The Cubs. The Lord. Derek Jeter being overpaid. And the Cardinals … getting compliments?

Worthy topics fill the inbox. And pithy, funny and, on occasion, insulting retorts help keep the mailbag interesting.

So without further adieu:

FAITHFUL CUBBIE FANS (Devotion to Cubs is beyond belief)

I just read your column on Cubs fans and loved it. I wish I had an Old Style in my refrigerator right now. Back in '79, my friends and I snuck out of work early a couple times because it was more fun spending the afternoon in Wrigley than waiting around the office for the next assignment. Old Style was $3 then. It's been a long wait. I would really love to see it happen once in my lifetime. I think 39 years is a reasonable amount of patience, don't you? That's right, I became a Cub fan in '69, the summer of the big collapse. So I don't think I need any lectures on loyalty.

Last summer, I returned to Wrigley with my wife and son, and it was my first time back in 27 years. The Old Style cost more, and

KANSAS CITY, Mo. – Try to dissect Albert Pujols' freakish ability to heal from injuries like a superhero, and the issue turns into baseball's version of intelligent design, a God-vs.-Science debate that even Pujols can't quite figure out.

First, he defers to the man upstairs. When challenged to put any of his accomplishments into context – say, returning from a calf injury a couple weeks ahead of schedule, then going 4 for 4 in his first game back Thursday and adding a monster home run Sunday in the St. Louis Cardinals' 9-6 victory – Pujols falls back on faith.

"I give all the credit to God because he puts me on the field," he said. "God is the only one who knows how quickly I heal."

Except when Pujols is reminded of how hard he works. Now, there are some players for whom recovering from an injury is a task so Sisyphean, they end up getting crushed beneath the boulder. See: Pavano, Carl; Johnson, Nick; Sweeney, Mike; and other such denizens of the disabled list.

In his eight-year

OMAHA, Neb. – In an empty locker room, they sat side by side, the two protagonists from the unlikeliest of champions. Justin Wilson, the pitching hero, rubbed his left calf. He isn't exactly the athletic type, and a minute earlier, he had strained it trying to take off his spikes without untying the laces. Steve Detwiler, his hitting counterpart, reached into his bag, plucked out a ball and told Wilson it was the final one, the one he squeezed to make Fresno State the lowest-seeded team to win an NCAA title in any sport.

Just then, Brandon Burke, who closed out the Bulldogs' 6-1 victory in Game 3 of the College World Series finals Wednesday against Georgia, burst in with a proclamation.

"We are the worst team to win ever," Burke said.

Maybe so, though Fresno State – entering the tournament 89th in the Ratings Percentage Index, with a roster made up entirely of Californians who supposedly weren't good enough to attend the state's powerhouse schools, carrying eight seniors and no stars,

OMAHA, Neb. – He started walking in circles. This was dizzying, the onslaught Gordon Beckham was watching his Georgia Bulldogs receive, so why not get a little wobbly himself?

Every time Fresno State steamed around the bases and scored another run, Beckham, too, did his lap around the same small spot on Rosenblatt Stadium's shortstop dirt. It was the second game of the College World Series final, and Georgia was blowing its chance to clinch hit after maddening hit. Fresno State, the other Bulldogs – and the all-time underdogs – started with a six-run inning, then tacked on five, and four more after that, and by the end of their 19-10 win Tuesday to force a win-it-all championship game Wednesday at 7:10 p.m. ET, Beckham had practically carved a tunnel with his spikes.

By the end of the fifth inning, down 15-6, Beckham – the heart of Georgia, the emotional, spiritual, vocal and physical leader – understood this would not be the night to celebrate. He would have to wait one more day to

Todd Helton swings an ash wood Mizuno bat covered in a glossy black lacquer. In late April, it wasn't feeling right, so he grabbed teammate Troy Tulowitzki's bat for one reason.

"It was white," said Helton, the Colorado Rockies first baseman, "and I was switching just to switch."

His temporary melanophobia triggered the chain of events that led to Major League Baseball's Safety and Health Advisory Committee meeting Wednesday morning about how to handle the burgeoning issue of maple wood bats breaking.

In Helton's case, Tulowitzki's bat, made of maple wood, snapped at the handle and catapulted into the stands at Dodger Stadium, where it broke the jaw of a Los Angeles-area woman, Susan Rhodes. It was the second such incident in 10 days, following the sharp end of a broken bat slicing the face of Pittsburgh Pirates hitting coach Don Long.

And Wednesday night, just hours after the committee's meeting, home-plate umpire Brian O'Nora suffered a deep gash across his face that caused blood to

KANSAS CITY, Mo. – He stared at nothing.

Tim Lincecum sat at his locker, covered only by a towel, in full catatonia. A half-empty Gatorade bottle rested in front of him, and it's safe to say he wasn't scanning the ingredient list. He looked right past it, at the wall, against which he gladly would have banged his head were a headache not the promised trade-off.

Two hours after the worst start of his season Sunday, and the worst loss of the San Francisco Giants', Lincecum's anger bubbled. It registered so incongruous, the baby-faced kid sporting such a sourpuss, and yet no one blamed him. He had squandered most of a seven-run lead, the Giants lost 11-10 to a Kansas City Royals' team that has more trouble scoring than a dweeb at prom, and he reacted the only way he knows how: self-flagellation.

"It's difficult not to be hard on yourself," said Lincecum, the 24-year-old whose 2.21 ERA entering the game was baseball's second best. "It's not only your own expectations, but sometimes it's

The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.
– Job, 1:21

CHICAGO – And so hath the Chicago Cubs.

Oh that I might have my request; and that God would grant me the thing that I long for!
– Job, 6:8

Job believed, like nobody else, in the power of God. He believed, even as his riches were taken away and his 10 children died and he was afflicted with head-to-toe boils. He believed when his wife told him not to and when friends questioned his motives and when he himself started having doubts. Job believed for the same reason Chicago Cubs fans believe: What other choice is there?

Right now, there is reason: The Cubs own the best record in baseball. They have been the best before, too, and left millions of faithful at the altar, jilted brides all. The Cubs have not won a World Series since 1908. This year marks No. 100, an anniversary more mourned than celebrated.

The true believers, the ones bordering on Jobian fervor, have adopted a saying: "It's gonna happen." To which the cynic answers, "No

Take a bow, Carl Pavano. Just don't hurt your back.

You, sir, are the kind of baseball player that makes the annual All-Overpaid team possible. Since you signed with the New York Yankees four years ago for $39.95 million – remember, you fired your agent because he didn't get you $40 million! – you have made 19 starts, won five games and earned $359,282.51 for every inning you pitched. The Yankees expect you back in August. Yeah, just like they expect $1 gas.

Sadly, your contract expires this offseason, which means another lucky soul can be recognized for being grossly overpaid, even by baseball standards.

In the interest of fairness, we'll take another shot at the All-Underpaid team, too. The same caveat applies this year as did last: no players who have yet to hit arbitration. Baseball rules artificially depress their salary, and the credit due to teams for signing them doesn't apply. So that means no Josh Hamilton, even though, at $396,830, he is probably baseball's biggest bargain.