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Accidents will happen, sure. But you mean to tell us that guys whose primary responsibility is to keep themselves in shape, who have an army of trainers and physicians on 24-hour call, can’t do a better job of injury prevention? Buck up, boyos.
 Moises Alou, New York Mets
Some say that Alou can’t stay on the field because he’s old. Others say that he can’t stay on the field because he falls a lot, which is what old people do. Whichever side you’re on, you have to agree that old people have no place in baseball or society.
 Rich Harden, Oakland A’s
He ranks as the most frustrating baseball player on the planet, in that he dominates when healthy but is healthy less often than a child born without an immune system. Hence we’re nominating Harden for quarantine. To ease his transition into bubble-boy solitude, we’ll pony up a pile of old Maxims for his germ-free tomb.
 Eric Chavez, Oakland A’s
Threadbare shoulder tendons, bulging discs in his back—Chavez has fewer unmolested body parts than Jenna Jameson. See, that’s an appropriate analogy because Jenna Jameson is a porn star who gets groped for a living. Appropriate!
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We had issues with Cal Ripken Jr. (way to hinder your team by playing below full strength, iron man), so nobody's safe from our index finger of condemnation.
 Jonathan Papelbon, Boston Red Sox
No matter how hard he may try, the man cannot summon a facial expression other than the kind worn by a drunken redneck trying to intimidate the guy who just accidentally brushed up against his girlfriend. To see Papelbon smile would be to see the sun bleed: a precursor of the end of days.
 Lance Berkman, Houston Astros
He's known as a consummate team-first guy and accommodates the media through good times and bad. When he opens his mouth, the words that emerge are free of the disdain and mistrust that characterize pro jocks’ public pronouncements. He wears the goofiest of grins and the baggiest of pants. Is he retarded?
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Granted, most of these anthropomorphic beasts don't have actual genitalia. But if they did, their forced merriment would earn them a solid unrepentant fist to the loins.  5. Chorizo (Milwaukee Brewers)
We're OK with the Hot Dog, the Italian and Polish Sausages, and the Bratwurst. But suiting up the multilingual Chorizo in a sombrero and forcing him/her/it, likely under threat of deportation, to do the Mexican Hat Dance? The Brewers might as well add a yarmulke-wearing Brisket and Afroed Drumstick to the competition.
 4. Raymond (Tampa Bay Rays)
This "seadog" merits a beating for his blog's exclamation point abuse alone. But his in-game shenanigans are so lifeless and scripted, you'd think the guy in the suit was just a between-jobs actor forced to take this gig to support the kid he sired with the chick who played the preacher's daughter in the St. Pete Playhouse production of Footloose LIVE. No?
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Ron Artest? Michael Vick? Meh. They've got nothing on baseball's lowliest cretins.
 5. Pete Rose
An obvious choice, owing to his years of swearing he didn't gamble on baseball… then admitting his misdeeds... then capitalizing on the controversy by selling a book and signing "I'm sorry I bet on baseball" tchotchkes. He drew a 30-day suspension for shoving an ump, spent five months in the pen for tax evasion, ignored his son for years, you name it. No, Rose didn't deserve to be portrayed by Tom Sizemore in the ESPN biopic about his troubles—that's a fate nobody deserves—but in retrospect, only the "hustler" part of his Charlie Hustle persona was truly didactic. On the plus side, he cut a mean Aqua Velva promo.
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 Xavier Nady, Pittsburgh Pirates: This one’s pretty simple. Nady has never hit righty pitchers (he boasts a career .744 OPS against righties, versus an .873 mark against portsiders), yet this season he has inexplicably smacked the bejesus out of ‘em (.945 OPS in 88 at-bats). A few weeks from now – likely after he’s dealt back to the left-leaning Metsies – Nady will embody the phrase “regression to the mean.” Meanwhile, out of deference to Xavier McDaniel, let’s put our teensy brains together and see if we can come up with a better nickname for the guy than X-Man. You know, like Son of X-Man.
Stats through Sunday: .347 BA/.406 OBP/.542 SLG, 4 HRs, 30 RBI in 118 at-bats
 Cliff Lee, Cleveland Indians: Through his first five starts, Lee’s numbers look like something from one of those little leagues where 19-year-old pitchers with rigged birth certificates mow down prepubescent fifth-graders. But look at who he’s put ‘em up against: the A’s (sluggish offensively), the Mariners (in a two-year hitting slump), the Twins (who frequently approach the plate armed only with swizzle sticks) and the Royals (who have yet to score a run this decade). Maybe Lee has turned a corner, or maybe he has merely benefited from being pitted against bench detritus. What do you think, inspector?
Stats through Sunday: 5-0, 0.96 ERA, 32 strikeouts and 2 walks in 37.2 innings
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