He Says Wahoo This Year

Cleveland will win the 1996 World Series, I am glad/sad to say. Glad, because this will be life’s way of repaying Cleveland for having foisted upon it one Mr. Art Modell, dog-pound executioner. Sad, because I look forward to entering the clubhouse to say hello to Eddie Murray and Albert Belle in much the same way the Clantons looked forward to entering the corral to say hello to Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp.

Oh, well. Think of the fun Cleveland kids will have this October, at least until they knock on Belle’s door for Halloween.

Naturally, it wouldn’t disappoint me to be wrong, to underestimate the resolve of the Dodgers--as I did, with typical ignorance, a year ago--and of the Angels, whose sepulchral September of a year ago hasn’t discouraged resurrectionists from spreading the word that a Freeway Series is coming your way, hallelujah, this very season. (And, they don’t mean you, San Diego.) Let me hear an amen.

I suppose this is in the realm of possibility. This spring, the Dodgers have all but slapped the Atlanta Braves across their cheeks and challenged them to a duel, while the Angels beat the devil’s dwelling out of one exhibition opponent after another. Each team seems uncommonly optimistic, hi-ho’ing off to work like Snow White’s dwarfs.

Dodger optimism is in part based on the pulse-pounding excitement generated by a shortstop who can actually field the ball! Boggles the mind, doesn’t it? Dodger pitchers used to be the only ones in baseball who threw sinkers and split-finger fastballs, but still prayed that the batter would pop up.

It could be that nothing can scare the Dodgers this season, except maybe Willie Davis with a samurai sword.

Angel optimism stems from the knowledge that this is the best-hitting order any Anaheim club has had since Reggie Jackson spat through his teeth, and from the knowledge that if Cleveland and Seattle can play for the American League pennant, then man, anybody can.

It could be that nothing can scare the Angels this season, except maybe Sparky Anderson’s grammar in the TV booth.

The season of 1995 was an unforgettable one, in many ways. At the top of that list, we saw a Japanese pitcher not simply defeat American teams but dominate them, while vendors descended the Dodger Stadium stairs, yelling: “Sushi! Get yer sushi right here!” (Luckily, Roger the peanut guy flipped no raw fish behind his back.)

We saw the long-overdue discovery of baseball in Seattle, which previously thought the national pastime to be sprinkling cinnamon in your coffee.

Seattle’s new darlings were Randy Johnson, a pitcher who looks as though he were built in a laboratory during a thunderstorm, and Ken Griffey, an outfielder who starred in television’s best advertising campaign (running across the globe for Don Mattingly’s fly ball) and its worst (that “Griffey for President” thing, which got America talking like nothing since the Chia Pet).

We also saw Atlanta finally win something, there in the politically incorrect park where fans sit dressed in war paint and feathers beneath a billboard advertising Hooters. Yes, come to Atlanta, home of the Olympics!

We again saw Tony Gwynn win a batting championship, which Tony does so regularly that I am now convinced that the whole thing’s a fix. I believe his arms have been illegally corked.

We saw the Oriole cookie who never crumbles, Cal Ripken Jr., do the one thing America’s fans most want their baseball players to do--show up for work.

We saw a baseball team from Colorado hit fungo popups that left the park, there in air that is thinner than Kate Moss.

We saw so many homers from Cleveland’s Belle, in a shortened season, that they will be keeping a close watch on Bad Albert this year in beautiful downtown Fargo, N.D., home of the Roger Maris Hall of Fame Museum.

We saw the weirdest sight of this, or any, season--Dodger fans, the truest, bluest in baseball, causing their team to forfeit a game.

I rate that a 10 on the weird scale, a 9 being George Steinbrenner owning the Yankees for an entire season, practically without a peep.

The best teams in baseball this spring, summer and fall?

One could be those Yankees, even without Mattingly, who wants to spend some time with his children before they become adults. Still a member of this team is Wade Boggs, who informed the Yankees that the one day he would not work, were a game scheduled, would be his daughter’s high school graduation day. You all know Wade, upholder of family values.

Most improved team in the game is probably Baltimore’s, which offered sanctuary to two players afraid of their own fans--Roberto Alomar, who had a groupie stalking him in Toronto, and Randy Myers, who got attacked on the mound in Chicago by a crazed stockbroker. Baltimore’s fans are known far and wide for their sanity, as well as their crab cakes.

Baseball has some noteworthy absentees.

Dave Winfield isn’t playing for anybody. Darryl Strawberry isn’t playing for anybody. John Kruk isn’t. Lou Whitaker isn’t. Mattingly isn’t. Ozzie Smith is, but only if they let him off the bench.

Baseball has some noteworthy returnees.

Ryne Sandberg is back at second base. Julio Franco is back from Japan. Doc Gooden is back from . . . where? The dead? Cocaine hell, same thing.

My choice of Cleveland is predicated mainly on the additions of players such as Franco and Jack McDowell to what was already a kick-tail club. Baltimore is my second choice in this league, California (or Anaheim, or whatever it is calling itself this week) definitely stands a chance and Boston suddenly finds itself in the unprecedented position of being the strongest team in a city of lousy pro basketball and hockey.

In the National League, it seems Cincinnati is worth a look because Reggie Sanders will make contact, any day now. St. Louis should improve if Dennis Eckersley has anything left, San Diego did some sharp off-season dealing and Atlanta still has the most dangerous arms this side of Jackie Chan’s.

But, you know what? I am going to go with the Dodgers, unless anything happens to Hideo Nomo. One piece of advice: If all those photographers don’t stop bothering him, tell him to call Alec Baldwin.