Wilson... Erickson... Villone.. Brower... Traber... Ponson... Tomko?

Last spring, we drank enough YES bongwater to believe Billy Traber -- whose career had been marked with a toe-tag saying DO NOT RESUSCITATE -- had magically become our LH bullpen bouncer.

In other words, that we scored something from nothing.

By May, we diagnosed Dan Giese as a diamond, despite his previous analysis as cubic zirconia, and by July, we figured Sir Sidney Ponson had either grown a self-awareness brain lobe or taken a year's supply of Tony Robbins vitamin supplements.

In '07, we celebrated Ron Villone and Jim Brower as if they were found phone numbers taken from the crotch of Theo Epstein's rental gorilla suit. In '06, remember the Noah's Arc line of endangered species that streamed into Tampa? Kris Wilson... Scott Erickson and -- wait -- did we dream Sir Sidney's first incarnation?

We're always looking for something for nothing.

OK, look... there's no law against turning over rocks in search of bottlecaps that hold Pepsi Points, which are redeemable for free Pepsi merchandise. You never go broke paying minimum wage. Truth be told, in 2005 we chanced upon Aaron Small, a first-ballot inductee to the Scrap Heap Hall of Fame.

But look inside yourselves, folks:

Are we not cringing at the thought of Brett Tomko making this team?

Go back two months. It is January. The Yankees sign Tomko. Hah! You laugh. Go back and look at your "projected 25-man roster." Is Tomko on it? Hah.

Now, they're saying he's in the mix, might have the inside lane, because Aceves and Geise have options to Scranton-Halle-Berry.

(DISCLAIMER: OK. Not trying to be negative here. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Tomko figured out a new grip. Maybe he quit freebasing, or sold his soul, or gave up soda -- [Remember Irabu claimed that was his secret to a comeback?] -- Maybe Bombko has one magic year in him, the year denied to Billy Traber. I dunno.. but...)

These Cinderella stories usually leave their slippers in Florida. Once the season started, Traber got touched up like Raquel Welch's boobs in that roller derby movie, the one where they said she'd prove herself an actress rather than a bikini-bim. What was the title? Kansas City Something. Sounds right. Because that's where these guys end up. Kansas City.

Brett Tomko? OK, we'll hope for the best. But keep our eyes wide open here: Alfredo Aceves and David Robertson are the hope.

Why wait?

And where doth goeth Sir Sidney?