Children of the corn

It is just possible I am wrong about all this. I know, I can't my head around that, either.

But all along I've been saying 2020 must have been the last one picked for sandlot games when it was a yearling, and that's why it hates baseball so much. Because what else explains it taking Al Kaline and Tom Seaver and Lou Brock and Bob Gibson and Whitey Ford?

And now Joe Morgan?

Joe Morgan, for cryin' out loud! Wasn't he just standing at the dish yesterday, pumping that back elbow up and down like a kid making fart noises with his armpit?

Now I'm thinking that's not it at all.

Now I'm thinking there's a cornfield in Iowa that's run out of ghosts, and 2020 is just replenishing it.

It was fine and dandy when Shoeless Joe walked out of the corn and Smokey Joe Wood and a bunch of others, but now it's time for some new guys. And so tonight when the sun goes down and the ground mist rises up between the stalks, out will walk the newly minted River City Spectrals, Al and Tom and Lou and Gibby and Whitey and Joe.

That's the beginnings of a pretty fair pitching staff the Spectrals have going. And they're good in the outfield with Kaline and scary on the basepaths with Lou. And who else to anchor the batting order but Joe, the mighty little engine of the Big Red Machine?

Of course, Gibby will demand to pitch every game. But they'll work that out.

And so come on out of the corn, you lovely haunts.

Yeah, it's just Iowa. But you'll get used to it.