Imagine a carpenter. He’s working on a new home with a crew of other guys, but it’s not going so hot. He’s been on this job for months now—much longer than anyone ever anticipated—and mostly, he’s getting nothing done.
Part of the problem is in the tools. The head of his hammer is loose, and always threatening to fall off. Some of his nails are bent. His tape measure is junk. The cord on his circular saw is frayed, and the damned thing only works half of the time.
The other part of the problem is that he’s too quiet. He won’t communicate. All of these material issues—the hammer, the nails, the saw—they could all be fixed, but he won’t demand it. He’s too afraid of losing his job to go to the foreman and ask for some adequate replacement tools, the things that he could use to get the job done in an efficient manner.
So he sits idly by, scratching his chin and waiting for his lunch break when he can hit up the taco truck. He keeps banging on shit, but it’s mostly for show. There’s a good chance the house will never be built—at least not while he’s dicking around—so he bides his time, collecting his paycheck and waiting for the inevitable pink slip.
In case the headline didn’t give it away, Ned Yost is the carpenter, obviously, and despite the short-sighted nature of baseball—a team is only as good as their last 10 games or so—he’s just aimlessly poking around the shit-shack, waiting to get canned. Continue reading →