Everybody is already making plans for Alex Rodriguez’s swan song (no pun intended) with the Yankees. Everybody, that is, except for the guy with the no-trade clause. Anyhow, after the Yankees lose the ALCS – and they will lose; they are not even trying to put their best lineup on the field – I hope Alex does it up right. I hope he brings everybody down in a blaze of glory by making the ultimate gaffe: telling the truth about what they’re really trying to do to him in Yankeeland. Since A-Rod isn’t always the most articulate speaker in the world, I’ve taken the liberty of writing a few words for him to use:
Bleep you, pay me. That’s what I have to say about the idea of trading me. I’m not going anywhere. I have a no-trade clause. I know that you and your lackeys in the media think I should graciously agree to be traded to cover up for the mistake the Yankees made in giving me a 10-year, $275 million deal when I was 32 years old. But I’m staying right here. What are you going to do about it? Move me down in the lineup? Pinch-hit for me? Bench me? Whisper negatively about me to your puppets in the press? You’ve already done all that. How much more can you do? Wait until I’m sitting on the bench eating sunflower seeds and chewing gum for the next 810 games and the media attention every single day on me sucks up all the oxygen around you. Enjoy!
Bleep you, pay me. You think I don’t know that line? I’ve seen Goodfellas more times than Brian Cashman has thrown money around to cover up his mistakes. Cashman, you think you’re so gangsta? Fuggedaboudit! You’re the tough guy who traded away a future superstar slugger for Carl Pavano with a DUI. But didn’t your media minions say that the Yankees didn’t need any more hitting? How’s that working for you, Cash? Speaking of which, what a perfectly appropriate nickname you have. Because those are the only good deals you ever make; those involving you paying lots of cash. I slay me!
Bleep you, pay me. And the best deal your team made in the last few years, Bri, was the one you were dead set against. Without Rafael Soriano, the 2012 season would have ended when Mariano Rivera collapsed to the ground in Kansas City. But you were the brainiac who didn’t think that having a backup plan for a closer born in the 1960s was a good idea. I know, I know, you did make at least one good move all by yourself in recent years. You traded for Nick Swisher four years ago. Which was a salary and a personality dump. And, oh yeah, now you’re about to run that same player out of town on a rail because he told the truth about your fickle fans.
Bleep you, pay me. You picked a great time to lose the binder, Joe Girardi. You seemed to have forgotten that my numbers against Justin Verlander, especially this year, were awesome, if I do say so myself. And that when you want to win a playoff series, you go with your best, not Eric (0 for 14 this October, with an error) Chavez. Oh, by the way, my replacement’s career postseason batting average is under .200. He was an October flop when he was an All-Star, and you trust him over me now? Child, please. Chavez hit .220 in September, worse than I did, and I was returning after suffering a broken hand after King Felix plunked me! Oh, and by the way, did you ever occur to you that maybe I wasn’t hitting to my career levels because I came back too soon after that injury? But I wanted to be a team player, and you were in the midst of blowing a 10-game division lead, so I returned two weeks early to save your season. Yet you won’t even give me the dignity of acknowledging that perhaps my lack of power had something to do with, you know, me getting my hand broken through no fault of my own. Thanks for nothing, Joe.
Bleep you, pay me. People think I have an ego. Guilty as charged. You don’t get to this level, having your tuchis kissed from elementary school days because I could hit a baseball, without having a big ego. But my good friend Kobe Bryant is right -- I’m still too nice. I actually did try to be a good teammate. I gave up going down as the greatest shortstop in history to my defensive inferior. Miguel Cabrera switches positions, and everybody praises him for being a great teammate. The next time somebody in the New York media even mentions what I did will be the first time.
Bleep you, pay me. And yes, I’m concerned about my image. Guess what? So are most people who get to my level. Derek Jeter is just as concerned about his own image – remember what the first words out of his mouth when he broke his ankle were? He told Joe Girardi not to carry him. The thing is, unlike the captain, I’ve never been any good at massaging my image. Sue me.
Bleep you, pay me. What’s that rap on me on this town? I want people to like me? As if that’s a bad thing. Yes, I’m Morrissey in a jock’s body. I am human and I need to be loved, just like (almost) everybody else does. You know what you get when you bring in a ballplayer who doesn’t care about what others think? Kevin Brown.
Bleep you, pay me. You would think I were the only person in baseball history who had a thing for the ladies. Yeah, I cheated on my wife, but I never hooked up with a stalker who had even one restraining order against her, let alone 13. And even I would have better sense than to let a bunny boiler sit in the Yankee family seating area, never mind writing her a letter of recommendation on Yankees letterhead!
Bleep you, pay me. Oh, and let me give a few words of love towards those members of the Yankee fan base who booed me at every turn. You all think it shows what great fans you are. No, it shows that you are what other baseball fans say you are – spoiled, selfish, and entitled. Go team! Oh, and good luck with your Yankees getting many other free agents to come here anymore. The only reason anybody would want to put up with the nonsense that goes on in New York is not for winning anymore – without me, your last title would still be from the Clinton administration – but for the money. But even then, more money didn’t work to convince Cliff Lee to come here after you literally spit on his wife.
Bleep you, pay me. So yeah, I am going to sit here and count the $114 million the Yankees will have to pay me for the next five seasons. Sure, I may never get to see any of that $30 million in home run milestone bonuses if I stay in pinstripes, but I will try to get by. But by the way, I never pointed a gun to the Yankees’ head and told them to give me this contract. They thought I was worth it. Who am I to judge? And by the way, if I am greedy for getting money for my skills from people more than willing in 2007 to pay for it, what does that make Randy Levine and Lonn Trost for jacking up ticket prices and building a stadium as a monument to the rich, and then trying to shut down StubHub for selling reasonably priced Yankee tickets? Did anybody ever buy a ticket to see either of them play? Um, no. At any rate, as the song says, I’m telling you I’m not going. Get used to me singing that tune every day for the next five years. Bleep you, pay me.