mikegerber.com

…I am linking to this article which elucidates the origins of every team’s nickname. A lot of these anecdotes involve sportswriters, a notoriously drunken, irresponsible lot; it’s a wonder we got to 1925 without a league full of swear-words. “In 1903, writer Chubbs Brennan famously called Cincinnati’s team ‘nine steaming turds.’ Surprisingly, the moniker stuck, and by next April, the club’s uniforms sported the gay strands of fecal matter that still spatter them today.”

The season is long, and the sport notoriously unpredictable, but hopes are high for my personal favorite, the St. Louis Cardinals. Not only do they have a solid front of the rotation and baseball’s best player, Human Growth Hormone Albert Pujols, their new hitting coach is Mark McGwire, he of the ninety-inch forearms and Walgreens’ bulk discount. I wonder what tips he’s handing out? (“Take this with plenty of water.”) I kid, obviously, because I love. Most St. Louisians have a great affection for the Redbirds; my personal theory is that it is so damn hot and humid in St. Louis during the summer—and there is so little to do—that baseball is seized upon desperately, as a last-ditch alternative to suicide. Add to this the number of people looking for any excuse to drink in public, and you have the makings of a loyal fanbase.

My dream job: Fredbird

Out of all professional sports, a love of baseball is particularly difficult to shake, once it is firmly seated. Yet year after year the unholy triumvirate of drugs, Bud Selig and ESPN do their utmost to kick the sport out of my heart. I expect this year to be no different: At some point another batch of stars will be accused of using performance-enhancing drugs, allegations which they will vociferously deny, preferring to wait for a lucrative post-career mea culpa. At some other point Commissioner Selig will grab a little more cash, cementing his claim as the George W. Bush of baseball. And finally, whenever I do sit down to watch a game, the only thing on will be Yankees vs. Red Sox, the immortal story of Goliath versus slightly smaller, whinier Goliath. Yet, baseball trundles on, and I’m awfully glad it’s here. I’ll get the MLB radio package, and if things break right, might even take in a handful of Dodger games at Chavez Ravine. What God hath joined, let no man put asunder—not even Joe Morgan.