This makes me nervous.
Fortune magazine is reporting that the YES Network is for sale. I won't pretend to even begin to understand all the financial consequences such a sale would have, but it is definitely surprising, considering the tremendous success of the network, and its relatively recent vintage. It's out of character for the Yankees to sell off such a valuable property, both in terms of revenue and the ability to control the way the team is presented to the public. We can only hope that Hal Steinbrenner is telling the truth when he says that selling the network doesn't indicate that a sale of the team is imminent.
In the article, The Boss is described as "inconsistently lucid," and we are reminded that the Yankees' ownership situation is a gi-huge-ic question mark once he's completely gone. If Hal and/or Hank take over, we don't know how competently they'll run the franchise, or in what style. And if they sell off, God only knows who will be the buyer. It could be a maverick like Mark Cuban, who will run things in the style of The Boss. Or, it could be a corporation like Wrigley or Time Warner, in which case we can say goodbye to winning as the top priority of the organization.
The bottom line: I think we're all going to miss that crazy turtlenecked bastard a lot more than we realize.
Showing posts with label The Boss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Boss. Show all posts
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
The Boss Weighs in on The Bronx is Burning
Well...kinda.
It's too bad George Steinbrenner's not alive, because he really needs to fire his spokesperson.
It's too bad George Steinbrenner's not alive, because he really needs to fire his spokesperson.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Yankee Doodle Do or Die
The long-standing correlation between the Yankees and flag-wrapped, Republican-style patriotism has always made me uncomfortable. From George Steinbrenner sharing a birthday with our somewhat great land, to The Boss's conviction for illegal contributions to the Nixon campaign, to the manufactured "feel-good" moment of W throwing out the first pitch of Game 3 of the 2001 World Series (hence magically curing us all of any lingering 9/11 trauma), to the Yankee's recent police-state tactics during the singing of "God Bless America," to the now-customary moment of silence to honor our troops, it is abundantly clear that the Yankees' brass needs us to know how much this organization loves its country.
We get it.
The Yankees are apple pie, and war bonds, and American Idol, and Rosie the Riveter, and George Fucking Patton, and Country Shade lemonade on the front porch, and the Statue of Liberty, and prayer in schools, and Tim McGraw, and Rambo III, and kinda Ellis Island but not really, and old-timey glamorous Hollywood, and Jeep Liberty, and Andy Motherfucking Griffith, and oversized stars-and-stripes T-shirts stained with Dippin' Dots on the Fourth of July.
All of it kind of makes me sick. I love the Yankees, and I love baseball (if football thinks it's the national pastime, it can go fuck itself with Fred Smoot's dildo), and I guess I sorta love America, maybe. But having George Steinbrenner's version of America constantly shoved down me throat is nauseating, and it's only getting worse with time. So I'd like to mark this occasion, as we prepare for fireworks tonight, to remind everyone that most Americans hate the Yankees. Rooting for the Yankees is like rooting for the British Empire in 1770. There, I feel better now.
Sometimes, I just want to go to a baseball game, and not have to think about unjust wars and the politics of the team's owner.
We get it.
The Yankees are apple pie, and war bonds, and American Idol, and Rosie the Riveter, and George Fucking Patton, and Country Shade lemonade on the front porch, and the Statue of Liberty, and prayer in schools, and Tim McGraw, and Rambo III, and kinda Ellis Island but not really, and old-timey glamorous Hollywood, and Jeep Liberty, and Andy Motherfucking Griffith, and oversized stars-and-stripes T-shirts stained with Dippin' Dots on the Fourth of July.
All of it kind of makes me sick. I love the Yankees, and I love baseball (if football thinks it's the national pastime, it can go fuck itself with Fred Smoot's dildo), and I guess I sorta love America, maybe. But having George Steinbrenner's version of America constantly shoved down me throat is nauseating, and it's only getting worse with time. So I'd like to mark this occasion, as we prepare for fireworks tonight, to remind everyone that most Americans hate the Yankees. Rooting for the Yankees is like rooting for the British Empire in 1770. There, I feel better now.
Sometimes, I just want to go to a baseball game, and not have to think about unjust wars and the politics of the team's owner.
Monday, April 30, 2007
The Monster Sleeps
The Yankees have gotten off to bad starts before, horrible even (11-19 in 2005). Something feels different this year, though. Something's off. Something's missing.
Namely, the presence of George Steinbrenner, who has grown increasingly invisible and mute over the past couple years. Say what you want about Steinbrenner's impulsiveness, but he always offered Yankees fans a certain comfort level when the team struggled. When the Yankees lost, you simply knew that George Steinbrenner would not allow it to continue. He would do anything in his power to ensure the sea would change.
In days of better health, Streinbrenner's ominous spectre would loom larger with each passing loss, each bullpen implosion. Each day that eclipsed without a word from The Boss only meant his eventual wrath would be that much more terrifying.
Steinbrenner couldn't be counted on to make sane, rational, or even good decisions. But you always knew he'd do something, anything, to shake things up and change momentum. A firing here, a well-placed tirade to the media there, and things would turn around. It was a culture of fear, a reign of terror, and it often didn't even work. But it helped fans psychologically.
There is little more frustrating in sports than watching a supposedly good team struggle inexplicably. Fans are by their nature powerless. By stepping in, full of bluster, passion and rage, George Steinbrenner served as the fans' surrogate. He was acting on our behalf, because he was essentially the same as us, only richer. He wanted to win so desperately it drove him to the brink of insanity. The ultimate psycho fan.
When Steinbrenner fired a manager, or made a cruel remark about a player in his doghouse, he made all Yankees fans feel empowered. Screaming impotently from the bleachers at Danny Tartabull or Hideki Irabu was no longer a meaningless, spleen-venting waste of time. Someone was listening.
And now, even as a groundswell of whispers builds in the press, as Howard Rubenstein makes a series of statements signifying nothing, the owner's box is empty. The back pages scream and the fans wail, but nothing can be done. There is no guillotine hanging over Joe Torre's head, no end in sight to day after day of lackluster, uninspired play.
Steinbrenner's health has clearly deteriorated to the point where he cannot, or will not, effect change. He won't allow himself to be seen publicly, and there are no videos of him angrily storming past reporters after another brutal loss. A sad day is coming, or perhaps it's already here.
Namely, the presence of George Steinbrenner, who has grown increasingly invisible and mute over the past couple years. Say what you want about Steinbrenner's impulsiveness, but he always offered Yankees fans a certain comfort level when the team struggled. When the Yankees lost, you simply knew that George Steinbrenner would not allow it to continue. He would do anything in his power to ensure the sea would change.
In days of better health, Streinbrenner's ominous spectre would loom larger with each passing loss, each bullpen implosion. Each day that eclipsed without a word from The Boss only meant his eventual wrath would be that much more terrifying.
Steinbrenner couldn't be counted on to make sane, rational, or even good decisions. But you always knew he'd do something, anything, to shake things up and change momentum. A firing here, a well-placed tirade to the media there, and things would turn around. It was a culture of fear, a reign of terror, and it often didn't even work. But it helped fans psychologically.
There is little more frustrating in sports than watching a supposedly good team struggle inexplicably. Fans are by their nature powerless. By stepping in, full of bluster, passion and rage, George Steinbrenner served as the fans' surrogate. He was acting on our behalf, because he was essentially the same as us, only richer. He wanted to win so desperately it drove him to the brink of insanity. The ultimate psycho fan.
When Steinbrenner fired a manager, or made a cruel remark about a player in his doghouse, he made all Yankees fans feel empowered. Screaming impotently from the bleachers at Danny Tartabull or Hideki Irabu was no longer a meaningless, spleen-venting waste of time. Someone was listening.
And now, even as a groundswell of whispers builds in the press, as Howard Rubenstein makes a series of statements signifying nothing, the owner's box is empty. The back pages scream and the fans wail, but nothing can be done. There is no guillotine hanging over Joe Torre's head, no end in sight to day after day of lackluster, uninspired play.
Steinbrenner's health has clearly deteriorated to the point where he cannot, or will not, effect change. He won't allow himself to be seen publicly, and there are no videos of him angrily storming past reporters after another brutal loss. A sad day is coming, or perhaps it's already here.
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