The last time I saw Hank Steinbrenner, I think, was very early one November morning, 2009.
It was dark and cold outside Yankee Stadium. He was standing on a landing, a couple steps into a breeze that had caused him to turn up the lapel on his sport coat. He pressed a cell phone to an ear with one hand and waved a near-spent cigarette with the other, so the orangey glow bounced and swirled with his conversation. Maybe it was the late hour and maybe it was the champagne, but Hank leaned heavily onto an iron barrier, his elbows on the top bar and one foot propped on the bottom bar.
The passing headlights, directed toward Macombs Dam Bridge, cast him in silhouette. On the road, faceless people shouted from their windows to no one in particular, and honked their horns, and on the sidewalk others returned the boastful chatter.
The Yankees were champions again and Hank's father seemed barely lucid enough to understand it. Indeed, George Steinbrenner would die the following summer.Read More »from True or not, rumors of Yankees sale are further evidence of the softening of Steinbrenner regime