MARKET VALUE

Let’s say you’re a cook at Burger King. Hey, good for you. It’s a great summer job. You show up every day, put in your hours, don’t have to care whether or not the tomato slice on every Whopper you’re making is exactly centered on the patty, eat as much as you want during your breaks, then head home later that night. Pretty sweet, no?

But then you got into the Ritalin.

It started off innocently enough. You were at a party. Your buddies just got a hook-up from “a-friend-of-this-guy-that-my-brother-knows”. You and the boys are sitting on the floor, staring at the pile of little white goodies on the coffee table. Do you take one? Did he? Should I take another?

Why not? It can’t be that bad, can it?

Before you know it, you’re not just taking it at parties. Or with friends. Wake up the morning? Pop one. Before work? Definitely need to take one.

Ok, so your body felt a little funny most of the time but goddam could you concentrate on those Tendercrisp Chicken Sandwich combos. Every leaf of lettuce was delicately laid down, every spread of mayo was absolutely uniform, and every French fry came out of the oil vat a deep, golden brown. And my god were you pushing out the numbers. Never took a shift off… never missed a routine bathroom cleanup… never screwed up an order.

What’s up, employee of the month? How you look now?

Phone rings. It’s the manager of the McDonald’s across town. He explains that his owner has given him free reign to spend as much as he needs to put together the ‘ultimate’ McDonald’s. He’s had his eye on you. He wants to give you a job. He’s heard about your proclivity for making the flawless burger, and his owner demands perfection. They haven’t had a franchise-of-the-year designation from head office since 2000, and everyone’s starting to feel a little ancy.

The conversation continues. He clarifies to you that money is no object. He offers you a slight raise. You’re currently making about seven bucks an hour. He counters with a starting wage of $17.79/hr with a guaranteed progressive increase to $39.97/hr over the next five years. There are only two stipulations:

(1) you need to get a trim to make sure you fit into the new hair nets, and;

(2) you need to feel different when you put on that new uniform. Cooking at McDonald’s, of course, comes with a certain level of pride.

Do you take the job?

*********

A week later you’re standing there at the introductory training session, looking around the room. And then. It happens. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of your hero. You’ve read about him. You’ve heard the urban legends. You know the story:

Recruited as a bright-eyed teenager. Been here his whole life. Contributed to the 1996 franchise of the year contest way more than anyone could have expected. Started commanding respect from the older cooks. Was a leader by example. Truly cared about his sandwiches. Working at McDonald’s had been his life-long dream, and now he’s been promoted to head of the kitchen. My god, what a blessed life.

You and he work together in various capacities over the next little while, but things never seem to go your way. Over the years, you can tell that there’s still a few pieces missing. Your boss agrees.

You show up to work one day…

Hey… over there…. isn't that the guy that once made 37 Oreo Blizzards in 12 minutes at the DQ over on Randol Mill Rd.? Holy crap, I’ve heard about that guy. He’s a friggin’ mercenary.

Some time later…

No way… is it? The guy at the cutting board? Isn’t that the dude who used to prep ingredients at the rival McDonald’s on Brookline Ave? You know, the one that won franchise of the year in 2004? What the hell, he’s working here now??

Slowly you see all the pieces coming together. But in the back of your mind you know something’s just not right. You know it’s coming.

Then the word comes down. Head office has just instituted a mandatory urine-test.

Oh no.

Before you’re even subjected to the indignity of having a pimply-faced teenager wearing a paper hat watch you pee into a sundae cup, you feel a desperate urge to come clean. You know that there’s no way that you can keep up your recent performance without the Ritalin. Sure, you’ll try your best, but you know damn well that there’s only so much you can do with the natural talent that you have.

You immediately give a blanket apology to management and your co-workers. Nothing specific, but you just wanted to get a load off of your chest.

Do they ask you to clarify?

Not really.

Are you fired?

Nope.

Are you suspended?

Uhhhh, no.

Does your boss try to get out of the agreement that was obviously signed under the misguided notion that you could cook like you have been without ‘a little help’?

Nay.

Instead – and much to your disbelief – you’re praised for your forthrightness and placed immediately in front of the griddle. We’ve got work to do, boys…

*********

Flash forward to the present day.

There has been no franchise of the year designation.

Your numbers are way down, but that was to be expected; no one’s terribly surprised about that. You’re doing your best, though.

The DQ mercenary is still showing the ability to make McFlurries like a mad-man, but for some reason he’s only at his best on cold days when it doesn’t really matter. Put him in the middle of a 100 degree scorcher when there’s dozens of kids screaming to their parents that they need ice cream NOW and he just shuts down.

The prep cook from the Brookline McDonald’s has seen better days. He’s getting older. He can’t slice lettuce with the same fervor that he used to. He misses his old co-workers. At least they were fun to be around.

The kitchen head is still doing his best, but he knows the deal. All the glory and adulation that was lavished upon him as a young lad is starting to diminish. Just a little. Everyone in the industry still knows that he’s one of the best motivators out there, but the cracks in his image are starting to become apparent.

And now your owner is mad as hell. He’s dished out a ton of cash to put together perhaps the greatest fast-food talent in the industry, but things just aren’t coming together. He even fired the experienced battle-worn assistant manager and replaced him with an ex-line cook, but that’s obviously backfired. What’s worse is that said assistant manager is now working at the downtrodden Wendy’s across town that was on the verge of bankruptcy and has completely turned it around, while you’re still left with a rookie at the helm.

Who’s left to blame?

Tell you what. You want to let the Skip offer a suggestion?

Think about it. Is it the cooks’ fault that they agreed to offers that screamed, “You’re going to pay me how much??? To cook burgers?? Hell, yeah!!”

No. No it is not.

Instead, ask yourself one simple question. Who is ultimately responsible for bringing together this group of yahoos in the first place?

You guessed it.

There is only one man to blame. The franchise manager. You may know him by various monikers, but I know him by only one…

Brian Cashman.

*********

In case the metaphorical rant above wasn’t abundantly clear already, let’s spell it out. Try reading it again but this time make the following substitutions…

You play for the New York Yankees.

You are Jason Giambi.

The kitchen head? My man D-Jetes.

The DQ Mercenary? Some guy named A-Rod.

The prep cook from Brookline? One Mr. Johnny Damon.

The battle-worn assistant manager? Joe Torre.

The ex-line cook? Joe Girardi.

The owner? The owner.

*********

Yup. The timer’s now gone off, and Hank has had his first major explosion of the year. As much as we love to hate anyone from the Steinbrenner family and tend to disregard anything they say as mindless prattle, can you really blame him?? Consider the following:

Fact 1: The Yankees have a payroll of $207,148,489 this year.

Fact 2: The Yankees occupy the cellar of the AL East.

I’m going to go ahead and assume that if you handed over two hundred million smackers to someone with the expectation that he had sufficient ability to assemble a quality roster but you were subsequently rewarded with a big kick in the teeth, you might be a little choked.

So, yes, I’ll go on record and say that I agree with The Boss 2.0 when he says something to the effect of, “They’ve got to play smarter and harder.”

However, having him respond with a simple “yes” when asked if it was time for his players to start earning their money is entirely shortsighted and misguided. Just because you’re paying these guys at the ridiculous rate that you are by no means indicates that they’re worthy of what they’re getting.

Listen. If you give a line cook $20,000,000 a year, does it automatically make up for the fact that he didn’t study at the Cordon Bleu?

Of course not.

Surely you can expect a quality club sandwich to be punched out in short order, but for godsake don’t expect him to make you a sea bass fillet with a balsamic reduction lovingly placed over a bed of white truffle risotto and expect it to be any good. The capability just flat-out isn’t there.

The major issue here is that Hank is expecting his roster to play to the level of their salaries instead of playing to the level of their abilities.

Let there be no mistake, a clear distinction must be drawn here. A player can expect to be compensated commensurate with how he performs on the field. A player cannot be expected to perform on the field commensurate with how much he is being compensated.

The latter, simply, is ass backwards.

Again, this all comes back to Monsieur Cashman. Over the years he’s been provided with unlimited resources – the major hurdle for any GM to overcome – and he has repeatedly shown that his ability to assess and properly reward talent is resoundingly unworthy of his continuing to be gainfully employed.

Obviously, he no longer has any idea what the market value of a player really is. Rather, he simply believes that by calling upon his bottomless cash pool and dictating the market that the players can magically call upon some bottomless talent pool and live up to the cost.

Sorry, son. Not gonna happen.

- the Skip