Here we are in the ruins of our once-mighty house. It rains almost every day; the humidity hangs around 100% when it doesn’t. We grope our way through an unending mist toward—what else?—another winter. Time to take melancholy stock of it all.
What have we got in the cupboard? A fine first baseman, a spectacular shortstop, a pair of prize pitchers. That’s something.
And in the cellar? A peck of pickled pitchers, four outfielders nearing their expiration dates, a jar labeled “major league catcher” that looks like it’s anything but, three questionable Cuban so-and-so’s, a second baseman that’s half-spunk and half-skunk, some pills of varying strength for relief (ostensibly), a few odds, a few ends.