YANKEE GO HOME

I can’t say this for certain. But I’m willing to bet that somewhere, in one of those “New York” themed places around the country, a sandwich last week known as “The Giambi” has, at least temporarily, been renamed “The Olerud.” Last I checked, John Olerud wasn’t on the Yankees' active roster; though somehow I’m guessing that Brian Cashman’s mobile number has been in the top speed dial slot of Olerud’s agent. As for the Jason Giambi cottage industry; it’s hard to determine if the heat raging from the media inferno in New York is worse than the one smoldering down in Tampa.

I make less money than Jason Giambi…OK, a lot less…but you couldn’t pay me all the money in the world to trade places with him. Even if the Yankees are stuck holding the $82 million bag that remains in Giambi’s contract, I still would rather be just about anyone than him. We all know how sharp the fangs of the New York media can get, but it’s one thing for the press to drive a bum like Roger Cedeno out of town because he sucks, and it’s another to be Dead Man Walking because of betrayal. I didn’t get a sense from the local scribes that this was just a juicy story in the way a politician gets caught with his pants down, but rather they were genuinely disgusted about Giambi’s use of steroids. I particularly liked the Scarlet Letter reference that Giambi should have an “S” stitched on his pinstripes instead of the interlocking NY.

One point that’s been mentioned, though not necessarily brought to the forefront, is what if Jason Giambi was a homegrown Yankee instead of a blockbuster free agent gone bust? What if Derek Jeter, Bernie Williams or Jorge Posada got caught shooting synthetic strength into their rear ends? Would they receive the same recoil as Giambi? How about Gary Sheffield? His name was mentioned in the same sentence as “The Cream” last week; but what a difference it is for a mercenary to bat .290 in the Bronx than .208. Maybe it has to do with Giambi’s persona. I mean, dang nabbit, don’t we want to like this guy? Aren’t we tired of just not hating our athletes? I’d buy Cub Scout candy from Jason Giambi if he came to my door. It’s like Marie Osmond becoming a heroine addict. Gary Sheffield is an outstanding hitter, but he’s also a perennial malcontent known just as much for his petulance as for his clutch home runs. Should he fall, we’ll hardly feel as stung. Then there’s Barry Bonds. Admit it, we’re ready for Barry Bonds to crash and burn, aren’t we? But Jason Giambi….hmmmm….maybe not.

I think an immediate divorce between the Yankees and Giambi is the quickest way to stem the pain. After all, Giambi’s arrival in New York danced to a much different tune than Sheffield’s. Giambi, though a free agent, was immediately trumpeted as a Yankee; a red carpet welcome to the likes of Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio and Munson. A player destined to wear pinstripes despite his early career detour through Oakland. Sheffield, on the other hand, hardly received the same billing. Instead of being a Yankee, Sheffield was simply seen as an expensive solution to filling that pesky hole in right field. And at age 36, what better place to finish your career than in the Bronx?

Giambi’s steroid use cuts deep because we were supposed to form an attachment to him. Bobblehead dolls baring his Yankee likeness were coming off some Chinese assembly line within hours of his signing. He was home…finally…a player whose charisma appealed to multiple generations of fans; perhaps the last Yankee ever worthy to wear number 25. The pragmatic acceptance to see if a player could hack it in New York took an uncharacteristic bypass when the Californian arrived here. This was a no-brainer. Giambi’s positive impact was as certain as death and taxes; it’s more than just a disappointment. This time we New Yorkers, hailing from the land of the hustle, were conned! Swindled! Hoodwinked! Dammit, we should know better!

New York’s a place where a fan’s passion is balanced by his cynicism. But in Giambi’s case we dropped the latter. After all, this was no Jose Contreras experiment. This for sure was a safe bet…even at $120 million.

Oh well…you live and you learn.

Say it ain’t so Jason…now kindly get the hell out of town.