From the recordonline.com -
If you read between the lines of the moves that Yankees GM Brian Cashman has made this off-season, you can clearly see a pattern by now, a philosophical shift, a definite, albeit low-key master plan.
Cashman obviously sensed that what’s been so terribly wrong about these Yankees in recent years, why they can’t push themselves through the playoffs into the World Series, has nothing to do with the talent he’s been putting on the field, but what lay deep inside his players’ hearts and souls.
That something other than the soiled uniforms just didn’t smell right in that clubhouse.
Cashman has been secretly telling us all winter — not with words but actions — that the Yankees have indeed been damaged at the very core, devoid of any real camaraderie, if not spiritually bankrupt. Not remotely a family, like they had been so beautifully during their championship years, but merely a collection of huge contracts and self-absorbed egos and strange personalities.
So Cashman, without Steinbrenner breathing down his neck all the time to do something earth shattering anymore, can finally listen to his gut now and do the right thing, not simply react to a string of blustery words shouted into his ear.
He can work with subtlety if he chooses to, rather than rely mostly on the mega-million dollar signings of star free agents.
So, no, he didn’t land an A-Rod or Randy Johnson or Johnny Damon this time around, never really jumped in with both feet into the Barry Zito pool of madness.
Didn’t feel the need to.
Instead, with the signing of a former championship family member, Andy Pettitte, and a couple of additions by subtractions this winter, Cashman has gone about the quiet business of fixing the Yankees where he’s convinced that they’re broken the most.
From the inside out.
So along went that 6-foot-10 churl named Randy Johnson to Arizona. In his two seasons here, the Big Unit added nothing to the locker room but his bony back and stony silence. He stuck his head in his stall like an ostrich in sand the whole time, rarely mixing with anyone in pinstripes or out, coming across as nothing more than a passing-time interloper that cared about his performance, for sure, but no one else’s.
And along went to Detroit that me-first yammer-mouth Gary Sheffield, who came to the Yankees with the label of being a clubhouse cancer and did little to shed it in his three seasons here. In the last couple especially, Sheff seemed to say something divisive or distracting or completely insane every other time he flapped his lips — that is, when he wasn’t ready to pummel some fan in the stands. The Yankees came to a conclusion about him: The guy had more pop and wiggle left in his mouth than his bat. Enough was enough.
I would pay money to see Cashman and Torre sing this song on a commerical for the YES Network:
A great slugger, we haven’t got.
A great pitcher, we haven’t got.
A great ball club, we haven’t got.
What’ve we got?
We’ve got heart.
All you really need is heart.
When the odds are sayin’ you’ll never win,
That’s when the grin should start!