Fan of the House: Phoenix risings and fallings of spring

As everyone knows, this town was founded by Fred Flintstone, based on the prehistoric principles of affordable land and cheap gas. Honestly, if gasoline were any cheaper in Arizona, it’d be free. And the land? It’s more like a pile of simmering rocks. God’s favorite ashtray.

But Phoenix has developed in our lifetimes to become a bustling oasis. We just followed the I-10 here from L.A., the glorious cross-country ribbon that will take you from ocean to ocean, except that there’s this stretch in Phoenix where the I-10 morphs into the 202 or the 51 or the 101 Loop. Who knows? It seems a prank. Round and round we go, till I just give up and throw the phone to some kid in the back seat.

“Find our hotel!” I tell him.

Instead, he starts playing Tetris.

Some like it hot. Some like it even hotter. Those are the ones who move here, then build freeways so frazzled tourists can never find their way home.

So far, that seems to be working out for them. A tender trap, Phoenix. I like it.

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Cubbie Nation is one of the world’s most delusional cults. This year, cult members are more certain than ever that they are going to win the World Series. That’s what makes them a true cult. No sense of history. A stubborn belief in miracles.

In pre-celebration, thousands of Cubs fans have gathered at their amazing new complex in Mesa. Honestly, when Joe Maddon walks by they almost genuflect.

“Back home, everybody’s sick,” says one fan from the Chicago suburbs.

No, they’re all sick if they think this ballclub is ever a lock to win anything. I have scar tissue on my heart thanks to these Cubs, my boyhood heroes. In 1969, in 1984, in 2003 and every year, really.

I want to believe in these talented Cubs. I want to climb the bandwagon. I want to eat billy goat for breakfast.

Till then, these Cubs are looking awfully loose. They clown around during situational drills, making behind-the-back catches.

“No pressure, Joe. No expectations,” I shout through the fence. “Just have fun out there.”

And apparently, they are.

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The Dodgers are in a different situation. Modest expectations. Hopes for another divisional title. If the World Series happens, all the better.

I’m all for managing expectations, but this is ridiculous.

Meanwhile, Justin Turner is lighting up Seattle Mariners pitching, just feasting on fastballs, crushing anything off-speed too. His swing is as sweet as the peanuts in the bottom of a Cracker Jack box.

Camelback Ranch is a pleasant place to spend a spring day. In the mornings, legendary pinch-hitter Manny Mota pedals by on his giant trike, Cheetos in the back basket, to sign baseballs for 100 grateful fans.

“See the ball, hit the ball,” says Mota when I ask him for a hitting tip. Thanks, Manny. I’ll write that on my wrist.

Don’t know what to expect from this woodenly cerebral franchise. A first-year manager in a clubhouse of highly paid, occasionally cranky vets? What could possibly go wrong?

Sink or swim, Dave Roberts is one of the most likable people in pro sports. Swim, Dave, swim.

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So it’s a frigid 75 degrees at noon at Tempe Diablo Stadium, and the locals have started putting on parkas to fight off the sudden chill.

Trout weather.

The Angels’ fleet center fielder remains the only cause for celebration in these parts. Fans seem to think they don’t have enough pitching to make a real run, and Albert Pujols merely reminds them of one thing: Those Cardinals really know when to unload a car.

Meanwhile, it’s a pivotal year for Manager Mike Scioscia. Despite the divisional wins, the consistent contenders, the feeling in Angel Nation is that if Scioscia doesn’t overachieve this year, it could be his last lap. After all, he’s cycled through several general managers and — far as I can tell — they never fire owners. In the culture of modern sports, a public beheading will ensue.

Other than those little concerns, hope springs eternal — again — here in the land of hot rocks and beautiful golf courses. I keep thinking Phoenix will run out of water, except that maybe its founders never had any to begin with.

Like baseball fans, maybe all they had was hope. And buckets of tequila and cold beer. On that, you can always build a fairy tale.

chris.erskine@latimes.com

Twitter: @erskinetimes