So here's where baseball got better. They get more old-school players to show up than the Oscars ever could. For a baseball fan, that's huge. They lined up a few hall-0f-famers at every position, than sent out the players from every league who got voted in. And in a situation like that, you can pretty much tell who a fan of the game is from their facial expression meeting their heroes at their position.
My boy Ozzie Smith was one of the 5 shortstops who showed up. Ozzie belongs there--he's the best shortstop of my lifetime, and also played for my hometown team. He's also a prick. I met him. By telling you that he couldn't get access to the excl-Jew-sive St. Louis Country Club after he had become the most popular St. Louisan says more about me than you.
The introduction of the players continues. Say what you will about the Yankees fans, but they know when to clap or boo. Perfect example: They introduce catcher Gary Carter, who got elected into the Hall of Fame as a Montreal Expo. But the fuckin car-ass dealer that he is, he brings a Mets hat, and tries to pretend he's a Mets man. Fails. Next catcher introduced? Yogi Berra. The most beloved living Yankee of all time. If Lou Gehrig had survived, Yogi would still be the one. If Babe Ruth were still alive, Paris Hilton would be pregnant with fatties.
National Anthem: Sheryl Crow. Bad choice. The 52-year old men who watch this game deserve some masturbation fuel. And so do I, but Jesus, I'll admit to liking a Joni Mitchell song or two on a polygraph, but not her outfit or veiny hands. Were you formally a nurse? Did you give up on men because men-o-paused? Your secret is safe with me.
