Dear Gerrit Cole,
Welcome to New York, instant moneybags! Everyone in sports is talking about the absurd amount of cash you’re going to be making as a pitcher for the New York Yankees—$324 million over nine years, which comes to (WARNING: sports writer doing math!) a lot of dough per season…$36 million! Thirty-six million just to throw a baseball about once a week, and occasionally get yelled at by the back pages of the Post and the Daily News. Amazing. What a town!
It’s a wild sum, it really is, instantly making you one of the highest-paid athletes on the planet, and, yes, it’s going to draw some scorn and ridicule— Joe DiMaggio once took grief for asking for $40,000. The Yankees told Joe D. to sit on his wool hat, and he wound up getting $37,500.
But Gerrit, here’s a hard, unpopular truth that nobody’s going to tell you: Thirty-six million a year is not that much money, not in this wonderful, awful city. New York is a criminally expensive place. It’s become a Holiday Inn for billionaires. You can easily blow $36 million in a weekend here, and that’s without ordering appetizers, or any stupid bourbon cocktails with rosemary twigs in them.
So here’s some unsolicited advice:
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I’d probably start with a place to live. Gerrit, you will encounter folks who are going to try and talk you into the suburbs, and there are perfectly wonderful people in the suburbs, but come on, man: you just signed with a club in New York City. You should live in the city, just to experience it. It’s New York! You know what Sinatra sang! Don’t move to Connecticut, at least not right away. Nothing interesting happens in Connecticut after 2 P.M.
The problem is, apartments in New York City are pricey. You’re going to be shocked. A rich fella named Ken Griffin recently paid $238 million for a condo. That’s right—close to a quarter billion for a home in Manhattan. Though in fairness, the place Griffin bought has some pretty nice views. And natural light. And, I think, more than one bathroom.
Gerrit, I hate to be a killjoy, but you’re not going to be able to afford that kind of joint. A condo that costs $238 million—it’s out of your price range. You’re going to have to find something more practical. I’d say you should start with maybe a two-bedroom. There are a handful of two-bedrooms left in New York City in the $50 million range. Granted, they may have a shower in the kitchen, and the bed is a contraption known as a Murphy bed, but they are perfectly fine apartments for a fellow just starting out in New York City.
Do you know what a Murphy bed is, Gerrit? You’re about to find out.
You’re going to have to limit your expectations. For $50 million, you’re not going to get everything you want. You’re going to have to make compromises. The place probably isn’t going to have a doorman. It might not have an elevator. It’ll be what’s called a “walk-up,” which means you’ll have to walk up the stairs all of with your groceries, and when you get all the way to the top, you’ll realize you forgot to buy almond butter, and you’ll hate yourself.
Oh who am I kidding? You can’t afford the almond butter, either.
The good news is a walk-up apartment will keep you in shape. So will your transportation. Gerrit, don’t believe what the Car Mafia says: New York City is for walking. You’ll be able to walk to Yankee Stadium! Depending on where you get your apartment, it will take you anywhere from five minutes to four hours. A four-hour walk sounds like a lot, but the time just flies by. Along the way, you will meet New Yorkers, nice people who have no problem with yelling at you if you’re in the way. And even when you’re not in the way.
Better yet, get yourself a pass for the bike share. Bikes are much better than cars at getting around town, Gerrit. I have no joke here. I just like saying this to make car people mad.
As for entertainment, watch yourself. You probably should only dine out once or twice a month in New York City, because dining out starts to really add up—especially if you have a lot of friends who insist on celebrating their 34th birthdays at an expensive place, which gets to be super annoying, who cares about a 34th birthday. You’re going to be stunned to pay $6 for a cup of coffee. I won’t even tell you how much a pastrami sandwich now costs. As for those bourbon cocktails, they’re $14 if they come without a rosemary twig. The instant the bartender puts a rosemary twig inside it, it costs $19.
Cook at home now and then. Take it easy on Broadway shows; off-Broadway is where it’s at. Don’t buy Knicks tickets—just stand on the corner in a rainstorm and get soaked by a passing bus, it’s the exact same sensation. You can see at least three animals in the Central Park Zoo without buying a ticket. Get your hair cut at a barbershop, not a salon. Avoid spinning classes. Steal someone’s Netflix password. Stay off Madison Avenue. And Fifth. And listen to the boomers: No avocado toast. I haven’t even mentioned the city tax. Wait until you hear about that.
You can make New York City work, Gerrit. It’s a hell of a town—even on $36 million a year.
Write to Jason Gay at Jason.Gay@wsj.com
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December 12, 2019 at 12:12AM
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