As everyone knows by now, Cee Cee Sabathia requested a second meeting with Brian Cashman on Monday following their confab on Sunday night. Cee Cee, who is married with three kids, had additional questions for the Yankees GM. Apparently, he is receptive to the idea of being a Yankee, but cannot fathom raising his family in the wilds of New York.
“He has a life choice to make that will direct where they will reside for the next however many years,” said Cashman, his face a death mask. “He wants to know about living in Westchester County.”
Westchester County has been home to several Yankees and their families. It has also been home to me. Cashman, on the other hand, lives in Connecticut, a state that harbors Red Sox fans. How could he possibly answer Cee Cee’s questions with any authority?
Fearing that the big lefty might see through Cash’s disingenuousness, I took matters into my own hands, flew to Vegas and forced my way into Cee Cee’s hotel suite. After some preliminary chitchat, I explained that I had grown up in Scarsdale, a lovely, leafy village in the heart of Westchester, and was living proof that he, Mrs. Sabathia and the Sabathia children would not only survive the place but thrive.
“I found you a house there,” I said proudly, showing him this.
“Seven bedrooms and nine baths for under $5 million. That’s a bargain compared to what you’d pay in California. Plus, it’s got the same colonial grandeur as the real White House, minus the protesters – ha ha.”
Cee Cee managed a weak smile. He was still wrestling with his “life choice.”
“Scarsdale is a wonderful town for kids,” I enthused. “For example, there’s an annual tree lighting ceremony at Christmas – very family oriented.”
I decided not to mention the year that Santa was Tasered for trying to slug a cop and then led away in restraints.
“The educational system is among the best in the country,” I went on. “Your house would be right near the high school.”
I kept my mouth shut about the time I was suspended for breaking into a friend’s car during study hall; I hot-wired it and drove it to the Bronx to see a ball game.
“Scarsdale High has some famous alumni,” I boasted. “Aaron Sorkin, the guy who wrote ‘The West Wing,’ went there. And Liza Minnelli used to star in the class plays. But the best was Linda Eastman.”
“Who?” said Cee Cee.
“She married a Beatle,” I said. “Hello?”
I dropped names of other famous Scarsdalians.
He looked unimpressed.
“Doesn’t your wife watch ‘All My Children?'”
He shook his head.
“O.K.,” I said. “Maybe these two will get your attention. They were married in Scarsdale.”
Cee Cee’s eyes widened. I’d hooked him. Finally. I, therefore, did not mention that another resident was Dr. Herman Tarnower, who made Scarsdale synonymous with murder.
Now was the moment to pour it on, wrap it up, close the deal. And what better way than to tout Scarsdale’s eateries.
“No need to shlep into Manhattan for a good meal,” I said. “You’ve got Meritage for new American cuisine, Moscato for Italian and Balducci’s for lots and lots of this.”
“Oh, and there’s one other thing Westchester has: my mother,” I said. “She’ll find you a housekeeper, a gardener, a plumber, an electrician, whatever you need. She’ll take your kids swimming, introduce your wife to her book group, even bring over chicken soup if anybody’s sick. Just tell her you’re a friend of mine and she’ll roll out the welcome mat.”
Cee Cee seemed very touched. “I’ll definitely become a Yankee and move my family to Scarsdale,” he said, choking back tears. “Thank you. And your mother.”
I decided not to tell him about the time Mom left a pot roast in the oven all night and nearly burned the house down.