I'm back again, and like Howard Stern on satellite radio, I'm raw and uncensored, with little oversight and no insight. With Hanover weather turning unusually balmy, I thought I'd talk the quintessential summer sport: baseball.
Ahh, baseball. It always brings back so many childhood memories -- the warm summer breezes; the comfortable feel of my batting glove; the smell of the dugout; Coach, calling me over behind the batting cages; his calloused hands gently caressing the small of my back. ... What? Um, actually, like Mark McGwire, I'm really not here to talk about the past.
Anyway, although Major League Baseball is still months away, the World Baseball Classic is stepping into the breach. For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, imagine this: Young, highly motivated teams of talented players competing for national pride and the pure joy of sport. Oh wait, that's the Summer Olympics. The World Baseball Classic is just like that, except with far less pure sport and far more sponsorship opportunities.
Two controversies have dogged the Classic, however. The first revolves around the near exclusion of the Cuban team by the U.S. government. I'm not sure what the U.S. stood to gain by excluding the Cubans. Somehow I think that Major League Baseball players are bourgeois enough that any attempt to foment a communist revolution would fall flat.
Even if the Cuban baseball team plays in the World Classic, it is unlikely that the U.S. team could be upstaged. The Cubans are not expected to field one of their powerhouse teams of yesteryear.
The second controversy turns around everyone's favorite purple-lipped paragon of virtue: Alex Rodriguez. Rodriguez, a New York City native of Dominican descent, had decided to play for the Americans before switching to the Dominican team. Then, evidently taking a page from the Kobe Bryant, "If I don't do anything that could possibly offend anyone anywhere, maybe people will forget how much they hate me!" playbook, he decided to play for nobody. Now he's back on the U.S. squad. He's like baseball's version of a lipstick lesbian, except that no men -- not even his own teammates -- actually want to hang out with him.
In all seriousness, though, I don't know why we give A-Rod so much grief while offering Mike Piazza a free pass. If you haven't heard, Piazza, a Philadelphia native, has committed to play for the Italian team. Everyone knows that Piazza's almost DiMaggio-esque in his iconic status among Italian-Americans. Maybe recognizing this, his agent recently announced that Piazza will be building up his Italian "street cred" by doing a three-episode guest appearance on "The Sopranos" as Vito Spatafore's gay bodyguard.
Though I'm setting a dangerous informational precedent here, I thought I would try to handicap the tourney. First of all, I really can't see big things for the Americans. Captain Derek Jeter's oft-mentioned FDR-like leadership qualities unfortunately prove worthless, as U.S. stars like Gary Sheffield and Barry Bonds keep disappearing to "use the bathroom" together.
Elsewhere, various teams from siesta loving countries will pound on the likes of the Dutch, Australian and South African teams, who will leave the tournament mumbling about "sticky wickets" and wondering why nobody was playing with flat bats. I see the second round America-Dominican Republic game providing the tournament's most dramatic moment.
Leading in the bottom of the ninth, the U.S. team is stunned when A-Rod, in a classic WWF-like turn, hits American manager Buck Martinez over the head with a Fungo bat, wraps himself in the Dominican flag and defects to the Dominican team, leading them to a spectacular come-from-behind victory. Riding a tidal wave of emotion, the Dominicans sweep to the finals, where the Italians nonetheless upset them in the championship, after Mike Piazza personally sends David Ortiz, Manny Ramirez and Albert Pujols to "sleep with the fishes." Bet you didn't see that coming.
