You claim to be America’s baseball team. So I, of course, want to like you.
I love the idea of a baseball team that defines America.
I love The Lou Gehrig Story, and every time I see Gary Cooper stand in front of the stadium and proclaim how he’s the luckiest man-man-man on the face-face-face of the earth, my heart swells up with good old-fashioned American pride while I cry salty tears of despair.
But you’re not America’s team. Instead you represent what is the very worst of America. The notion that money is the thing which defines this great country (when obviously apple pie defines America). Did you learn nothing from The Great Gatsby? Money is an empty thing, and no matter how many pitchers, trophies, and world series rings you can buy, you can still end up dead in your very own swimming pools.
America was built on the tenets of the underdog. From the very beginning, no one thought we would survive. We declared independence from the British Empire during her heyday, and then won the war fair and square, despite a very long, bloody fight. The people who declared war on the Brits were a motley crew at best. Thomas Jefferson and Patrick Henry (you know they were probably insufferably annoying) managed to team up with people like George Washington and Alexander Hamilton (who you’d totally allow to babysit your kids), and the rest was history.
This unlikely grouping became the American way, just like french fries and hamburgers. Aside from a minor bump in 1812, we’ve been coasting along just fine.
The nineteenth century brought us a new kind of underdog. The Robber Baron. These were the self made men, the man who starts out with nothing except an impoverished mother and sister, gets an idea, follows it through, and ends up living in a castle. We think highly of these people, because no one gave them those castles. They didn’t get to live in it because Uncle Vinny pulled a fast one on his brother and took the guns and the cannoli, becoming king of the New York mafia.
Because that’s how you guys roll, dear Yankees.
You guys are the mafia of the baseball world, and this needs to stop right now. So in order to win back your title of the American team fair and square, without the tarnish of filthy lucre, you need to take a few lessons in old-fashioned American humility.
The world does not revolve around you. You’re at a crossroads here with your aging superstars retiring, and have the perfect opportunity to turn over a new leaf. Lose several years, and become the underdog. This will heal your main problem, which are your fans. Much like pets take on their owner’s personalities, so too have your fans taken on yours. And they’re nowhere as hot as Derek Jeter or A-Rod, so they can’t scrape by on their dashing good looks.
These fans have hopped on the Yankee bandwagon from all over the country, and many are only fans because of the Yankee name. They have grown fat upon generations of winning, and so have become entitled to the point where they have been known to burst into tears when their beloved team is not just handed the World Series every year.
There’s no crying in baseball, dearies.
(As seen on the Penny Ledger)