We should have known something was up, Sammy, the instant that Hillary–Park Ridge’s Hillary, Clark-and-Addison’s Hillary, our Hillary, for heaven’s sake–put on that Yankee cap. First of all, that shade of blue is just not her. Makes her look like Chuck Knoblauch in drag. Sammy, my man, do you want to be Chuck Knoblauch when you grow up?
He showed up a Gold Glove second baseman and now he’s a Bronx basket case, and not the first. Of course you, Our Sammy, could not possibly be responsible for the feeding frenzy that has George Steinbrenner doing that 360-degree Linda Blair thing with his head these days. He can’t afford to let the Mets get you. He really can’t afford to lose you to the Red Sox Nation.
But you wouldn’t feed all of this, would you? You wouldn’t dispatch your representative, the guy who looked like he was from the law firm Dewey, Cheatem & Howe, to sit in the first row of seats at Comiskey during batting practice last weekend, sniffing around for the nearest microphone.
See, I blame Hillary. And I blame Rico Suave, that clubhouse alter ego of yours, the guy with the stylish black horn rims and the means to do some serious navigation. Now that Rico has exhausted all those comped admissions on Rush Street, he has his eye on the club scene in Manhattan, and you’re his meal ticket.
So listen to me, Sam-I-Am. Because you have been such a good guy, because you have reminded all of us, over and over, that baseball has been berry, berry good to you, I am here to deliver some important information.
You can trust me on this. I know about these things. My very first job was selling beer to these people, two trays at a time, up and down the upper-deck steps in the Bronx, and believe me, I didn’t call it a day in the top of the sixth. I have a sister who hung out with Vinnie from Brooklyn. I now can provide you with a comprehensive list of all the advantages of playing in Flushing or the Bronx.
Cheaper gas. … OK, there’s that.
Sammy, I kept looking for something else. Here’s the problem. Remember that feel-good parade they threw for you a couple of years ago? The parade becomes a major problem now. You know why? The first time a missed cutoff man figures in a loss, the first time the Yankees don’t win the World Series with your fanny in pinstripes, the first time you fail to hit 60-something dingers, here’s what Vinnie from Brooklyn has to say on WFAN at 3:30 in the morning: “The way it works around here is, first you do something that matters, and then we have a parade.”
If you don’t break 50, you can bet that the owner–you can call him Mr. Steinbrenner–will declare that you have spit the bit. And if you don’t carry the Mets past Atlanta, the boys upstairs in Section 1 will wonder which stench is worse–Flushing Bay at low tide or the new guy they got from the Cubs. Randy Hundley will admit that Tommie Agee was safe before a trip to Flushing would work out.
Because up until now, as far as they’re concerned, you have done bupkus. You think Don Baylor is on your case? Spend a week with Bobby Valentine. We’re talking about the town that gave us the headline HEADLESS BODY IN TOPLESS BAR. One botched fly ball and you know who you’ll become? SAM THE SHAM, that’s who. You haven’t even led the league in homers. And by the way, the last guy who passed 60 for the Yankees–they’re still finding the clumps of hair that fell out.
If you don’t want to believe me, check out the roof at Wrigley Field. See the tribute to Hack Wilson? Mention the name “Hack” to someone waiting for a train at the Addison stop on the Red line and you’ll hear about one of the great hitters in the game. Now say “Hack” at the Willets Point Boulevard stop in Flushing, and a Mets fan will think you mean George Foster.
Bernie Williams, one of the good guys, had the right idea when he wore that T-shirt under his uniform, the one that said “SHUT UP AND PLAY.” Performance is all that matters. Dennis Rodman would not have become Dennis Rodman in New York. Jim McMahon would have been some faceless guy. If your shoulders are big enough to carry a team to a World Series, good luck. But if it doesn’t work out, you would be Dave Kingman, without the need for a lobotomy. Do you really want to be Dave Kingman when you grow up?
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Sammy, do yourself a favor. Go to New York when the Cubs play there next, and bring Rico Suave along for the ride. Get plenty of receipts, and then come back home. And when you see Rico, please pass along one word of advice:
Fughetaboutit.