Mike Colón Media

By Mike Colón

The worst part of being a New York Yankees fan these days isn’t necessarily the losing. It’s the almost predictable nature of how it happens, followed by the same explanations, the same assurances, and ultimately, the same people being entrusted to ensure that next year will somehow be different.

Only it never is.

Another October has come and gone in the Bronx, and with it another opportunity for the Yankees to capture that elusive 28th World Series championship. Instead, the Tampa Bay Rays made quick work of the Bronx Bombers, sweeping them in three games in the American League Division Series and sending them home to contemplate yet another season that promised so much and delivered so little.

For those of us who love this franchise, it’s a feeling that has become all too familiar.

Seventeen years.

That’s how long it’s been since the Yankees last won a World Series. Seventeen years since the franchise added another championship to its storied history. Seventeen years of postseason appearances, expensive acquisitions, managerial changes, and endless assurances that the organization remains committed to winning.

And yet, here we are.

I have been a Yankees fan for most of my life. And like so many others who have followed this franchise through the good, the bad, and the downright infuriating, I have always understood that being a Yankees fan comes with a different set of expectations.

Those expectations weren’t invented by impatient fans on social media. They were established through generations of excellence, through the legendary players who wore the pinstripes, and through the 27 World Series championships that made the New York Yankees the most successful franchise in Major League Baseball history.

Winning wasn’t simply something the Yankees hoped to do.

It was what they were expected to do.

Somewhere along the way, that expectation appears to have changed. At least for the people running the organization.

And therein lies the growing disconnect between Yankees ownership and the very people who have supported this franchise for generations.

When Did Good Enough Become Good Enough?

Brian Cashman has been the Yankees’ general manager since 1998. Aaron Boone has now completed nine seasons as the team’s manager. Neither man is a stranger to criticism, particularly given the Yankees’ inability to finish the job in October.

But what I find most remarkable isn’t that they’ve been criticized. It’s that, after years of the same disappointing results, the organization continues to operate as though there is no compelling reason to pursue a different direction.

Following the Yankees’ elimination, the New York Post conducted a reader poll that generated more than 11,000 responses. Nearly 85 percent of those who participated wanted Boone fired, while approximately 73 percent believed Cashman should be relieved of his duties.

Granted, a voluntary reader poll is hardly a scientific representation of the entire Yankees fan base. But anyone who has spent five minutes engaging with Yankees fans over the last several years knows that these frustrations didn’t suddenly materialize following the Tampa Bay series.

They have been simmering for quite some time.

The fans have been calling for regime change for years. And while not everyone agrees on the exact solution, there is an unmistakable sense that the organization’s leadership has become far too comfortable with results that would have once been deemed unacceptable.

That responsibility ultimately falls upon Hal Steinbrenner.

Now, I’m not suggesting that Hal doesn’t want to win. Nor am I going to pretend that the Yankees haven’t spent considerable amounts of money assembling their rosters.

They have.

But there is a significant difference between spending money in pursuit of a championship and holding the individuals responsible for that pursuit accountable when they continually fail to deliver one.

His father, George Steinbrenner, was far from perfect. His impulsiveness, his public feuds, and his penchant for changing managers created their fair share of unnecessary turmoil.

But one thing you could never question about George was his desire to win.

He understood what the Yankees represented. He understood what was expected of those fortunate enough to wear the uniform. And while his methods weren’t always appropriate or productive, there was never any ambiguity about where the organization stood when it came to accepting failure.

I don’t want to see the Yankees return to the days of firing managers every other week.

What I do want is accountability.

And right now, I don’t see nearly enough of it.

Aaron Boone will forever occupy a special place in Yankees history because of his unforgettable home run against Tim Wakefield in the 2003 American League Championship Series. That moment is his, and nothing that happens during his managerial career will ever take it away.

But a legendary moment as a player should not translate into permanent job security as a manager.

Nine seasons without a championship should, at the very least, warrant a serious reassessment of the direction of the ballclub.

The same applies to Cashman.

His contributions to the Yankees’ four World Series championships between 1998 and 2009 deserve recognition. They should never be erased or diminished simply because his more recent results have been disappointing.

But neither should those accomplishments provide indefinite protection from accountability.

What worked in 1998, 1999, 2000, and 2009 does not automatically justify what is being done in 2026.

The organization needs to recognize that distinction.

Because from where I’m sitting, the Yankees have spent far too much time defending their process and nowhere near enough time questioning why that process continues to produce the same ending.

The Death of Baseball Fundamentals

Of course, my frustration doesn’t begin and end with Hal Steinbrenner, Brian Cashman, or Aaron Boone.

It extends to something much bigger, something that has bothered me for years and that the Yankees, unfortunately, have become a glaring example of.

The way baseball is played today.

Or perhaps more accurately, the way the game is increasingly being taught, managed, and evaluated.

I miss baseball.

I miss the game in which putting the ball in play actually meant something. When hitters understood the importance of making contact with two strikes, when a runner standing on second base with nobody out represented an opportunity to manufacture a run, and when advancing that runner was considered an important part of winning a baseball game.

I miss the hit-and-run.

I miss the stolen base being an integral part of a team’s offensive identity rather than an occasional novelty.

I miss the sacrifice bunt, situational hitting, and the ability to manufacture a run without needing somebody to launch a baseball into the upper deck.

And I especially miss a time when striking out was viewed as something a hitter should actively try to avoid.

Today, we live in an era dominated by launch angles, exit velocities, spin rates, and a seemingly endless assortment of statistics that have transformed the way organizations evaluate players and approach the game.

The prevailing philosophy places enormous emphasis on the home run, the walk, and the strikeout.

And while there is certainly value in understanding the statistical probabilities associated with different outcomes, I believe baseball has lost something important in its obsession with maximizing those probabilities.

Balance.

There was a time when a baseball lineup featured different types of hitters, each capable of contributing in his own way.

Some hit for power. Some hit for average. Some worked counts, stole bases, or specialized in putting the ball in play when the situation demanded it.

The great Yankees teams of the late 1990s and early 2000s were beautiful examples of that balance.

Derek Jeter, Bernie Williams, Paul O’Neill, Tino Martinez, Jorge Posada, Scott Brosius, and the many others who contributed to those championship teams understood that winning baseball required more than simply waiting for someone to hit a three-run home run.

They could beat you in a multitude of ways.

They understood the importance of moving runners over, taking the extra base, executing defensively, and making adjustments when an opponent took away their preferred approach.

Those teams certainly had power. But they weren’t dependent upon power to the exclusion of everything else.

They knew how to play baseball.

And that is precisely what I want to see return.

I’m not suggesting that every hitter in the modern game should become a slap hitter or that home runs should suddenly be viewed as a bad thing.

Far from it.

What I am suggesting is that a team should not become so dependent upon one particular method of scoring that it finds itself practically helpless whenever that method fails.

Consider how often we watch a hitter step to the plate with a runner on third base and fewer than two outs, only to take an enormous swing and strike out.

Or how often a team gets its leadoff man aboard and proceeds to accomplish absolutely nothing because nobody can execute the fundamentals necessary to advance him.

Those situations drive me crazy.

Not because I expect every player to succeed every time. Baseball has never worked that way.

But because I expect professional baseball players to possess the skills necessary to give their teams a fighting chance in those situations.

That shouldn’t be asking too much.

Analytics Should Be a Tool, Not a Religion

Before anyone misunderstands my position, allow me to make something perfectly clear.

I am not advocating for the elimination of analytics.

There is a place for advanced statistics in baseball. There always will be. The ability to evaluate players more accurately, identify weaknesses, and uncover previously overlooked advantages has undoubtedly benefited the sport.

But when analytics begin replacing instinct, experience, and the fundamental understanding of how to play the game, I believe we’ve gone too far.

Baseball isn’t played on a spreadsheet.

It’s played on a field, by human beings, in circumstances that cannot always be adequately represented by mathematical projections.

There are moments when a manager must recognize that his pitcher is struggling despite what the numbers suggest. Moments when a hitter needs to abandon his usual approach and concentrate on making contact. Moments when an opportunity to advance a runner is more valuable than taking another enormous swing in pursuit of a home run.

And moments when common sense ought to prevail over whatever the computer says.

That isn’t a rejection of intelligence or innovation.

It is a recognition that numbers, however sophisticated, should complement baseball knowledge rather than replace it.

I sometimes wonder whether the people responsible for constructing today’s rosters have become so focused on identifying measurable advantages that they’ve lost sight of the less glamorous qualities that make a championship team successful.

Defense. Baserunning. Situational awareness. Making contact. Executing under pressure.

None of these concepts is particularly complicated.

And yet, watching the Yankees at times, you’d think they were.

Take this year’s postseason, for example.

After winning 93 regular-season games and dispatching the Boston Red Sox in the Wild Card Series, the Yankees were swept by Tampa Bay in three games.

One hit in Game 1.

Four errors in Game 2.

Not a single lead across 27 innings of baseball.

Think about how extraordinary that is.

An organization with one of the largest payrolls in Major League Baseball could not manage to lead for even a single inning against a division rival whose roster was assembled with considerably fewer financial resources.

And while Tampa Bay certainly deserves credit for its performance, what struck me most was the way the Rays approached the game.

They put the ball in play. They ran the bases aggressively. They applied pressure on the Yankees’ defense. And when New York made mistakes, they took advantage of them.

It wasn’t some revolutionary new approach to baseball.

It was fundamentally sound baseball, executed by a team that understood what it needed to do to win.

The kind of baseball that the Yankees themselves once exemplified.

You can have every analytical department imaginable, employ the brightest minds in the sport, and spend hundreds of millions of dollars putting together a roster.

But if your players can’t execute the fundamentals when the season is on the line, what exactly have you accomplished?

Baseball Has Lost Some of Its Soul

My concerns extend well beyond the Bronx.

There are plenty of things about the modern game that I appreciate. The pitch clock has improved the pace of play, and changes encouraging stolen bases have brought back an element of excitement that had been disappearing for years.

Those are positives.

But speeding up a baseball game doesn’t necessarily make the baseball itself better.

I still believe the sport has become far too comfortable with strikeouts and far too dismissive of the importance of contact hitting.

There’s something inherently exciting about watching a speedy runner reach base, knowing that he’s capable of stealing second, advancing to third on a ground ball, and scoring on a well-placed sacrifice fly.

There’s excitement in watching a hitter battle through a long at-bat before finally finding a hole in the defense.

There’s beauty in a perfectly executed double play, a well-timed hit-and-run, or a manager making a decision based upon the circumstances unfolding right before his eyes.

Those moments are every bit as much a part of baseball as a towering home run.

I don’t want them relegated to the background simply because the numbers suggest there may be a more statistically efficient way of playing.

At its best, baseball is a game of strategy, adjustments, fundamentals, and human emotion.

The fact that there are so many different ways to win has always been one of its greatest qualities.

Why, then, would we want to make the game so one-dimensional?

The most successful teams should be capable of adapting to the circumstances. They should be able to win a slugfest one night and a 2-1 pitchers’ duel the next.

They should be able to hit home runs when the opportunity presents itself and manufacture runs when it doesn’t.

And they should possess the discipline to recognize the difference.

That’s the baseball I love.

And it’s the baseball I want back.

Give Us Our Yankees Back

As for the Yankees, I believe the organization has reached a point where meaningful change is no longer something to contemplate.

It is something that needs to happen.

Replacing Aaron Boone alone won’t magically cure everything wrong with this franchise if the same front office continues constructing rosters around the same philosophy.

Replacing Brian Cashman won’t accomplish much if ownership remains satisfied with the same standards and expectations.

And signing another expensive free agent won’t solve the underlying problem if the Yankees continue entering October without the versatility and fundamentally sound approach necessary to win when their power game isn’t working.

The entire organization needs to reevaluate what it values, how it develops players, and what it expects from the individuals responsible for putting a winning product on the field.

That begins with ownership.

Hal Steinbrenner needs to understand that the frustration among Yankees fans isn’t simply the product of another disappointing postseason.

It’s the product of years of disappointment coupled with the perception that the organization has become increasingly unwilling to hold its leadership accountable.

Fans aren’t demanding change because they believe the Yankees are entitled to win the World Series every single season.

They’re demanding change because they want to believe that the people running the franchise are as dissatisfied with the results as they are.

And right now, that’s becoming increasingly difficult to believe.

The New York Yankees are not just another professional sports franchise.

They are an institution, one whose history has been shaped by generations of players, managers, and fans who understood that the pinstripes represented something special.

That doesn’t mean the Yankees should live entirely in the past.

It means the organization should remember the standards that made that past worth celebrating.

I don’t need the Yankees to recreate the 1998 team, or the 1999 team, or the 2000 team. Those teams were special, and their accomplishments belong to another era.

What I want is a franchise that approaches winning with the same seriousness, one that emphasizes fundamentals, recognizes the value of different types of players, and understands that regular-season success means considerably less when October continually ends in disappointment.

I want a manager capable of adapting to the game in front of him.

I want a front office willing to question its philosophy when that philosophy repeatedly fails.

And I want an ownership group that recognizes loyalty and stability are admirable qualities only when they aren’t standing in the way of progress.

Most importantly, I want to enjoy watching my team play baseball without constantly wondering why the most basic elements of the sport have become such an adventure.

Because despite all my frustrations, I still love the Yankees.

I still love baseball.

I love the history, the rivalries, the ballparks, the moments of brilliance, and the fact that no two games are ever exactly alike.

I love the anticipation of a new season and the possibility that, come October, something special might happen.

But loving something doesn’t require pretending that everything about it is wonderful.

Sometimes it means acknowledging that something has gone wrong and hoping that the people capable of fixing it will finally recognize the problem.

The Yankees don’t need to abandon analytics. Baseball doesn’t need to turn back the clock fifty years.

Both simply need to rediscover the importance of the fundamentals, the instincts, and the competitive spirit that made this game great in the first place.

As for Hal Steinbrenner, Brian Cashman, and Aaron Boone, my message is simple.

Listen to the people who love this franchise. Recognize that the status quo isn’t delivering what it should. Stop treating postseason appearances as evidence that everything is working, and start demanding the results that once defined the organization.

Seventeen years without a championship is a long time.

Nine seasons without one under the same manager is a long time, too.

And for a fan base that has been asking for change for years, patience is understandably wearing thin.

I don’t know about everybody else, but I’m tired of watching the same movie every October.

I’m tired of the excuses.

I’m tired of seeing baseball fundamentals treated as an afterthought.

And I’m tired of watching a franchise whose identity was built upon winning championships seemingly become content with merely competing for them.

So I’ll ask the question again.

Can I have my franchise back, please?

And while we’re at it, can I have my sport back, too?

Mike Colón is the host of the Mic’d In New Haven Podcast which can be found on all podcast platforms and is simulcast in video form on YouTube