Photo: Getty Images

The trade market was supposed to be the Yankees refuge from this year’s class of overpriced, and perhaps overrated, free agents. Brian Cashman has reportedly been kicking the tires on several young pitchers, but, at least at this point, the demands have been too extravagant. One of the names in which the Yankees were believed to have an interest was John Danks, but now even he is no longer eligible for consideration. After weeks of espousing a “rebuilding philosophy”, the White Sox did a semi-about face and signed Danks to a five-year, $65 million extension.

Beyond the disappointment expressed by Yankees’ fans, the Danks extension was greeted by two common reactions. The first was confusion, namely, why are the White Sox handing out lucrative contract extensions when GM Kenny Williams has repeatedly talked about being a seller this offseason? The second reaction was incredulity over the terms, especially when compared to two recent extensions for pitchers with a similar amount of service time (Chad Billingsley and Wandy Rodriguez). However, both of these responses seem to miss a key point. Danks is a uniquely talented young lefty.

At age 26, John Danks is not that much older than some of the prospects over which so many drool. The difference, of course, is the White Sox’ left hander has five full major league seasons under his belt, during which he has compiled a WAR of 19.2. Put in a historical context, only seven other left handers, age-26 or younger, had a higher WAR over their first five seasons, and most on the list that surround him went on to very successful careers (1,769 pitchers qualified for this screen). In other words, not only has Danks been pretty darn good, but the best may be yet to come.

Top-15 Young Southpaws, from 1901*
 *Noodles Hahn’s career began in 1899, and his statistics before from 1899-1900 are excluded.
Note: Data is from first five seasons of left-handed pitchers age-26 or younger.
Source: baseball-reference.com

Although it should be noted that Danks’ performance has fallen off since his peak 2008 season, his peripherals are strong and, just as important, he is still relatively young. So, if his past performance and future potential are accurately depicted in the chart above, it’s easy to see why the White Sox would be willing to extend him even if in the midst of a rebuilding process. Talented young left handers are a very valuable commodity, and they tend to do very well in free agency. Had the White Sox allowed Danks to hit the open market after this season, there’s a good chance the then 28-year old would have commanded a contract well in excess of the extension he just signed. After all, the White Sox will be paying Danks over the next four years the same amount the Rangers just bid simply for the right to negotiate with Yu Darvish. And, if other teams agree that Danks’ contract is a relative bargain, the White Sox should have no problem trading him should the organization determine that its “retooling” will take longer than expected.

In contrast to my viewpoint, some have suggested that the White Sox were overzealous in their decision to extend Danks because Billingsley and Rodriguez, two pitchers who have been statistically similar, recently signed three-year deals for $35 million and $34 million, respectively. Off the bat, the comparison to Rodriguez fails because the Astros’ lefty was 32 when he signed his extension, or one year older than Danks will be when his new deal expires. Billingsley, however, is a good comparison, but since when does one contract define the market?

As mentioned above, there is every reason to believe Danks would have been a very popular free agent in 2012, which seems much more relevant than what Billingsley accepted last spring. Furthermore, a comparison of the two contracts requires that one look at risk in two ways. In addition to the increased exposure to injury and underperformance that comes from a longer-term deal, teams must also consider the risk of replacement cost. Assuming Billingsley and Danks perform up to expectations, which is the basis for offering an extension in the first place, both pitchers will likely command another lucrative contract when their current one expires. Should that scenario come to fruition, the White Sox will likely be enjoying Danks’ age-31 season at a discount, while the Dodgers are forced to re-extend Billingsley one year earlier (Los Angeles has a $14 million option for 2014). Although a myriad of variables must be considered, many based on conjecture, the possibility of Danks’ longer deal being more cost effective can’t be ignored.

Who knows how seriously the Yankees and White Sox discussed a deal for John Danks? For months, I have been advocating (and hoping) for such an exchange, but now it’s time to move on to another target. Without many attractive options remaining (maybe Gio Gonzalez and Matt Cain), however, the new question becomes just how far to look ahead? Yankees’ fans may not like to hear this, but it’s entirely possible this offseason is simply laying the groundwork for winters to come.

Via the indispensable Lo-Hud Yankees blog, check out Baseball America’s list of the Top 10 Yankee Prospects.

Over at Indie Wire, Peter Tonguette has a piece on Michael Kahn, Steven Spielberg’s longtime editor:

Even if he has worked in a particular genre before (as he has in the three Indiana Jones sequels), Kahn does his best to approach each film with a fresh set of eyes. “I try to forget what I have done in the past and drop it, so I’m not taking any baggage with me,” he said. “I don’t differentiate between one thing or another. The next thing I’m going to is like the first time I’m doing it. I find it fresh and new. There’s a phrase that I always use. It’s called ‘beginner’s mind.’ I come in with beginner’s mind, like it’s the first time I’ve done something and it’s brand new…. Each time I do a show, I try to forget everything that happened on the previous project. I come in with an open, free mind, like I haven’t edited before. I’m open to the director’s ideas because that’s the one you’re working with. With directors, I don’t talk too much. I listen. By listening and watching, that’s how I learn how to put it together and [understand] what the director had in mind.”

Beautiful.

[Photo Credit: Brian Krijgsman]

There is a nice interview with Larry Merchant over at The Ring. I wish that Joseph Santoliquito, the interviewer, went deeper into Merchant’s memorable career as a newspaperman, but hey, at least he touched on it. Good job:

The Ring: What led you to journalism?

LM: My parents didn’t understand why I went to journalism school, and they tried to figure how you make a living out of that (laughs). But what I think helped me was my senior year at Oklahoma, I was sports editor and editor of the school daily. My senior year, I wrote a piece for Sport Magazine on Billy Vessels, who was becoming the Heisman Trophy award winner. I got paid $250, which was a lot of money at that time, and my parents took a deep breath and maybe they thought I could make it (laughs). But my first job was as sports editor of the Wilmington News, in Wilmington, N.C. I wrote a lot about fishing, what they caught and what they caught it with. I’d go fishing with Captain Eddie for sailfish. That sort of stuff (laughs).

I was 23, a one-man sports staff. I have vivid recollections of that time. Then an interesting thing happened. I was there for just three or four months, because I used a photo of a black second baseman in the sports section. When I picked up the newspaper later that day, where that photo had been was a blank space. When I went into the office the next morning, the managing editor took me aside and said, “If Jackie Robinson hits five home runs in a game, you can put his photo in the paper, otherwise we do not have photos of Negroes in the newspaper.” When I went back to my apartment, I got a big jar and started to fill it with my change every night. When it was filled a few weeks later, I bought a tank of gas and left town. That was it. I went back home and got a job at The Associated Press, and went from there to the Philadelphia Daily News as an assistant photo editor around 1955.

The Ring: Your big break came soon afterward, right?

LM: There was a lot of transition going on at The Daily News. I was in the generation that looked at sports differently. The Daily News was housecleaning for financial reasons, and they made me sports editor. I was 26 and reflected a newish sensibility, heightened by TV — we assumed that fans knew the score when they picked up the newspaper. We wrote about the sports scene and what was behind it, about the athletes as personalities and people as well as athletes. My column was called “Fun and Games” to convey the idea that it isn’t life and death for us, that it’s entertainment we are passionate about.

Over at Grantland, here’s Jonah Keri on how Brian Cashman now runs the show in the Bronx:

Perhaps the biggest change in Cashman’s approach has been the way he values the team’s own prospects. Three years ago, he dealt Jose Tabata and three other young players to Pittsburgh for Damaso Marte and Xavier Nady. Two years ago, he forgot the cardinal rule: Never trade anything of value to bring Javier Vazquez to New York. But Cashman has grown increasingly stingy in his willingness to give up homegrown potential stars. He held on to Robinson Cano for years amid swirling trade speculation and concerns about his young second baseman’s unrefined approach, and got an MVP candidate for his patience. He’s resisted all overtures for phenom Jesus Montero, preferring to let the 22-year-old slugger swing for the fences in Yankee Stadium next year, not somewhere else. Though they might still get dealt at some point, Cashman’s refusal to sell too quickly on pitching prospects Manny Banuelos and Dellin Betances has resulted in both pitchers maturing into hot commodities with big value to both the Yankees and potential suitors. When the team does decide to part with a top prospect, it can only be if an excellent player offering multiple years of team control is available, the way Curtis Granderson was after the 2009 season.

And then, this:

But here’s the real $189 million question: Are prudence and austerity the right ways to run baseball’s marquee franchise? The Yankees have won just one World Series in the past 11 seasons. In 2010, they had a chance to trade for Cliff Lee, the best pitcher in baseball that year. As with all trade rumors, we can never exactly know what was discussed, and who may have turned down which offer. But the Yankees had Montero and other enticing prospects at their disposal to trade for Lee … and Lee went to the Rangers instead, who rode the lefty’s dominant performance in the ALDS and ALCS to the World Series that year, knocking off the Yanks in the process. When Lee spurned New York’s advances that offseason, the Yankees went bottom-fishing instead, taking flyers on Bartolo Colon and Freddy Garcia. Amazingly, both panned out. Still, there was a sense that last season’s team needed another front-line starter to make a title run. The Yankees never got that arm, watching the trade deadline pass without any major activity, then bowing out of the playoffs for a second straight year.

You can now make it three straight years that the Yankees could really use a strong no. 2 starter to slot in behind Sabathia. But the team’s lowball bid on Yu Darvish and lack of strong interest in C.J. Wilson and Mark Buehrle point to a GM who either didn’t want to spend a ton of money on free-agent pitchers this winter, didn’t like the names that were out there, or both.

Of all the lessons Cashman has learned in the past decade, none resonate more than this: The playoffs can be random, capricious, and cruel. He might still pursue a starting pitcher via trade, sign someone like Hiroki Kuroda as a solid tier-two option, or upgrade the roster in other ways. But if he doesn’t, he can look at a team built with true stars, not retreads, one with rare upside for a Yankees club with Montero poised to improve over a 162-game season. If the Yankees do nothing else this offseason, they’d be a strong bet to get back to the playoffs, where they’d have about as good a chance as anyone of going all the way.

There. Happy?

If you have not yet read John Branch’s excellent profile of the late Derek Boogaard, do yourself a favor. “A Boy Learns to Brawl,” is top-notch:

There is no athlete quite like the hockey enforcer, a man and a role viewed alternately as noble and barbaric, necessary and regrettable. Like so many Canadian boys, Boogaard wanted to reach the National Hockey League on the glory of goals. That dream ended early, as it usually does, and no one had to tell him.

But big-time hockey has a unique side entrance. Boogaard could fight his way there with his bare knuckles, his stick dropped, the game paused and the crowd on its feet. And he did, all the way until he became the Boogeyman, the N.H.L.’s most fearsome fighter, a caricature of a hockey goon rising nearly 7 feet in his skates.

Over six seasons in the N.H.L., Boogaard accrued three goals and 589 minutes in penalties and a contract paying him $1.6 million a year.

On May 13, his brothers found him dead of an accidental overdose in his Minneapolis apartment. Boogaard was 28. His ashes, taking up two boxes instead of the usual one, rest in a cabinet at his mother’s house in Regina. His brain, however, was removed before the cremation so that it could be examined by scientists.

Boogaard rarely complained about the toll — the crumpled and broken hands, the aching back and the concussions that nobody cared to count. But those who believe Boogaard loved to fight have it wrong. He loved what it brought: a continuation of an unlikely hockey career. And he loved what it meant: vengeance against a lifetime of perceived doubters and the gratitude of teammates glad that he would do a job they could not imagine.

[Photo Credit: AP Photo/Matt Slocum]

According to a long article by Nancy Phillips in the Philadelphia Inquirer, veteran sports writer Bill Conlin sexually abused three women and one man when they were children. Here is a follow-up by the Philly Daily News editor, Larry Platt.

Revolting news.

The Yankees have not made a big trade or signed a fancy free agent so far this off-season. There is nothing new and nifty under the Christmas tree. But there is a long time left until Opening Day and even more could happen before the trade deadline in July.

I like that Cashman is being prudent. He’ll make a move sooner or later, maybe something big. The Angels and the Rangers will be in the mix for the AL crown comes 2012, along with the Red Sox, Tigers, and Rays, yet there is still much to be grateful for if you root for the Bronx Bombers. I’d rather them lay in the cut than have the kind off season of dumbness we were accustomed to during the George Years.

Amen.

Seconds Of Beauty – 1st round compilation from The Beauty Of A Second on Vimeo.

Check out this cool short “Seconds of Beauty,” by The Beauty of a Second.

[Photo Via: Marry the Night]

The Texas Rangers have the winning bid for Japanese pitcher Yu Darvish.

Hey sports nyerds, The Classical is up and running. Head on over and give ’em a look. And while you are there, drop by the Free Darko Store where you can buy some of these fantastic prints or even a hip t-shirt or three. The images are by Jacob Weinstein. He is most talented.

Over at Grantland, Jane Leavy has a long piece on Babe Ruth’s daughter, his last surviving relative:

He was the Babe, the Bam, the Big Bam, and the Great (and Bulby) Bambino (or Slambino); the Barnstorming Babe, the Bazoo of Bang, the Behemoth of Biff and Bust; Blunderbuss, and the Modern Beowulf. He was the Caliph and Colossus of Clout and Club, the Circuit Smasher and Goliath of Grand Slam, Homeric Herman and Herman the Great. He was the High Priest of Swat, and before that the Infant of Swategy. Also: the Kid of Crash, King of Clout/Diamonds/Swing, and, until Roger Maris, Hank Aaron, and the steroid marauders came along, the Home Run King. He was the Maharajah/Mauler of Mash, the Mauling Menace, Mauling Monarch, Mauling Mastodon, as well as the Mastodonic Mauler, Bulky Monarch, and Monarch of Swatdom; the Prince of Pounders, Rajah of Rap, Sachem of Slug, and Sultan of Swat; Terrible Titan, Whazir of Wham, Wali of Wallop, Wizard of Whack. And, not to be outdone, Damon Runyon added: “Diamond-Studded Ball-Buster.”

The priests at St. Mary’s Industrial School, the Xaverian reform school on the outskirts of Baltimore to which he was consigned at age 7, called him George. The parents who didn’t visit called him Little George. The boys incarcerated along with him called him Nigger Lips. The Red Sox called him the Big Baboon and sometimes Tarzan, a name he liked until he found out what it meant. The Yankees called him Jidge.

Julia Ruth Stevens, his sole surviving daughter, calls him Daddy. Odd as it is to hear a nonagenarian refer to a man 60 years gone as Daddy, it is also a tender reminder of the limits of hyperbole, how grandiose honorifics obscure the messy, telling details of an interior life.

To others he is a brand, an archetype, a lodestar. His shape is ingrained in our DNA. His name recognition, 96 percent, is higher than any living athlete. (His Q score, a measure of how much the people who know him like him, is 32 percent compared to 13 percent for today’s average major leaguer.) And yet, as well-known as he is, the most essential biographical fact of his life, one that demands revisiting what we thought we knew, one that Julia assumed everybody knew, remained unknown.

Mr. Idle talks turkey.

Who knew? Heddy Lamarr was brilliant.

He spent his life pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Now he wanted me to know the real deal.

Here is PJ at his best. This essay about his father first ran in the November/December issue of AARP in 2006 and is reprinted here with permission from the author.

Dad’s Last Visit

By Pat Jordan

My father died in the spring of 2005, a year and a half after my mother died, and a week after he visited my wife and me in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. He was 95. She was 97.

My niece was with my father when he died in a hospital room in Bridgeport, Connecticut. She told me at his funeral that he had awakened from a coma and began shouting for me, “Patty! I have to call Patty!” Then he died.

My father’s visit was my brother George’s idea. “To connect with Dad one last time,” he said. Actually, he’s my half brother. We have the same mother but different fathers. His father left him and our mother a few years after my brother was born. Then my father married our mother and raised my brother as his natural son, although he never adopted him legally. I came along 14 years later.

I went to the airport early to meet Dad. My brother told me to get him a wheelchair. I said, “He’s too vigorous for that. It’ll embarrass him.” He said, “No, he likes the attention.” I pushed the wheelchair to the gate and asked one of the exiting passengers if he remembered an old man on the flight.

“He’s bald, with a white mustache,” I said. The man said, “You’re the writer! He talked my ear off about you the entire flight.” I said, “That’s him.”

Finally Dad came hobbling out of the jetway, clutching a small bag in one hand and, in the other, a paperback book. I hadn’t seen him since my mother’s funeral. He looked the same, only more halt. He wore a navy blazer, rep tie, and gray slacks. His con. “I always dressed Ivy League,” he once said.

“The suckers bought it.”

“Curly!” I said. He looked up with his opaque, gray-blue eyes. We kissed on the lips as did all the men in our Italian family. “I got you a wheelchair, Pop. But you won’t need, will you?”

“I’d like it,” he said in a weak voice. I settled him in the wheelchair and began pushing him through the crowded airport. He arranged the paperback book on his lap so that its cover showed. Kafka’s Metamorphosis. People smiled down at him, and then up at me, the dutiful son, also an old man with his white beard.

I leaned over him and said, “How does it feel to be 95, Pop?”

“Not like I felt at 80.”

We stood outside in the hot sunshine and disorienting traffic. “Wanna wait here while I bring the car around?” I said.

“No, I can walk.”

A sheriff’s deputy stopped traffic so Dad and I could cross the street to the parking garage. It was dark and cool in the garage. I sat him down on a bench near the elevator. “I’ll get the car,” I said.

As I walked toward the car, I called Susan. “How is he?” she said.

“The same,” I said. “Only older.”

When we got home Susan greeted Dad at the front door with a kiss. “Wait here, Dad,” she said. “I’ll put the dogs in the backyard.”

“That’s all right,” he said. “I want to see the orphan.” He meant Matthew, our mutt, the one we’d rescued. Our other five dogs were thoroughbred Shiba Inus we’d bought. Matthew was always deliriously happy. Our Shibas were aloof. They thought we were lucky to have them.

Dad had never met Matthew, but he identified with him from the first moment we got him. “An orphan, like me,” Dad said. Dad never knew his mother or his father. His mother was a 16-year-old girl from Italy who gave him up to an orphanage the moment he was born to her in a strange land. Dad lived in the orphanage for 15 years, then he got a job sweeping out a pool hall. He slept on the green felt tables. Over the years he became a great pool shooter for money, and then an expert with dice and cards, and every form of gambling. That’s how he made his living. His secret, he said, was that he always looked for the edge. Marked cards, shaved dice, and an affected intellectualism that was a masquerade. He would hustle the Palm Beach swells for inside information at their private club box at Hialeah Park racetrack during the Flamingo Stakes, flaunting a Jay Gatsby-esque manner of speaking and a superficial knowledge of the Greek philosophers, without any notion of what they meant, except to use them in his con to separate the “suckers” from their money. But he gave his money away, to his cronies, his wife, his sons. It was the con he loved.

Shortly before I was born, Dad went to a judge to get his name legally changed from Pasquale Giordano to Pat Jordan so I would be born “an American.” The judge said, “That’ll be $17.” Dad said, “I don’t have the money.” The judge felt sorry for this poor Italian, with his lowered eyes and deferential slouch, so he changed my father’s name for nothing. What the judge would never know was that my father had over a thousand dollars in his pocket in that courtroom. Dad’s con gave him his sense of worth as a human being. Every time he conned the “suckers” out of money, or love, or intimacy, it was proof in his mind’s eye that he was someone special, smarter, better. Dad’s con was the most important thing in his life.

Matthew was a con, too, but in a more elemental way. He ran out of the North Carolina woods one night and up onto the porch of our cabin with his two brothers. They were straggly, starving, flea- and tick-infested mountain puppies no more than 12 weeks old. We fed them all. Matthew’s two brothers wolfed down the food and ran back into the woods. Matthew stayed. He tried to climb into our laps. He licked our hands. He lay on the deck on his back with his legs spread, his pink belly and tiny balls exposed. So, we adopted him. Our Shibas resented him at first, this interloper, until he conned them, too, and they accepted him into the pack.

Susan opened the front door wide and Dad stepped inside. Our dogs came running. Our Shibas sniffed at Dad’s shoes and pants and then lost interest. Matthew leaped up on Dad with his paws, whimpering and wagging his tail, as if he had been waiting for Dad all his life. Dad giggled. “See!” he said. “My fellow orphan loves me.” I didn’t tell Dad that Matthew loved everyone; that was his con.

We got Dad seated at the dining room table. Matthew stood up on his hind legs and draped his front paws over Dad’s knees. He stared up at Dad with his huge brown eyes filled with such love that Dad was almost moved to tears. “He loves me,” he said, and petted Matthew’s floppy ears. I made Dad a drink, a Tanqueray martini. “You remembered, son,” he said. He sipped his drink. Matthew lay at his feet. Dad smiled down on him. “He won’t leave me.” Susan brought a tray of cheese and crackers. Matthew perked up. Dad took a bite of cheese and crackers, and a crumb fell to the floor. Matthew licked it up.

We put Dad’s bag in the guest room. Susan set the table for dinner. I heated up the sausage and peppers. I had cooked in the morning, and served it to Dad with hot garlic bread and a glass of red wine. Dad ate methodically, silently, and when he finished, he said, “I’m tired. I think I’ll go to sleep.” He went into the guest room as Susan cleared the table.

“So far, so good,” she said.

“So far,” I said.

Susan went to sleep in the bedroom with the dogs. I lay down on the sofa in the Florida room where I could see into the house in case Dad woke and didn’t know where he was. I watched TV late into the night, glancing toward the guest room, until I fell asleep.

(more…)

I’ll be completely honest with you. This has been the dullest Yankee offseason I can remember. There might have been an off-season in the early 1990s, when the Yankees couldn’t convince any top notch free agent to take their money, which might have been just as dull. But that’s about it.

There aren’t even any worthwhile rumors making their ways through the Internet. I don’t think the Yankees have any real interest in trading Jesus Montero (and other commodities) for Gio Gonzalez, which was rumored last week at the winter meetings. Their bid for Japanese sensation Yu Darvish will reportedly fall short of what will be needed to sign him. The Yankees supposedly have no interest in Matt Garza. It doesn’t seem the Yankees have much interest in anyone, either because the player is too costly, or the other general managers continue to ask Brian Cashman for 150 cents on the dollar.

The situation was far different 40 years ago. In the days leading up to the 1971 winter meetings, the Yankees were involved in rumors on multiple fronts, as they searched far and wide for a new third baseman and right fielder.

The third base situation had become particularly sticky, with the Yankees having grown completely dissatisfied with the play of Jerry Kenney. The Yankees talked to the Angels about Jim Fregosi, an All-Star shortstop who was deemed capable of playing the hot corner. They talked to the Twins about Cesar Tovar, a little pepperpot of a player who could also provide backup at second base and the outfield. The Yankees even talked to the Dodgers about a young Steve Garvey, who was still a scatter-armed third baseman who had not yet been moved to the other side of the diamond.

The Yankees also exchanged ideas with the Cubs for new Hall of Famer Ron Santo, who was being made available by Chicagofor the first time. According to the rumors of the day, the Cubs wanted a young catcher and some relief pitching for Santo. The Yankees could have parted with a veteran reliever like Jack Aker or Lindy McDaniel, but there was no way they would have surrendered a young Thurman Munson for an aging Santo. Therefore, no trade took place. And as it turned out, Santo had only two productive seasons left in him, before he fell off badly with the White Sox in 1974.

On the outfield front, the Yankees attempted a run at an Oriole institution, a future Hall of Famer in Frank Robinson, regarded as the spiritual leader of the Birds. One of the rumored Robinson deals at the winter meetings had the Yankees sending veteran left-hander Fritz Peterson toBaltimore. The Yankees would have loved nothing better than to put Robinson in right field, next to Bobby Murcer in center and Roy White in right, giving them one of the game’s premier all-round outfields.

Robinson ended up being traded, but not to the Yankees, partly because ofBaltimore’s leeriness about trading within the American League East. The Orioles instead sent Robby to the Dodgers for a package of four younger players, in a move the O’s would soon regret.

Similarly, Yankee deals for Fregosi, Tovar, and Garvey also fell through. And that was a good thing, thanks to the benefit of hindsight. Sent to the Mets in the ill-fated Nolan Ryan deal, Fregosi flopped in making the transition to third base and was done as an All-Star caliber player. Tovar was also near the end of the line; after being traded to the Phillies, he would become a utility man before making a brief pitstop with the Yankees in 1976. In contrast, Garvey had plenty of value left, but not as a third baseman. An arm injury convinced the Dodgers to move him to first base, where he became a perennial All-Star. Garvey certainly would have helped the Yankees at first base (another problem position), but then again, his presence would have eliminated the trade for Chris Chambliss, perhaps negating the dramatic finish to the 1976 American League pennant.

The Yankees ended up making two trades at the 1971 winter meetings. They sent two young pitchers to the Rangers for Bernie Allen, who would become a utility infielder. More significantly, they did make a deal for a third baseman at the meetings, only it was for someone who was lesser known than the aforementioned candidates. On December 2, Yankee GM Lee MacPhail sent reliable right-handed starter Stan Bahnsen to the White Sox for a young utility infielder named Rich McKinney, who had batted .271 (with a .377 slugging percentage) as a part-time player. The Yankees immediately announcedMcKinneyas their new third baseman. The reaction to the deal was nearly unanimous: the Yankees had panicked and had made an awful trade. Angry fans flooded the Yankee switchboard with calls of complaint. Some fans even called up newspaper writers to vent their anger.

One fan complaint, printed in The Sporting News, summed up the feelings of frustration. “We were expecting Jim Fregosi, Cesar Tovar, Ron Santo or Steve Garvey,” said the irate fan. “And we wind up with a part-time player for a frontline pitcher. Imagine, the guy wasn’t even a regular inChicago.”

Faced with such stinging criticism, MacPhail offered up the following defense. “Our scouts are sure he can play third,” MacPhail told Yankee beat writer Jim Ogle. “I think he’s going to be one helluva hitter.” Perhaps MacPhail was influenced by McKinney’s .379 average against the Yankees in 1971, when he rapped 11 hits in 29 at-bats.

Both the scouts and MacPhail were wrong. In only his sixth game as a Yankee, McKinney made four errors, against the rival Red Sox no less. He hit a grand total of one home run. By mid-season, he was back in Triple-A. At the end of the 1972 season, the Yankees cut their losses by sendingMcKinneyto the A’s for a still useful Matty Alou.

Aside from his four-error debacle at Fenway Park,McKinney became best known for trying to score marijuana from Yankees public relations director Marty Appel during the team’s winter caravan since there was no Delta-8 THC gummies for sale. Appalled and shocked at the request, Appel toldMcKinneyhe couldn’t help him.

So the one big trade the Yankees made at the 1971 winter meetings turned into a disaster. Clearly, it was a trade they could have done without.

Hey, maybe Brian Cashman is playing it right. Making no trades might be the way to go.

Word has it that the Yanks’ bid for Yu Darvish fell short.

Moving on…

Coolin’ out on a Sunday morning with the paper and such.

[Photo Credit: Julia Iwo via Puckbox]

Keepin’ the faith.

[Photo Credit: Eric Rose]

Over at SI.com, here’s Richard Deitsch on the man people love to hate and sometimes hate to love:

As the Broncos beat reporter for the Denver Post, Lindsay Jones admits her job description has become “all Tim Tebow, all the time.” But over the past two months, Jones has noticed that the Tebow phenomenon has filtered outside her city limits. As she’s traveled to cover the Broncos on the road, the reporter says the lead feature in Sunday sports sections is often the Denver quarterback, and that Tebow is a recurring and vibrant subject on the sports-talk debate airwaves as well.

Clearly, the Broncos quarterback is moving the sports needle nationally. But by how much, and who else is doing likewise? To get an answer we sought advice from a number of sources, including those in sports marketing, television and research.

Perhaps the most remarkable finding is that Tebow now rates alongside such celebrities as Jennifer Aniston, Lady Gaga, Tom Hanks, Will Smith and Taylor Swift when it comes to aspiration (the degree to which consumers feel a celebrity has a life to which they would aspire) and influence (the degree to which consumers believe a celebrity is an influence in today’s world).

[Photo Credit: Robert Swetz]