Spring chickens? Don't let them con you

We're dropping like flies. Arod's hip. Cano's shoulder. Marte's whatever. Wang can't survive the second. Sabathia looks like CC Sardinha. Let's remember the words of the Great Sweater, Daniel Rather.

Courage.

Don't let them con you. They'll try. They want us in a perpetual state of agitation. They want us overheated. They want us worrying. Wait! I just thought of a better word.

Bullshit.

Spring is bullshit.

Last spring, Giambi batted .407. Melky hit .375. You can look it up. Go ahead!

Remember how Abreu arrived in such great shape? Remember how they predicted the big contract year? Yeah, right. Abreu was Abreu, just as numbers are numbers. Two-ninety is .290. A typical Abreu year. The right field wall suffered no bruises.

Shelley Duncan batted .333. Morgan Ensberg blasted his way onto the team. Neither made it to June.

The spring before, it was Josh Phelps. He hit .438. That was also the apex of Bronson Sardinha, that former first-round pick. He wowed us.

Spring is bullshit.

If anything, let's fear Cody Ransom and Brett Gardner are overheating, bearing down too hard to last the season.

Remember Christian Parker? To you tadpoles, he arrived in the greatest deal Brian Cashman ever made (and subsequently pissed away): Hideki Irabu to the Expos for Ted Lilly, Jake Westbrook and Parker. (That was our Heathcliff Slocum/Varitek & Lowe trade, but we didn't have the guts and patience to wait. It hurts even more, because Lilly and Westbrook turned out to be gamers.) In 2001, Parker became the spring story. He pitched his way to the team. He threw so hard that he blew out his arm. He had one MLB start, lasted three, and was never heard from again.

Last spring, Billy Traber never gave up an earned run.

Bullshit. Folks, it's all bullshit. Don't bite.