$ellout

The biggest mistake Jason Giambi ever made has nothing to do with The Cream or The Clear. Or his inject-by-numbers approach to the anabolic cocktails that undoubtedly manifested into the vast array of internal bodily malfunctions incurred by the slugger throughout his tenure in pinstripes.
It has nothing to do with his public “apology” somehow bereft of the words, “I’m sorry.” And it hinges not on the (more than) probable decline in bottom line box scores on the backside of impending trading cards.

The biggest mistake Giambi made was Payday, 2001.

On December 13, 2001, only months after leading Oakland to the playoffs for the second consecutive season and narrowly missing his second MVP award, Giambi signed a seven-year, $120 million contract with the New York Yankees.

Ball game.

Because the previous spring, on the heels of winning the 2000 American League MVP after a season that included 43 home runs, 137 runs batted in and a .333 batting average, Giambi rejected a six-year, $91 million extension to stay in Oakland.

Despite the fact that his brother, Jeremy, played alongside him. Despite the fact that Oakland was a burgeoning young team on the rise, equal parts hell-fire and facial hair. And despite the fact that Giambi was a California lifer, having grown up in West Covina and played college ball a scant 32 miles down the road at Long Beach State.

The reason? Oakland’s offer didn’t include a no-trade clause.

Now let me ask The Sounding Board a question:

Do you honestly think, had Giambi continued to produce at the incessantly accelerated pace accrued through the 2001 season that Oakland would have EVER traded him?

For six consecutive seasons (excluding 1995 when he only appeared in 54 games) Giambi increased his batting average. From .291 in 1996 to a career-high .342 in 2001. And his numbers across the line paralleled that ascension: four consecutive seasons with more than 30 home runs; five with more than 100 runs batted in. And amazingly, as his power numbers increased, his strikeouts decreased.

He was more than just a slugger. Giambi’s combination of plate discipline and power was reminiscent of Frank Thomas in the mid-90s, a preclusion to the game-changing presence Barry Bonds has become.

But far more hulking than the menacing stick he carried into the batter’s box was the aura encapsulating the man; a package complete with blazing skulls adorning his bulging biceps and long, greasy hair that flirted with his shoulder blades.

Giambi was scary good. And he was just plain scary.

So imagine the horror of the adoring legions across the country when Giambi first smiled for the cameras on the fated December day.

Clean cut. Clean shaven. “I’m the biggest schmuck on the face of the Earth” grin plastered on his face, replacing the sneer he’d made famous in Oakland.

The new and “improved” Giambi soon greeted you on television, even more eloquently groomed, decked out in a suit, hawking deodorant in commercials that could have easily passed for a dating game show introduction.

And this from a player whose persona in Oakland would’ve led you to believe he didn’t even know what deodorant was!

Everything about Giambi in pinstripes stunk. And not just because it’s easy to hate New York. Not just because they continued their seemingly limitless fleecing of mid-market teams and their best players. Not just because Giambi’s left-handed power stroke was perfectly suited for the short porch at Yankee Stadium. And not just because the Damn Yankees had won four of the previous six World Series’.

Giambi in pinstripes stunk because he sold out.

$91 million isn’t exactly chump change. In fact, it would have accounted for more than one-third of Oakland’s payroll. But in the face of the BALCO scandal, the leaked grand jury testimony and the .208 batting average and 12 home runs he posted during an injury-shortened 2004 season, if Giambi doesn’t hit early, long and often, that’s exactly what he’ll be.