DUNEDIN, Fla. – Following the 10-day span in which J.P. Ricciardi spent more than $100 million of the Toronto Blue Jays' money on two pitchers, his whimsy came under pointed attack. Ricciardi was, among many other accusations, reckless, stupid, dangerous and, perhaps worst of all, wrong.

Reckless? Yeah, maybe a little. Stupid? Not really. Dangerous? Look at the market these days. And wrong?

Well, that's the muddiest part of giving B.J. Ryan the richest deal for a closer at the time, $47 million over five years, and following with a five-year, $55 million contract for A.J. Burnett before the 2006 season. When healthy, Ryan is among the five best at his job, and Burnett harnesses the greatest pair of pitches this side of Johan Santana. Problem is, the A.J. and B.J. Show never has played for a full season, and until it does, the Blue Jays will be more garter snake than python.

At Toronto camp, the optimism is guarded. Ryan, coming off Tommy John surgery, is throwing and could be ready by

JUPITER, Fla. – Albert Pujols walks into the St. Louis Cardinals' clubhouse with Ace bandages wrapped around nearly his entire torso, pecs to pelvis. He eases into a seat and spoons yogurt into his mouth. He uses his hands to help him stand and meanders over to his locker, where trainer Barry Weinberg awaits. It's 8:03 a.m.

Pujols should give Weinberg a promise ring, if not a full-blown platinum band, for all the time they spend together. Plantar fasciitis, lingering hamstring trouble, a strained ligament in his throwing elbow – Pujols, at 28 years old, is a walking cornucopia of injuries and ailments, and Tuesday, not even two weeks into spring training, he complained to Weinberg of general discomfort.

"Take it light," Weinberg said. "I want you to stay the course."

"I was sore," Pujols said. "I won't do that again."

Publicly, Pujols will say no such thing. His adamancy that nagging injuries do not concern him borders on stubbornness, even though a healthy dose of rest and surgery

LAKELAND, Fla. – Gary Sheffield yanked a T-shirt over his head, strapped an iPhone in a plastic sleeve to his left biceps and sat in a cushioned folding chair. He was ready to talk. A Detroit Tigers P.R. rep milled close by, aware that considerable danger accompanies this phenomenon.

Sheffield is 39 now, though he seems to suffer from the affliction of men twice his age who no longer harness their inner monologues. Every few months Sheffield insinuates himself into the news with a ripe bit of blather. Calling it knowledge or wisdom would be giving Sheffield too much credit, though his latest blast, at his former agent and the man suing him, Scott Boras, did make plenty of Boras-fleeced folks around baseball smile.

Was it a fair attack, though? Well, that doesn't much matter to Sheffield. Life is a fight, and he'll be damned if he doesn't throw the first punch.

"It's served me well," Sheffield said. "Certain things that came up, if I was a yes man and just went along with it, a lot of

CLEARWATER, Fla. – The first week of the rest of his life starts today. Something funny or disgusting or foolish will knock Kyle Kendrick and the prank that made him a fly-by-night celebrity into the recesses of inboxes everywhere.

Normalcy won't return immediately, no way. The jokes around the clubhouse will endure as his Philadelphia Phillies teammates remind him that a coalition of conspirators convinced Kendrick he had been traded to a team in Japan … which cannot happen.

And for a player named Kobayashi Iwamura … who doesn't exist.

And that a Comcast crew had been invited along to document the entire thing … which made for some tasty public consumption.

"I want to move on with the trade thing," Kendrick said. "Put that to bed. I'm a pitcher. That's what I do. I want to be known for pitching. I'd like to talk about that."

OK. That's fair.

Though one more look won't hurt anyone.

Because in a twisted way, the prank – orchestrated by Phillies pitcher Brett Myers, egged on by manager

ST. PETERSBURG, Fla. – Do you remember Boston?

Carl Crawford's eyebrows jump as though tugged by a puppeteer. Does he remember Boston?

Um, do you remember your first kiss, or your first car, or your first paycheck?

Because Aug. 13, 2004, at Fenway Park, was the first time something on the baseball field left Crawford speechless, and it was Rocco Baldelli's right arm.

"They were almost identical plays," Crawford says, and with Baldelli 10 feet away from him in the Tampa Bay Rays' clubhouse Friday, he recounts them: First Kevin Millar trying to score from second base on a Jason Varitek single only for Baldelli to cut him down by 15 feet with a throw, then Varitek on the very next play falling prey to another one-hop laser.

"Why would you keep running on him?" Crawford asks, and plenty of Red Sox fans echoed the question to third-base coach Dale Sveum, whom Baldelli single-handedly turned into an object of derision. The right arm was just part of the package.

Baldelli stood 6-foot-4, a

SARASOTA, Fla. – The response this spring has been almost Pavlovian. Every time the name of Jay Bruce surfaces in conversation – and with Bruce passing sliced bread and quickly approaching ice cream as the best thing ever in the prospect-mad baseball world, this happens quite often – Cincinnati Reds manager Dusty Baker brings up another player: Norris Hopper.

Baker likes Hopper, who is regarded throughout the game as a nice little player. That is baseball's version of damning with faint praise, and considering that in the 3,753 at-bats as a professional Hopper has hit four home runs, it might even be kind. Bruce, on the other hand, is this year's can't-miss kid – a 6-foot-3, 210-pound power-hitting, BB-throwing, gilded-gloved center fielder with a track record so impressive that, well, any praise thrown his way ain't faint.

So all eyes are converging on Baker. This is not new. He managed Barry Bonds, or at least was manager for Bonds' first 10 seasons in San Francisco. He managed the

FORT MYERS, Fla. – The fine art of whining, perfected this spring by Curt Schilling and parroted Wednesday by Coco Crisp, has yet to rub off on the men poised to replace them. This is probably because Boston Red Sox rookies Clay Buchholz and Jacoby Ellsbury – the next big things for the defending World Series champions – have nothing about which to complain.

Ah, innocence. At one time, Schilling and Crisp were Buchholz and Ellsbury – the talented right-hander replacing the injured pitcher and the talented center fielder replacing one of eroding skill. Today Schilling is stained with a blown-out shoulder and a blown-out-of-proportion ego causing him to second-guess team doctors. Crisp said he wants a trade if he doesn't win the Red Sox's center-field job, which, seeing as he was benched for Ellsbury during the World Series, means malcontent for sale.

Meanwhile, back in the section of the clubhouse where they appreciate playing for baseball's best franchise, Buchholz and Ellsbury played

KISSIMMEE, Fla. – The Performance-Enhancing Drug Tour 2008 ended here Tuesday.

No T-shirts were for sale.

No comments were in abundance.

Miguel Tejada had plenty when asked about his alleged performance-enhancing drug use. The Justice Department's federal perjury inquiry probably had something to do with that.

"I can't really talk about that situation because everything is under investigation," Tejada said.

Stupid fuzz. Always trying to break up the tour.

This was the third and final leg, and it should have been the best show. More than Andy Pettitte the day before, more than Paul Lo Duca three days ago, Tejada has been ensnared in this mess from the get-go – or at least since Rafael Palmeiro heaved him in front of a moving train. Nailed to the wall by the Mitchell Report, Tejada found his name on the tongues of angry Congressmen who would love nothing more than to hang an athlete's pelt to the wall. With potential jail time lingering, Tejada has more to lose at this point than Roger