How in the world baseball ever became our national pastime is beyond me.

It must have been a year when the nation had little else with which to concern itself.

Like 1933.

Like some George Ohr pottery, it is, I believe, a case of the emperor has no clothes.

Just this week I have watched five games of what is billed as the W*O*R*L*D S*E*R*I*E*S. (Is 'series' plural, I wonder? And, if so, is there a singular? Perhaps 'sery'? In which case I have watched the W*O*R*L*D S*E*R*Y. Five times.)

My brother-in-law, Karl, tells an old joke about a man who steps into a bar where the patrons are watching a baseball game on television. "What's the score?"he asks. "Top of the eighth," he's told, "nothing to nothing." "Good," says the man, "then I haven't missed anything." I know how he felt.

My brother-in-law loves baseball. He knows why they call it "the bull pen." He knows why the home team wears white uniforms and the visiting team wears colors. He knows about Calvin Coolidge and the seventh inning stretch. He is a font of baseball knowledge. He has, however, yet to come up with a satisfactory explanation for why it is called the W*O*R*L*D S*E*R*I*E*S.

The fact that the W*O*R*L*D S*E*R*I*E*S is limited to the United States appears to have had little impact on the naming of this event, and is never commented upon, even in passing, by those in charge of commenting, though they freely and effusively comment on nearly everything else even remotely related to the game.

Like a genetic disease, baseball is passed on from father to son. Don't believe it? Well, then...plan to skip the next W*O*R*L*D S*E*R*I*E*S and attend, instead, a tee-ball game.

Notice that, with the exception of the batter (in the case of tee ball, more properly called "the waver") the players are almost universally engaged in considering cloud formations or in blowing dandelion puffs into the wind. That is, until their fathers shout their helpful instructions, like,"Look alive out there, Johnny!" (Translation: "My father made me play this stupid game and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you off the hook!") Whereupon Johnny dutifully looks alive, while furtively picking his nose behind his now raised glove.

And, let's not forget the batter, the only one (besides nine fathers) actively engaged in the game.

There's this ball. Atop this tee. Seemingly unmoving. Unmoving, that is, to the nine fathers. But, a fair roller coaster of movement to the batter.

Then there's this bat.

"Always keep the 'Louisville Slugger' up, Timmy!"

"Keep your elbow up! UP!"

They never do tell you what to do with your feet, except, "Step into it!"

Several of the kids in the outfield have already stepped into it and are busily engaged is trying to transfer it from their cleats back to the grass.

"Okay, now SWING!"

Fathers cringe. Mothers squint between the fingers of their Martha Stewart hands. And Timmy swings, or, rather, waves, at the ball.

Impassive and unmoved, the ball sits. Or, worse, frightened and shaken by the breeze of the passing bat, totters briefly and drops down the side of the tee to land ignobly at its base. This humiliating experience builds character, we are told. (It also virtually guarantees chocolate chip cookies and milk when Timmy gets home.)

Years of chocolate chip cookies later the inexorable course of the disease brings Timmy and his son to the same W*O*R*L*D S*E*R*I*E*S I watched these past five nights. Let's see if I have it right.

Grown men, out in 42 degree weather, in the snow. Professional now and denied the distraction of blowing dandelion puffs, they are all busily engaged in blowing bubble gum or in spitting out what one can only hope are sunflower seed husks. (And, oh yes, here at home, Cleveland is in white.)

So potentially hurtful is the ball about to be thrown that the catcher and the umpire are outfitted in heavily padded protectors. Yet the batter stands wholly unprotected, save for a cap covering one ear, waving his only defense as if remembering and plotting his revenge on that dreaded tee. The coach, in the dugout (even I can get the derivation on that one, Karl), appears afflicted with a sit-down version of Saint Vitus' Dance. The catcher squats behind the plate (thank God for arthroscopic surgery!) and makes obscene gestures at the pitcher, finally coming up with one sufficiently provoking as to cause the pitcher to throw the ball directly at him instead of at the batter.

The batter swings. With three possible outcomes.

One, he can hit the ball, sending it careening outside the area arbitrarily declared as "fair", in which case the ball is said to be foul--though it has been changed so often during the game it is hard to believe it can have become foul (unlike the uniforms of the defensive team which are by this time apparently so foul as to occasion repeated scratching of the crotch area).

Two, he can hit the ball into the designated fair area, obliging the defensive team to try to catch it, often with hilarious results, providing the sole justification for the entire sport, IMHO. Three, he can whiff the ball, suffering the same genetically imprinted humiliation as when confronting the fallen tee ball (and with no chocolate chip cookies for comfort, you can be sure!).

Thus we have nine players, plus untold numbers of relief players, bench warmers, coaches, bat boys (and, now, girls) and thousands of fans, both here present and, only slightly more excusable, in front of televisions around the world (sorry, José, this is the Florida Marlins playing, so it's blacked out in Cuba), all engaged in admiring the emperor's nonexistent new finery/

The outcome, of course, has been certain from the outset the pundits tell us. The Marlins can't possibly win the S*E*R*I*E*S. A new team, their fans haven't suffered enough. But, the Indians, now, that's another matter. Their fans are long-suffering and clearly deserve the win. But then, by that token, so do I. Our national pastime? Oy vey!