Any “ceremonial first pitch” delivered by someone greater than 18 years and less than 75 years of age must be delivered as the first pitch of the actual game, to a live batter, and the results of the pitch will count in the game. The ceremonial first pitch may be delivered by someone not on the team’s 25-man roster, and the pitch will not count toward the statistics of the game’s starting pitcher; additionally, the game’s starting pitcher may accompany the deliverer of the ceremonial first pitch to the mound in order to field any balls in play that may result from the pitch. If any ceremonial pitch fails to reach home plate on the fly, it shall count as a ball. Only one “ceremonial first pitch” can be delivered in any game; subsequent ceremonial pitches shall be designated the “ceremonial second pitch,” “ceremonial third pitch,” and so on.

Of course, this rule would be repealed the first time a batter delivered a line-drive straight into Robert Redford’s grill. The age restriction is just plain decent; it prevents possible injuries to children or the elderly. (Presumably, all first-pitch-deliverers would also sign some sort of waiver so that they couldn’t sue when they took a line-drive to the noggin. I recommend a batting helmet for ceremonial-first-pitch-deliverers.)

Any position player batting below the Mendoza Line after 30 at-bats in the season shall henceforth be denied the right to choose his own walk-on music until he has raised his average back above .200. Instead, an embarrassing song shall be chosen for him—perhaps Hansen’s “Mm Bop” or Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On”—in hopes of shaming him into hitting better. Additionally, when the announcer calls the player’s name, the announcer shall say it with an air of resignation and boredom rather than excitement.

‎”People ask me what I do in winter when there’s no baseball. I’ll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring.” -Rogers Hornsby

“It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.” -Bart Giamatti

The flowers are blooming and spring is in the air, even though it’s 38º and spitting rain.

Play ball!

Let’s rename the award after a man who won more games than Young, struck out more batters than Nolan Ryan, pitched in at least twice as many games as anyone else, and had a persona that rivaled Babe Ruth’s.

The name is Leroy “Satchel” Paige, and it deserves to be etched on a trophy that would guarantee he will not be forgotten.

I agree for a couple of reasons: first, it would rightly continue to bring attention to baseball’s greatest sin, the institutional racism that reigned from the 1880s to 1947. Josh Gibson probably was a better hitter than Babe Ruth, and Satchel perhaps the greatest pitcher ever to play the game, but we’ll never know just how good they were because they weren’t allowed to play in the major leagues.

Second, while Cy Young’s 512 major league wins are perhaps baseball’s last unbreakable record, we shouldn’t forget that he was pitching in a different time. Quite simply, it was a lot easier for a pitcher to last a long time in the dead-ball era, when every hitter wasn’t a threat to put the ball out of the yard. A pitcher could relax a little more, throw some easy ones, induce a lot more grounders. Satchel pitched in times that, while certainly not the equivalent of the (hopefully recent past) steroid era, were a lot more analogous to the way baseball is now than Cy Young’s era.

So I’m with Edes… let’s rename the Cy Young Award after one of the greatest pitchers and greatest entertainers ever to play the game.

This is one of the main reasons I dislike Bud Selig – he’s instituted this MLB-wide rule, in the wake of 9/11 and an apparent dearth of displays of patriotism at baseball games, that on Sundays and holidays, “God Bless America” should be sung during the stretch. Now not only is “GBA” an insipid song with schmaltzy lyrics that should take its place with “Shine Jesus Shine” on the Banished Songs List, but during the seventh-inning stretch of all times, the Eucharist of the game of baseball, it’s absolutely inexcusable.

Nevertheless, that’s not the purpose of today’s rant. Today’s rant is focused on none other than Mr. T. Now, let’s get a few things straight: Mr. T is, in most things, awesome. He stands as a shining symbol of things like ass-kicking, staying in school, drinking one’s milk, treating one’s mother right, and crappy made-for-Christian-TV movies. But one of the things Mr. T is not… is a singer.

Ever since Harry Caray died (rest in peace, which backwards is “ecaep ni tser”) the Cubs organization has been bringing in anyone with even a tangential relationship to Chicago, or any celebrity they can get their hands on, to lead the seventh-inning stretch that was popularized by Caray – who not only led the stretch well every time he stood up to do it, but was also, from what I’m told, generally rather drunk while doing it. This has led to some famously tragic renditions of baseball’s anthem – most notably that of Ozzy Osbourne:

Now, I’ve been tolerant of the tradition thus far, but this has to end. Just have Ronny Santo do it every time. He’s not that great a singer, but he is a Cub through and through (not to mention he also happens to know all the words). The revolving door just results in things like Mr. T’s rather painful rendition, or Ozzy Osbourne’s comical incomprehensibility. At the very least, there has to be some kind of vetting process, including at least two questions: (1) please recite the lyrics to the chorus of “Take Me Out”, and (2) can you actually carry a tune halfway decently? (I might also add a third question for people like Jeff Gordon: “Do you know where you are?”)