The Futility Infielder

"Ain't no sense worrying about things you got no control over, because if you got no control over them, ain't no sense worrying." -- the Prophet Gozzlehead

Because its status has changed as often as the weather, and because of some sage wisdom I once received from a pinstriped leadoff hitter with the worst throwing arm I'd ever seen, I long ago resolved not to sweat the potential Alex Rodriguez-Manny Ramirez trade. The mainstream media have turned the potential Red Sox-Rangers trade into a red-ball requiring round-the-clock coverage, calling this the Deal of the Century and the Trade of the Millenium and pumping clichés along the lines of "the Hot Stove has never been hotter" until the cows have keeled over in the pasture. This soap opera has been going on for over six weeks, and if we're to believe reports, the deal is finally dead because yet another artificially imposed deadline set by a desperate billionaire has passed.

My recent experience at the Winter Meetings in New Orleans, where conflicting reports about the deal's status swirled around the Marriott lobby like twin tornadoes, only strengthened my resolve not to worry about this trade. At one point I overheard Peter Gammons and Jayson Stark talking about it to a third party and though my rabbit-ears briefly buzzed, I walked right past. I spent three days perfectly happy to listen to somebody -- anybody -- tell me that the Devil Rays were about to sign Jose Cruz, Jr. or speculate whether Scott Spiezio or J.T. Snow would make a better first base foil for Jason Giambi, rather than listen to one more report about the status of the A-Rod deal. As my mother is prone to say, "D.I.L.I.G.A.S.?" – Do I Look Like I Give A Shit?

The Yankee fan in me is supposed to be cowering in fear over this deal, which would bring the AL MVP to the heart of the Red Sox batting order, where he could feast on Yankee pitching 19 games a year. Oh. Having died about two dozen small deaths in October, one for every time the Yank hurlers had to run the Nomar-Manny-David Ortiz gauntlet, I'm decidedly unfazed by that possibility.

On the other hand, the East Coast sophisticate in me is supposed to be elated that yet one more great player would be inducted into our midst, arriving in a division most accurately referred to as the AL Beast. I didn't know we were in a hip-hop war with the West Coast; somebody please bust a cap in Billy Beane’s ass for me, and tell that bitch Bill Bavasi what time it is.

The Dodger fan in me is supposed to be elated at the possibility of this deal, because should A-Rod hit Beantown, the likely destination for Nomar Garciaparra is L.A. Yes, I’ll be bummed when Cesar Izturis and his .597 OPS are put out of a job, but I fully believe second baseman Alex Cora’s Incredible Vortex of Suck can do at least something to offset the 25 homers and 100 RBI which Nomah will provide to that offensive excuse the Dodgers have for an offense.

The baseball fan in me who has been shelling out hundreds of dollars a year and spending countless hours in front of the TV watching cranky millionaires play ball is supposed to be outraged -- OUTRAGED, I tell you -- that the players’ union stood in the way of this deal, demanding that A-Rod’s record-setting contract was adhered to. The pundit in me is supposed to be churning out thousands of words a week telling my readership why this deal is either going to destroy baseball or save it.

Kids, I'm over it. When the first rumors of the story broke, I took a long hard look in the mirror and said to myself, "Only when Alex Rodriguez is photographed wearing a Red Sox jersey am I going to get worked up about this." And I take great pride that, at least in this instance, I've been true to my resolve. I got more worked up over the Yanks re-signing futilityman Enrique Wilson to a one-year, $750,000 contract than I did over the thought of A-Rod in a B cap, perhaps on the theory that if I ignored it, the trade would just go away. My pal Nick and my blog-bud Alex Belth may have been losing sleep over the trade, or tearing their hair out in fist-sized chunks, but that's not me.

I’m not convinced that the deal is "dead," because I’ve seen too many horror movies where the protagonist wipes off his brow and says, "Whew, I'm glad that’s over!" moments before brain-eating radioactive zombies from Hell burst through the back door and wreak havoc all over again, eating the girlfriend, the loyal dog, and the plucky sidekick with the limp. See, I always find myself checking my watch in those situations, knowing that it’s too soon for the movie to be over. And since it’s not July 31 yet, I'm not buying the exaggerated reports of this deal’s demise.

But I'll say this. I've never been more depressed at the state of mainstream baseball coverage than I have been over this deal. The likes of Mike Lupica and Peter Gammons put forth shrill down-from-the-mountain pronouncements, pointing fingers at the big egos involved here -- players, agents, owners, union leaders -- without ever turning the mirror on themselves, and plenty of writers followed suit. This whole three-ring circus has been an exercise in their self-importance, these old hens leaking rumors to anyone within earshot in order to keep the attention focused on their au-thor-i-tah around the clock. Said hens feel obliged to tell A-Rod that he doesn't need those extra $12 million, or $30 million, or $80 million, or whatever it is because he’s already paid more than entire countries, most of which have no chance of finishing in the first division of the Third World. And while they're telling Rodriguez how much money he doesn't need, they might as well get off another shot or two at how greedy the entire Players Association is, and how evil Gene Orza is for protecting the interests of the constituency he's paid to protect. These writers have so much invested in covering this Deal of the Century that they're blaming anyone and everyone who stands in its way. So much for no jeering in the press box.

That's not to say that there hasn't been good coverage of the situation. Jack Curry of the New York Times has done a good job sticking to the facts, ESPN's Jim Caple weighed in with a unique angle on A-Rod trying to steal Nomar's job and another piece about the union's point of view, and the Baseball Prospectus guys -- particularly Joe Sheehan and Chaim Bloom -- have been batting... well, they've been putting up very high EQAs.

The other thing that chafes my ass about this whole non-deal is that, unlike some trades which are contingent on a contract extension and the two teams given 72 hours to hash out a deal, the Sox have had weeks to talk to A-Rod. Geez, Bud, tell us who's your real favorite in that Yankee-Red Sox rivalry.

I'll admit that I thoroughly enjoy the schadenfreude of watching the richest man in baseball toil in the obscurity of the AL West cellar, a prisoner of the contract he signed. I have plenty invested in preserving the fragile equilibrium of unhappiness in the Red Sox ranks, those one-named divas agitating for more respect as they prove how self-centered they are, and I'm hoping that Kevin Millar's Foot-in-Mouth-ectomy shows up on the Surgery Channel. Furthermore, I love to see a writer lashing out at Larry "Evil Empire" Lucchino, even if that writer is Tracy Ringolsby. So I’m happy that thus far this trade hasn't be consummated.

But if it does go down, whether tomorrow or in Spring Training or one minute before August 1 strikes, I've got no beef with Rodriguez or Hicks or Henry or Boras or Orza or any of the other principals involved for figuring out a way to do the deal that's within the rules. The union's gains which created those rules are hard-won, and for all the mess he's in, A-Rod’s money is well-earned -- on a marginal basis, he really is worth that extra dough. The only caveat to that deal is that I'm not going to read one more goddamned word about if I can help it. There are too many other pressing baseball issues -- such as Bert Blyleven's Hall of Fame candidacy, the amazing career of Chicken Stanley, and the secret lives of fungo hitters -- for me to give any more attention to this one.