FROM THE BASS'S GILLS: DEPENDS WIN CHAMPIONSHIPS

"Today, the Bass's Gills spew out the thesaurus-generated wit of Rivalfish's newest contributer, Ted Walker. Will the salt water sting the undergrundle of his newly shorn manscaping design?" - Rival Room Editors

by Ted Walker, tedwalker25@gmail.com

SI.com recently ran an article on baseball's great aging pitchers. Like grandpa to the skirts of home-tanned young passers by, the old timers are using their cunning and guile to trick young hitters out of their shorts. And that's a good thing.

From Charlie Huff and Phil Niekro (both ham-knuckled floater-ballers who looked a little more Nick Nolte than Jim Palmer), to Randy "Strange Limbs" Johnson and Roger "Frosted Tips" Clemens, baseball has long been a haven for grizzly pitchers who just can't seem to wrench the pill from their gnarled, old prospector meat hooks (See also, Mulholland, T.) and retire.

This is great news. Baseball has always been kinder to the rapidly aging than any of the other majors. The new hockey rules vamoosed the creaky-kneed elder statesmen quicker than Glendon Rusch from the mound in a scheduled start, and MJ showed us that perhaps a game of full-court is better played without a Las Vegas pot belly and a starter 'stache. As for football, the only old fellers are the kickers and the owners, each of whom seem about as consequential to the ebbs and flows of the sport as Gatorade's newest, weirdest flavor (Icy Wizard Mountain Gorge Rush tastes like Junior Mints mixed with transmission fluid, I swear).

Baseball is a gentleman's sport that has always kept an eye on history, especially when he's just laced another single up the middle (see Franco, J.). Any good fieldsman or batswain knows that if he's got the pluck and moxy, and a little cream, a little clear, etc., then the old men will gracefully step down and clear the way for the younger generation of players when the time is right. Never mind that Manny Ramirez appears to have gotten a little over-anxious to fill the Sansabelt slacks of past generations and has stolen them straight off the rack of Ed's Big & Tall. Big leaguers should hang on as long as they can, and as long as someone will pay them a Neagle's Ransom to do it. There is plenty of time for golf, for parasailing, and for Bocce ball after the bright lights have faded. That other arm of yours, the one you didn't used to throw with, that's the one you can use to spoon dinner into your gullet. You don't need that right one anymore, you're rich! Pay someone to tie your shoes for you!

Really my only complaint when it comes to the latest class of stellar veterans regards their use of the necklace. I'm not sure when little Clemens, Jr, or the hip, styling Schilling children convinced their dads that a hemp necklace lassoing around their faces after a 95-mph heater would be, just, the coolest! I just watched at tape of one of your 20-strikeout game there, Rocket, and I'm pretty sure that a clip-on seashell band wasn't your key to success! It's time to leave the Hollister knick-knacks and the beads and baubles to the minor leaguers, so that they'll have something to pawn when the steroid suspension finally kicks in. Koufax never would have worn a necklace like that, nor would Bobs Gibson and Feller. When I want to see a loose, clinging object that the kids are into, I'll surf over to the latest Paris Hilton paparazzi shots. On the field, let's make a little more like the Babe's statue in center field, and a little less like the babes hanging out at the Cinnabon on Level 3.

They may have lost a little zip on the heat, but they're making up for it with a few extra wrinkles, and I'm not talking crow's feet or varicose veins. If genetic engineering has anything to say about it, these cagey veterans are just going to get older and older. Tommy John Surgery will look like BoTox compared to the bionic arms and artificially intelligent curveballs that I'm looking for in the 2035 season.

“Josh Beckett for the Cy Young?� asks a prematurely graying Peter Gammons, IV. I wouldn't bet against it.