Baseball Brings Back Old Cliches

The Boys of Summer walk the fields of green once again.

Gone are the cold, dark days of winter, replaced by the optimism of a new season.

Is anything in the world more conducive to tired cliches than baseball?

Every year around the time of Major League opening day, the sports media inundate us with oh-so-dramatic, putridly poetic stories about the return of "America's Pastime."

Each piece has the same sickly sweet, phony feeling as a Bob Costas monologue during the World Series pregame show.

Take, for instance, the lead of Tim Kurkjian's featured column on ESPN.com on Sunday: "Opening Day. They are two of the greatest words in the baseball language. They tell us that spring is here, five long, cold months are over, and that 3-for-4 day at the plate, or that three-hit shutout, finally counts."

Does this guy write scripts for Costas? Look, I'm as excited about the start of baseball season as anyone, but this out-of-control triteness has got to stop.

So let's step back and take a no-nonsense look at what Opening Day really means.

It means when the Montreal Expos open at home Tuesday, they will have an outside chance of drawing 15,000 fans for the only time this season, something they failed to do when Tony Gwynn visited Olympic Stadium and registered his 3,000th career hit in 1999.

It means Crazy Carl Everett can officially begin his quest to sabotage Texas' season, and teammate John Rocker can unleash coarse invectives about the citizens of AL West rival Seattle.

It means commissioner Bud Selig -- who will effectively be running the Expos this year -- can begin negotiating with his daughter Wendy about trading Vladimir Guerrero to Milwaukee.

It means Tony Batista still has the game's best stance, Rich Garces still has the best physique, and Randy Johnson still has the best mullet.

It means Jerry Reinsdorf, believing his White Sox are already out of contention in the AL Central, is getting ready to trade Magglio Ordonez and Mark Buehrle for mediocre prospects.

It means Astros players are still blissfully ignorant of the smothering micromanagement with which new manager Jimy Williams will saddle them.

It means Braves fans have already lost interest in the team, Mets fans have already jumped off the bandwagon, and Phillies fans are already stocking up on batteries in preparation for J.D. Drew's next visit.

It means Pittsburgh is desperately searching for two musketeers to join power-hitting third baseman Aramis Ramirez in the infield.

It means Tim McCarver is dreading the day Minnesota appears in Fox's Game of the Week, and he has to try to pronounce "Pierzynski" and "Mientkiewicz."

It means even if Hideo Nomo throws a no-hitter in his first start of the season for the second straight year, Dodger Stadium will be nearly empty by the seventh-inning stretch.

It means no matter how well Ken Griffey Jr. and Adam Dunn play, the Reds are going nowhere because their pitching staff is anchored by Elmer Dessens.

It means the days of the Crime Dog, the Hit Dog, the Big Cat and the Big Hurt are drawing ever closer to their unceremonious ends.

It means Paul O'Neil can now spend all his days crying to the umpires from the luxury of Yankee Stadium box seats, and someone else will have to step up and fill his role as baseball's biggest chump.

And it means Red Sox fans everywhere are suppressing 84 years of heartbreak to revel in one credo: this is our year.

After all, baseball is back, and all is good with the world.

Aaron Fitt can be reached at fitt@email.unc.edu.