Hank Steinbrenner and the Quote That Defines a Decade

In 1996, second baseman Mariano Duncan said of his New York Yankees, "We play today, we win today. That's it."

T-shirts were printed, signs were made by fans, and eight words spoken by a lifetime .267 hitter became the mantra for a fledgling dynasty. For the next five Octobers, the Bombers took Duncan's decree to an almost literal extent, winning four of five titles, and running off an absolutely insane 16-3 record in the World Series, including a sixteen for seventeen run that should get more frequent mention in the discussion of records unlikely to ever be broken.

More than seven years have passed since that October night in Flushing when a baseball travelled from Mariano Rivera's right hand, to Mike Piazza's bat, to Bernie Williams' glove, to Cooperstown. Seven years is 70 percent of what could be only the second decade since the Wilson Administration that didn't see the Yankees hang a World Series banner (anyone who thinks that the 2000 title covers this decade needs to watch the "NewMania" episode of Seinfeld).

And after seven years, Hank Steinbrenner (in his infinite wisdom) has finally given us a new mantra—twenty words that speak to nearly a decade of flawed organizational philosophy:

"These players are being paid a lot of money, and they had better decide for themselves to earn that money." 

Hell of a plan, Hank.

I'll leave my argument against the merits of an unproven owner without an impressive word on his resume, throwing an injury-riddled team under the bus with 120 games remaining on the schedule for another day.

I'll avert my eyes, for now, from the elephant in the room: the fact that the payroll is SO high because the Yankees, circa 2001, decided to outbid everyone for stars by signing them to ridiculously long contracts (i.e., six years and $88 million for a 32-year old Mike Mussina, who is somehow the second-best starter on the team right now)—meaning they would still be playing top dollar for players who had long since gone on the decline. 

I'll dodge those two topics, give Hank the benefit of the doubt, and take his words at face value. Even in this most positive light, it's still pretty darn bad. 

His statement, however understandable from a man whose family signs $200 million worth of paychecks, is emblematic of the single-biggest reason that his team is, by Yankee standards, in the midst of a serious drought. 

Every time a problem arises, the Yankees find the most expensive, short-term solution, and throw every dime they can at it. Looking at a list of their recent acquisitions is a lot like looking at the Knicks' roster—nothing looks so bad on its own, but taking in the big picture reveals serious holes.

How did a team with apparently infinite resources go twelve years between developing even a serviceable Major League starter? How have the Yankees—a team with four recent titles centered around its bullpen—have gone into each of the last three seasons without a single left-handed reliever who didn't scare the living hell out of their fans?

Why commit $3.75 million to LaTroy Hawkins when there isn't a single guy on the bench that could steal a base with a 45-foot head start? Why did they decide to stop paying out the nose for pitching, when the pitcher at issue was the still-young Johan Santana, and not Kevin Brown, Kyle Farnsworth, Jaret Wright, Carl Pavano, Jeff Weaver, Randy Johnson, Javier Vazquez, Hideki Irabu, Kei Igawa, Roger Clemens (part deux), or Hawkins?

Hank's portrayal by the media types that have actually met him is that of a spoiled rich kid. While it would be easy to think that such an obvious typecast conclusion was mainly created for the purpose of selling newspapers, his behavior this week has completely corroborated this image. If you come from a background where all of your problems can be solved by your fathers' wallet, isn't reckless spending with no attention to detail the way you see fit to run your own business one day?

How does Hank ever expect to gain the respect of his team or the New York media if he responds to every cold stretch by stamping his feet like a little boy whose favorite toy isn't working?

Bringing it back to Mariano Duncan, his salary in 1996—when he coined his immortal phrase (and hit a career-best .340, by the way)—was $845,000. Mariano Rivera made $131,000 that year (marking the only time that two guys named Mariano made significant contributions to a world champion without making a million bucks between them. Try and match that, Red Sox).

Luis Sojo beat the Mets while making less than a million, Gooden and Strawberry came cheap off the scrap heap, Scott Brosius and Ricky Ledee were the two most-important players in the World Series for a team that won 125 games, and Chad Curtis—who was only supposed to play while Bernie Williams was injured—won Game Three of the 1999 Series by himself. 

Every single player mentioned in the previous paragraph was called up, signed, or traded for to meet a specific need, and (outside of the two former Mets, who produced headlines for obvious reasons) came with little fanfare. That's how you build a champion. You spend the money on superstars, and you're happy you have it to spend, but most of the players are brought in to fill a defined role, and if you get lucky, a few of them come through. 

Maybe this method doesn't always win you four titles in five years, something that has only been done three times in modern baseball history and has never been done outside of the Bronx. But until you realize that it's usually better to pay a couple million for a guy who solves a weakness than to commit $100 million to replicate a strength, and until you decide that zeroes on your opponents' line score are more important than zeros on the end of your payroll, you're not gonna win anything.

Money isn't always the answer, not even for spoiled rich kids. Hank, you misread Duncan's quote. 

The second word is "play."

Not "pay."