I'm not sure they're wearing socks.

Also, in Lunch Menu League action, Turkey Club on Whole Wheat Toast swept a doubleheader from Chicken Salad, by scores of 6-1 and 11-4.

Gorf started out with an early lead, as Gorfian Droid #3 hit a solo shot against off of the Blue Warlord. The 1-0 score would hold until the sixth inning

This is the sort of thing you might expect would happen when a team has been seduced by the Dollarball philosophy.

In baseball, as I learned to love it when I was growing up, players do the little things right: they bunt runners over, make productive outs, give themselves up for the team, and put their pants on one leg at a time. Dollarball, as I understand it, is built entirely around the triple and the sacrifice fly. Half the lineup consists of whippetlike ferrets (or ferretlike whippets) who slap the ball on the ground and run like heck - assuming, usually correctly, that the opposition's steroid-fuelled outfielders are too musclebound to chase down the ball and relay it into third base on time. The other half of the lineup consists of hulking Visigoths who have been instructed to hit the ball in the air at whatever cost, thus plating the quivering, amphetamine-enhanced Thoroughbreds on third.

Sure, the Dollarball approach may seem effective at first glance. A Dollar-based offense can often be counted on to score two runs an inning (with a runner stranded on third by a Visigoth who has forgotten that you can't score a run with a sacrifice fly when there are two out), and that's sometimes almost enough to counteract the effect of the Gorf bullpen, which consists entirely of flakes and arsonists. But where is the joy? Where are those things we learned to love about baseball when we were growing up, such as the endless throws over to first base, the tacky polyester uniforms, and pitcher batting averages below .100? Sometimes, I fear for the future of the game, and indeed of the whole human race.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go get some Ovaltine and oatmeal, and then have a long nap. All this fulminating has worn me out. And get off my lawn, you kids. Sheesh.