It’s been three long years since I’ve written a post. I’ve been churning out a ton of content for other people at my day job and just really haven’t had the energy to come home and fire up the laptop again and grind on the keys after doing it for eight hours a day. But something has happened that’s so egregious, so abhorrent, so appalling, I felt compelled to emerge from my dark lair of rage and spitefulness, out from under the shame of consecutive 80-something win seasons and a pile of empty City Wide cans because I felt compelled to address the biggest scam this fine country has seen since Watergate. I’m talking, of course, about the Giancarlo Stanton trade.
First off, let me say this: I’m not just a butthurt Cardinals fan. You hear me? NOT A BUTTHURT CARDINALS FAN (Can you hear my trying to convince myself it’s true as I say it?) It’s not about “Oh, we missed out” or “Stanton is a meanie for not wanting to come here”. The dude signed a 13-year contract. He put in his time, paid his dues, hit his bombs, and maintained a squeaky-clean public image and got all of King Midas’ silver, along with the security of being able to control his future that comes along with such a contract. He negotiated for that no-trade clause, and should be able to wield its power as he sees fit. However, something seems amiss about how this all went down.
Jet fuel only burns at a maximum of 980 degrees
The Twitterverse is exploding with conspiracy theories abound that are accusing Marlins owner Derek Jeter of throwing a bone to his friends over in the old boys club that is the New York Yankees because he was planted there to do it, probably by Jay-Z and the Illuminati or maybe a contingent of giant powerful shape-shifting reptile-people.
Look, I love getting tiny bits of information, running with it, and forming maniacal theories about strings being pulled behind closed doors to create an elaborate narrative about how someone is scheming to wrong me. Just ask any of my exes. I’m great at it. But I’m going to stop short of accusing Jeter of setting this whole thing up from the get-go to basically give Stanton away to his former cohorts in pinstripes. Instead, I’m going to blame it on him being inexperienced, and, in my medical opinion, bad at his job.
However, the consequences of the whole fiasco have a number of negative impacts that go beyond “my team didn’t get the guy I wanted them to”. Here’s the ones that jump out:Time, why you punish me?
That subheading isn’t just one of the best Hootie and the Blowfish songs ever written, it’s reflective of the ramifications of Stanton’s feet-dragging at getting a deal completed. He knew right away that he was never going to play in St. Louis or San Fran. Chad Jennings of the Boston Herald reported on the 14th of November that Stanton would not accept a trade to the Cardinals. There were rumblings even around the July 31st trade deadline that Stanton wouldn’t play in the Midwest. Point is, it seems like he knew he wasn’t coming here, the Marlins knew he wasn’t coming here, and they went through the motions anyway. Stanton’s dance with the Cardinals brass is like Freddie Prinze Jr. playing a sick game with Rachel Leigh Cook (yeah, I dropped a She’s All That reference – sue me) for his own personal entertainment. Meanwhile, the birds are left putting the rest of their offseason plans on hold until December and waiting, waiting, waiting, holding on to a sliver of hope that just maybe the big man on campus will take them to the prom. At Stanton’s unveiling (gag me) on Monday, he all but confirmed this, telling the media “"I really just wanted to learn what another organization is like.” “All I've experienced is the Marlins and basically one way of going about things. So I wanted to see how other organizations went about their business and how the city and everything would appeal to me if that was a way that I wanted to go."
Cool dude.
Return of the Evil Empire
No, I’m not talking about a reprise of the best album that Rage Against the Machine ever produced, I’m talking about the way we as a community of fans used to view the Bombers. Back when the George Steinbrenner ran the team, hating the Yankees was ubiquitous. They had all the money back when you could build a winner through free agency and didn’t have to develop your own talent. This led to them having all the talent, and in turn, all the rings. You couldn’t find a soul west of the Mason-Dixon line that had a soft spot for them. But after their soul-crushing defeat by the Arizona Diamondbacks in the 2001 World Series, as well as restrictive measures on spending were put in place to foment a more competitive balance between the haves and the have-not’s of the league, the Yankees faded back in to the same realm as the mortal teams of the league. Sure, they won another title in 2009, but even that team wasn’t laden with hateable, highly paid mega-stars (I have a soft spot in my heart for A-Rod, don’t ask me why) as was the case with the Yankees of lore.
And then something strange happened this past October. The Wild Card Yankees, with their defeat of the 22-consecutive win Indians in the ALDS, were actually an underdog that people could root for. They lacked ego, were largely home grown, and had a high-energy and highlight-reel-worthy rookie playing right field in the person of Aaron Judge who smashed 52 home runs and struck fear in to the hearts of pitchers with his 9’8’’, 530 pound frame. They pushed the World Champion-to-be Astros to the brink in game 7 of the ALCS, and all of a sudden, we had a fragment of affection for the Yankees for the first time in two decades.
Fast forward to Stanton’s press conference today: “I feel sorry for the baseballs”.
If that statement doesn’t embody the arrogant and brash persona the Yankees portrayed during their reign in the late 90’s/early 2000’s, your hubris must be at Rick Flair levels. The merriment I was feeling for the Yanks just metamorphosed to hatred that is reserved for the likes of the Kardashians and well-done steaks.
Paradise by the Dashboard Lights
Sticking with the music references for the fallout from all this, I can’t think of a better song to sum up the possible upshot of the trade. Meatloaf describes wanting this lady so badly that he agrees to love her forever so that she will say “yes”, only to realize soon after that he just wants to be rid of her. The Cardinals might end up in the same boat (I guess technically he was in a car), as Mr. Loaf.
Cardinals GM Mike Girsch and President of Ops John Mozeliak made it clear that they were going to search for an impact bat this offseason and there was no greater prize than Stanton. They put all their cards on the table, reportedly even agreeing to include flame-throwing prospect Sandy Alcantara in the deal, along with agreeing to absorb over $240 million dollars-worth of Stanton’s salary. They took their shot, and they missed. Can’t blame them for trying.
But, here’s where it could get messy. The Scott Boras-represented free agent outfielder J.D. Martinez sits on the open market. Boras is already prepping up his biggest cash cow of the offseason for a massive pay-day, positioning Martinez as “The King Kong of Slug”. And he’s not necessarily wrong- Martinez produced numbers after his trade from Detroit to Arizona that look more like something you’d see in a video game than on the back of a baseball card: 29 home runs and 65 RBI in 62 games. Which, translated over 162 games, would equal something around 70/175 with a .305 batting clip. That’s damn impressive. The problem is, Martinez has played over 123 games ONCE in his career. Add that to the fact that Martinez is, ahem, absolutely worthless with a glove on his hand. His fielding percentage? Seventh-worst of any outfielder in baseball. His range factor? Yep, Seventh-worst in baseball. His total putouts? 197, third lowest of any outfielder in baseball that qualified for the batting title. He plays outfield like there’s a swarm of bees chasing him.
My point is, much like Meatloaf, somebody is going to say “yes” to this man to proverbially get him in to bed and commit $130 million American greenbacks over the next 5 years only to be praying for the end of time so they can end their time with him when he shreds an ACL, tears something in his wrist, pulls a hamstring, or shreds a shoulder until it looks like ricotta cheese. And in between when he’s actually able to take the field, he’s going to provide Chris Duncan-level production with the glove, which he should really only be wearing to keep his hands warm. I am, and you should be, crossing your fingers that the Cardinals brass doesn’t go after the next biggest bat on the market as a knee-jerk reaction to Stanton forcing his way in to New York.
Of course, I could be wrong about all of this. Stanton’s NFL body-type could prove to be unable to withstand the rigors of 162 games a year over the next decade. He could fall victim to a persistent assortment of injuries and become an albatross of a contract a-la Sir Albert. He could age swiftly and have a steady decline from the 59 bombs and the MVP award he produced this year. But he probably won’t. He’ll probably stack up numbers that could put him in company with the best power hitters in history. And we will all sit back and daydream about the bronze statue of Giancarlo sitting on Clark Avenue that could have been.
As a consolation prize, St. Louis can seethe and revel in the fact that we have just been given a proper villain that we haven’t seen the likes of since Johnny Cueto went Bruce Lee on Jason LaRue. And his name is Giancarlo Stanton. Let’s get him, fellas.
