiom, “he who listens to the fans ends up sitting with them”. I’m not entirely certain that’s how it’s turned out for Dave Hudgens —- in the unlikely event he’d wanna attend a game in the future, Mets tickets are probably out of his price range (and then there’s the matter of whether or not his severance checks bounce). That said, this latest, all-too-typical embarrassment for our crosstown rivals is a cautionary tale for what happens when people who can’t pack my intellectual lunchbox attempt to run a baseball team.
For starters, there’s reports Hudgens was shitcanned following an angry text from genetic lottery winner Jeff Wilpon to the emasculated, titular General Manager Sandy “Nice Name For A Man” Alderson. Not only do I find these rumors believable, but it all sounds terribly familiar. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve intercepted a text message from the Yankee Universe’s own genetic lottery winners Hank and Hal to our own emasculated, titular, librarian-fucking GM, I’d have as much money as Jason Giambi’s spent on penicillin over the last decade.
Upon being shown the door in Flushing, Hudgens strongly suggested Mets legends-turned-TV analysts Ron Darling and Keith Hernandez had quashed team morale with their pointed critiques. I afraid this particular scenario is not one I can personally relate to. If, for instance John Sterling dared to suggest that our 40 year old team captain wasn’t in the prime of his career, do you have any idea how quickly he’d be selling pencils in midtown Manhattan? Also, are there still men wandering around midtown Manhattans selling pencils? I rarely get out of my car in that part of town, but Mickey Rivers has told me some pretty wild stories about the 1970′s.
The portion of Hudgens’ exit interview I found the most curious, however, was his insistence that veterans like Curtis Granderson and David Wright are somehow intimidated by jeers from the paying customers. To which I’d reply, what paying customers? There’s acres of empty seats! If Chris Young needs privacy to hit higher than .200, he’s in luck — he’s got more peace & quiet at Citi Field than he’ll find in most libraries (the exception of course, being libraries in which Brian Cashman is having very loud sex with someone on staff — those libraries aren’t quiet at all, and actually have more in common with select restroom stalls at the new Yankee Stadium).
I’ll remind you all again that I’m not merely penning these entries because I relish the misfortunes experience by the Wilpons, their players and fans. On the contrary — a strong New York Mets franchise makes all of New York a better place to live (and more importantly also drives up the value of our ballclub, though it seems a little insane a team with 2 fluke trophies can even be mentioned in the same breath as the most successful franchise in the history of team sports). And that’s why for the third time I am repeating the most gracious offer the Wilpons will receive short of Bobby Bonilla saying, “that’s ok, you don’t have to keep paying me.” We’ll still take Matt Harvey straight up for Alex Rodriguez. That’s right, a sure-thing, first ballot Hall of Famer on the brink of breaking the most hallowed record in baseball, for an attention-starved, obscene-gesture-making PUNK who has yet to accomplish anything of note in the big leagues (an undignified headhunting display on national TV doesn’t count). And we don’t even know if he’ll be physically fit (with Mets physicians on the case, let’s just assume he isn’t).
One of these days, I’ll grow weary of such benevolent overtures and shall simply retire to my private table at NYY Steak, from which vantage point I’ll no doubt see highlights of David Wright, unprotected in the batting order, popping up weakly in a crucial spot. Or I’ll witness young Mets phenom Jacob DeGrom being committed to a mental institution once he’s realized he’s toiling for a team that aren’t going to score any runs for him (a situation that might well have been averted had Sandy Denny or whatever he calls himself shown the good graces to return my messages and bring A-Rod’s bat and nearly 700 career home runs to your fucking ghostland stadium).
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a TV commercial to supervise. Stephen Dorf looks really good in pinstripes and starting next month we’ll be selling blu e-cigarettes at all Yankee Stadium concession stands (with charging stations available to those with Audi Club access). “We’re all adults here…and we’re 28-time World Champions.”. Pretty good, right? I wrote that myself.
DUECE OUT THA ROOF,
The Randy L
(EDITOR’S NOTE : from time to time, noted Bronx baseball executive / labrador enthusiast Randy L. shares his thoughts of the day with the lucky CSTB readership. Following the New York Mets scoring 21 runs over 2 nights against the Yankees in the Nu Stadium leg of the Subway Series, Randy offered, well, he demanded to have his say – GC)
Greetings, citizens of Yankee Universe and the slovenly, slouchy, unshaven, garbage-stench persons in 7-Line t-shirts that saw fit to leave my glorious baseball palace covered in hot dog wrappers, urine and used syringes. It was like visiting Jason Giambi in his hotel suite the morning after a night game! What sort of fetid dump plays host to “humans” like this anyway?
Oh right, CITI FIELD, that glittering monument to a family that after further enriching themselves thru the most nefarious of means, now cries poorhouse anytime their long-suffering GM so much as wants to buy a new pack of toner. Yeah, I’m well aware the Mets put quite a beating on our boys the last two evenings, but there’s little glory in running up the score, especially against a Yankee squad decimated by injuries. I’m pretty sure it was Harvey Keitel or Edward James Olmos who once said, “when the going gets tough, the tough get going.” And get going we shall, though you’ll note Cashman and both of the genetic lottery winners who unjustly bear the last name Steinbrenner got going out of here at around 1pm this afternoon. Not sure what’s up with Hal and Hank, maybe they had tickets for a “Godzilla” preview (still pissed we couldn’t work out some sort of Hideki Matsui licensing fee for that one — I guess you can just steal intellectual property these days with no recourse). Brian’s got his Depo-Provera appointment, and if nothing else, that should make him a little less excitable if he has to answer any questions tonight after our pitchers get shelled.
All kidding aside, I offer nothing but congratulations to my close friends, Saul Katz, Fred & Jeff Wilpon, on the Mets’ past two victories. It’s a crying shame such an achievement had to be tarnished by news reports the Citi Field outpost of Oscar Meyer’s Shake Shack had apparently caused projectile vomiting on the part of Phillies manager Ryne Sandburg and Mets 1B Lucas Duda. Guys, I can fully understand serving tainted meat to a visiting team, but sickening one of your players? CLASSIC METS, though I will admit I generated a similar reaction from the entire Yankee front office when I mistakenly CC’d everyone on the hidden camera footage I’d obtained of our former 3rd baseman challenging a half dozen muscular women in what was apparently a futile attempt to revive the Apartment Wrestling circuit of the 1960′s.
In contrast to the piles of gristle, sawdust and rat feces that compose Shake Shack’s burgers, offerings at our highly rated NYY Steak, conveniently located at Yankee Stadium result in only the happiest of family gatherings, anniversary dinners, etc. NOT TRIPS TO THE FUCKING EMERGENCY ROOM. You know that old joke about Elton John having his stomach pumped? Well, I don’t. I keep waiting for someone to tell it to me. But I’m almost 100% certain the punch line has nothing to do with NYY Steak, where we observe the highest standards in food preparation.
Go get ‘em tonight, Bombers. I’ll take my victory WELL DONE.
(EDITOR’S NOTE : From time to time, CSTB is fortunate to feature the observations of Bronx baseball executive Randy L. Upon hearing of Yankee starter Michael Pineda’s 10-game suspension for use of a foreign substance, and GM Brian Cashman’s profuse apology for such, Randy insisted, no, sorry, he demanded to have his say – GC)
Greetings, Yankee Universe and those who so dearly wish they were part of our solar system. Like most of you, I was saddened by events at the New Yankee Stadium last night that saw our fine young pitcher, Michael Pineda ejected, and subsequently suspended for simply being easier to bust than Jon Lester. Look, I realize for our society to function properly, there are rules that are applicable to all of us, but think for a minute, if you will, about the sort of unselfish act that was required to subdue the big market Red Sox while risking such extreme punitive measures. In my book, Michael Pineda is a real hero and a fantastic role model, one willing to do whatever it takes to help his team win a 28th World Championship. You don’t think Pineda knows where he could end up if he falters? That’s right, Trenton, NJ. How would you perform with that kind of pressure hanging over your head? I’m willing to bet you’d screw up at least a couple of Subway orders.
So imagine, if you will, my discomfort this afternoon, upon learning our Lothario Of The Librarian circuit, Brian Cashman, has declared, “we as a group are embarrassed.” SPEAK FOR YOURSELF, NEEDLE DICK. I couldn’t be prouder of Michael Pineda than if one of my prized labradors had just won a trophy in the Westminster Kennel Club dog show. Which category you ask? Oh, I don’t know, the one for BORN WINNERS WHO AREN’T PUSSIES LIKE CASHMAN.
With the possible exception of Jason Giambi, I’ve not met an individual more prone to thinking with his prick than our moralizing general manager. Does he really believe the fans and media have completely forgotten the way he tarnished this franchise’s good name by breaking his marriage vows with a paramour that made Steve Phillips’ intern seem like Courtney Thorne-Smith by comparison?
Look, nobody cares more about the integrity of the game more than Randy L. That’s why I’ve been so tireless in making certain the hot corner at our palace of a ballpark is a fraud-free zone. But compared to the truly horrible things happening right his moment in
John Sterling’s hotel suite this nation’s schools and streets, it seems the height of hysteria to make Michael Pineda Public Enemy Number One.
How would I have handled the situation? Simple — first Boston reporter who asks me about last night gets this answer ; “it’s a regrettable situation, but not nearly as much so as your team’s color guy aiding and enabling a murderer.”
MIKE FUCKING DROP. That’s how it’s done, Cashman.
(Editor’s Note : From time to time, CSTB is blessed with the observations of noted Bronx, NY baseball executive Randy L. Upon hearing of comedian/author Chelsea Handler’s recent critical remarks directed at suspended New York Yankees 3B Alex Rodriguez, Randy asked, no, he insisted on weighing in – GC)
As Spring Training commences here in Tampa, I’m well aware that many members of our organization enjoy healthy, consensual relationships with other adults. What John Sterling gets up to in his own time is not necessarily illegal, and while our General Manager has caused us no shortage of embarrassment with his zipper problems the last several years, as I’ve already explained in this very space, we’ve got that matter well under control.
When it comes to a certain member of the Yankee universe who is currently banned from donning our uniform, visiting our clubhouse or making use of training facilities for roughly one calendar year, however, I am sorry to say that I am not in a position to police Alex Rodriguez’ carnal desires. His pathetic attempts to chat up the lovely and talented Ms. Handler were as awkward to read about as they were highly surprising (for one thing, she doesn’t look like Lex Luger with Farah-hair).
Still, while it pained me to see this world-class franchise dragged thru the mud on yet another occasion by a preening, supercilious boor, it was hard to take issue with Chelsea’s savvy assessment :
“Just the way he conducts himself,” Handler said. “He’s got a centaur of himself in his bedroom. Yeah, him and a horse, combined as one person … Plus he dates all these girls, he just sleeps around. I don’t like guys who cheat on their girlfriends, you know? I’m not into that.”
Bravo. You know who else isn’t into that? Randy L., that’s who. Leave the species-splicing to the experts, that’s what I’ve been saying for years. And fidelity, genuine, deep fidelity against all encroachments (Jacoby Ellsbury in a towel on Family Day, a Jacoby Ellsbury screensaver on your wife’s laptop, your wife serving soup made from Jacoby Ellsbury’s underwear for your anniversary dinner) is what our civilization is based upon. If we were all just a bunch of grunting, stupid animals attempting to mate with every creature whose stench met our fancy, the Cleveland Police Department would constantly be issuing APB’s for people meeting the description of Nick Swisher.
With a little more than a month standing between us and our quest for a 28th World Championship, let this latest unsavory incident between Alex Rodriguez and Chelsea Handler serve a as learning lesson for the dozens of young prospects attending our training camp; keep it in your pants, gentlemen, or I might be compelled to put it back for you.
(EDITOR’S NOTE : From time to time, CSTB is graced with the observations and commentary of noted baseball executive Randy L. of the Bronx. In the wake of Louisville men’s basketball coach Rick Pitino’s recent comments about social media, ie., “I think anyone who reads social media that’s in sports is not all there”, Randy asked, no, he demanded to have his say – GC)
Greetings to the jobless, dateless and hopeless individuals who make up what’s left of this blog’s meager readership. You might think with everything happening in the my Yankee Universe of late —- the signing of Masahiro Tanaka, the pending retirement of Derek Jeter, the Westminster Kennel Club show — I’d not have time to follow the exploits of a serial philanderer who couldn’t make it in the pro ranks….but enough about our suspended third baseman. No, instead, I’d like to turn your attention to Rick Pitino and his inability to understand the nuances of social media.
I’ll fully admit that one time or another, Randy L. was not the hippest guy in the Bronx. If you’d asked for my Grindr profile, I’d have slapped your face and sternly explained that in this part of the country, we call them submarine sandwiches.
But a few late nights in the company of Jason Giambi were a real eye-opener, and I’ve developed a new appreciation for the many wonderful tools a smart phone places at one’s disposal these days. If there’s a great song playing in the lobby of your proctologist that you can’t quite identify, just hit SHAZAM and hey, it’s another winner from The National. Have a bad experience with a merchant or service provider and need to take them down a peg or several? That’s why Yelp was invented.
I realize for a middle-aged guy like Rick Pitino, the allure of things like Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat and this site must seem elusive, but for today’s young people, such platforms are almost as useful sources of information as the New York Yankees Team Yearbook, Media Guide or game day program. Certainly, I’ve found them to be invaluable when the club has to perform due diligence on a prospective or current employee. You can learn a lot about someone’s character from the sort of social media footprint they leave, and I am pretty sure I said those exact words out loud the last time we were in contract negotiations with John Sterling.
How might Rick Pitino’s life and career been positively impacted had he embraced social media a few years ago? For starters, he could’ve done a little research about a certain paramour prior to breaking his marriage vows, embarrassing his employer, his family and the entire state of Kentucky by engaging in sexual intercourse in the booth of a Louisville Italian restaurant.
I know, it’s laughable. Perhaps there really are decent Italian restaurants in that part of the country —- I’ll have to consult Yelp to find out! — but do you really want to eat off a dinner table that’s been marked by Rick Pitino’s DNA? Larry Bird and Robert Parish might not be walking thru that door, but patrons of the region’s spaghetti warehouses would surely settle for someone carrying a gigantic vat of Clorox.
Still, it’s not too late for Pitino to see the error of his ways and learn from past mistakes. If nothing else, a cursory glance at the Adult Friend Finder profile of user “ohmygoodnessgracious” should be enough to disable his husband-equipment for an indefinite period.
see you in Tampa,