If the Gammonites weren't so formula-driven to chase stories of "redemption" or happy smiles, Robbie Cano could win the MVP

But aww, let's face it: In the ESPN/Buck-McCarver/Ben Affleck universe - where the god's particle is the Higgs-Boston - that won't parse. Robbie Cano cannot measure up to the Hallmark Channel movie formula: No inspirational journey, no triumph over death, no message to youth. He never kicked the bath salts that were on his back. Robbie is not:

a) A short but plucky Redsock secondbaseman who continually overachieves and fought valiantly - no, heroically - playing cards before each game with his tortured former manager, while evil fatso pitchers whetted their lips to eat chicken in the clubhouse.

b) An evangelical ex stoner/alchy CF who is the Second Coming of Mickey Mantle, because Sports Illustrated says so, and whose Herculean talent is oh, so great... so... Herculean... oh, so five-tooly... and yet... oh... so... fragile; quick, get Pat Robertson on line 4!

c) The burly but totally slimmed down (and not on steroids) Boston designated hitter, whose gap-toothed smile is a delight to children of all ages, a peace ambassador from the land of angry behemouths, and who has been forgiven for his previous battles with, ahem, pills and things, and reclaimed his elite status as a role model to alienated, white suburban youth geeks.

Nope. None of the above. He's just Robbie Cano, doncha know. And he plays on a team with too many stars, so his hits don't count, and he doesn't deserve to be considered the best.

Nope. No MVP for Robbie, folks. Not unless he can beat the menace of bath salts.