Cincinnati Reds' Brandon Phillips hits a grand slam during the sixth inning of a baseball game against the Milwaukee Brewers Thursday, April 20, 2006, in Milwaukee. AP - Apr 20, 11:00 pm EDT More Photos

MILWAUKEE – In a game involving the Cincinnati Reds, it is fair to expect a home run every 45 minutes or so. They seem to have a love affair with home runs. They hit bundles of home runs. They give up even more home runs. They live and die with the home run, and they ache because of it.

"Every time I look up, a ball is gone," said Reds outfielder Adam Dunn, who has hit eight himself. "My neck gets sore."

Paging the chiropractor. And a couple hundred of other specialists, too. With stadiums around baseball turning into launching pads unlike anything we've seen since the heart of the Steroid Era, whiplash might be the DL injury du jour this season.

Entering Monday's games, teams have hit 635 home runs for an average of 2.44 per game, a higher ratio than every April in history except 2000, when teams clubbed 935 for an average of 2.56. The Reds are at the forefront of the mess, hitting 33 home runs and allowing 34 over the team's first 19 games

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CHICAGO – Until Johan Santana decided to pitch like Johan Santana on Friday night, this chunk of space was going to try and figure out his problems. Talk with his pitching coach, his manager, his teammates, his opponents, a scout or two and, voila, mystery solved.

Of course, then Santana threw seven strong innings in the Minnesota Twins' 7-1 loss to the Chicago White Sox, giving up his only two runs on a home run by Jim Thome. While the idea of chronicling Santana's struggles dissipated rather quickly, his performances had dovetailed with a theory posed by a friend earlier in the night.

The World Baseball Classic affected starting pitching. Dramatically.

Frankly, it sounded absurd. The pitching in the WBC was, by and large, tremendous. Of the 24 major-league starting pitchers who participated, 16 finished with earned-run averages below 3.50. Most of the pitchers conditioned themselves at least a month earlier than usual to prepare for the rigor of high-stakes games during

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Draft day is the best day of the year. For eight hours, my friends and I drink cold beverages, indulge in food fit for a study on clogged arteries and hold our annual fantasy baseball draft. Only a 50-inch HDTV could make the day any better, and, by heavens, we had one of those this year, too.

We did not discuss right-to-publicity law and how it applies to fantasy sports. We did not talk about licensing, legalities or lawsuits. In fact, the only time we've talked about anything to do with justice was in 1995 when we threatened to send our friend Bruce to fantasy prison for wasting a pick on an A-ball pitcher named Bart Evans.

Yet all fantasy players should at least be aware of what's bubbling in their leagues' background, because it could transform the industry: It's a grab for money and control, a play of greed, an entree into the ugly sides of baseball to which fantasy sports seemed immune.

In February, the owners of CDM Sports sued Major League Baseball Advanced Media, baseball's

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For his 21st birthday, Felix Hernandez already knows what he wants from the Seattle Mariners.

"My slider," he said.

He misses it. See, Hernandez, who turned 20 a little more than a week ago and has the bravado to nickname himself "El Cartelua" – which, for lack of a better word, means "badass" – is not allowed to throw the pitch. The Mariners, just like every other team, have seen dozens of pitchers' careers wrecked because of arm injuries. They want him to throw his 97-mph fastball. They love his changeup. And they think his curveball might be the best pitch he throws.

But no slider. Not yet. Not even if it is a 90-mph mirage.

"Hell, yeah, I want to throw that pitch," Hernandez said. "They don't let me, though. They tell my I'm too young, that it's bad for my elbow. I told them I want to throw it."

Begrudgingly, Hernandez complies, because though he has the orneriness of a star, he's not a malcontent. Hernandez understands that he poses the toughest question in baseball: How do you

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While he is a fairly stubborn man – Pedro Martinez did, remember, insist on toting around his midget friend during the Red Sox's 2004 World Series run – feistiness cannot save an aging arm.

And it's with that in mind that Martinez pitches these days for the New York Mets, currently baseball's best team, throwing fastballs at 85 and 86 mph and other speeds that would only draw a warning from a forgiving traffic cop.

Tonight, when Martinez goes for his 200th career victory, it will be easy to remember the Pedro of old, who, starting with his first Cy Young Award in 1997, strung together a seven-year stretch equaled only by Sandy Koufax. Martinez's surname was immaterial. He was Pedro, the mightiest of mites at 5-foot-11 and 150 pounds, and he blew everyone away with the indifference of a sniper. Challenge that fact, and he might give you a 97-mph buzzcut. In his fifth major-league start, Martinez lost a perfect game with one out in the eighth inning when he hit Reggie Sanders on an 0-2

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Before this story gets to the part where the kid lands his dream job because of a video game, some tired fingers and Bill Buckner, let's go back about 20 years.

On Oct. 25, 1986, Conor Lastowka was 5 years old. He lived in Virginia, and bedtime was long before the final out of the World Series' sixth game between the Boston Red Sox and New York Mets.

"I wasn't old enough to even watch the game," Lastowka said. "I first saw it during college junior year on ESPN Classic. That year was the 15th anniversary of it. I watched it three times in 24 hours."

In his four years at the University of Virginia, Lastowka did all sorts of nothing, the most benign of which was obsessing over the classic Mets comeback and Red Sox heartbreak. Beyond that, Lastowka argued with his friends that automobiles should have U-turn signals. He drew a comic for the student newspaper that was an ode to a deceased friend who, actually, was alive. He started National High Five Day, a heal-the-world movement that

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BOSTON – David Ortiz strolled into the press conference that announced his $50 million contract extension earlier this week wearing the Gross National Product of a small country in diamonds. Fat ones weighted down each ear, about 25 smaller ones hung in a necklace, petite ones encrusted his watch and an uncountable number shone from a bracelet.

"You can get diamonds like that, too," Ortiz said Friday. "You've got to make $50 million first."

Ortiz laughed, and it was no ordinary laugh. It echoed around the Boston Red Sox clubhouse, loud and cacophonous and addicting. It was as coy as wearing half a million bucks or so in jewelry, and it was vintage Big Papi.

Subtlety doesn't exist in David Ortiz's world. Everything is big. His laugh and his bling. His car (a $280,000 Mercedes) and his swing (a looping uppercut into which he thrusts all of his weight, listed at a kindly 230 pounds). His life is one big carnival, and he's the kid walking around with the biggest stuffed animal.

"I'm a

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NEW YORK – Twenty-five years ago, this game meant something. When the New York Yankees played the Kansas City Royals, no one snickered. It wasn't The Boss' $200 Million All-Stars against David Glass' Wal-Mart Washouts. It was the two best teams in the American League engaging in series after epic series.

"It was as good as any matchup," Reggie Jackson said Wednesday. "Because both teams had the people. Without the people, there's nothing. If the Red Sox were in last place, the rivalry would go away. We don't enjoy crushing bad teams."

On Wednesday, the Yankees, who have the people, did crush the Royals, who are a pretty bad team, 12-5 at Yankee Stadium. The Royals are baseball Benadryl, the team that gets you through a cold spell. And every time they play the Yankees, it's impossible to watch the game and not wonder how two franchises can look so different.

Ultimately, the discussion comes back to money, and while that's a simplistic view to take – the Yankees' successes and the

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