The Dud-ville Nine: There's no joy in watching these dull players
7. Austin Kearns, Washington Nationals: Over the past half-decade or so, everyone and everything associated with the ExpoNationals lulled even overcaffeinated baseball zealots into a coma. Now, the Nats have a snazzy new stadium (that nobody's visiting), a frustrated rapper in centerfield and a ticking time bomb of a fourth outfielder. Thank heaven for Kearns and the flash-free mediocrity he adds to the mix. He keeps the whole operation grounded with his OK power, adequate defense and occasionally competent baserunning. A selfless fella, this one.
6. Paul Byrd, Cleveland Indians: He simply throws strikes and trusts in his teammates -- and God -- to do the rest. Were it not for last October's curiously timed HGH disclosure, Byrd would be renowned solely for his calm resolve in the face of regularly administered batterings. There is a Zen-like tranquility to him that makes me want to break things.
5. Jeff Suppan, Milwaukee Brewers: He takes the ball. He throws the ball. He catches the ball. He repeats this process until the middle of the sixth inning, when hitters start smacking the bejesus out of him. Then he convalesces for five days and does it again. With all the cash Suppan makes -- the Brewers shell out around $11 million per year for his trusty, reliable dependability – you would think he could afford to hire a publicist to highlight the more thrilling aspects of his game. Like his punctuality, for instance: When the ump screams, "Play ball!" Suppan can almost always be found in his assigned position on the mound, unlike David Wells or Dwight Gooden.
4. Lyle Overbay, Toronto Blue Jays: So boring and innocuous now that he no longer raps 40 doubles a season, I feel the need to embellish his bio. Here it goes: Lyle is the first-born son of Jor-El, a scientist, and Dina, a stage mom. He grew up in Verdunville, W.Va., and started playing baseball as a teenager after being turned away by the foreman of the local coal mine. He enjoys backgammon, line dancing and Finnish erotica. His favorite vowel is "sometimes Y." He hopes one day to leg out a seventh triple or steal a 12th base.
3. Chad Moeller, New York Yankees: Truth is you could assign 80 percent of baseball's backup catchers to this list. They all look the same (white, pudgy, square-jawed) and have the same job description (show up once a week, try not to upset the million-dollar starters). Moeller gets the nod here because even when he was slightly interesting statistically (a .770 OPS in 239 at-bats for Arizona in 2003), you never got the impression that he would take an extra base or jaw with a hitter admiring his handiwork. It would not surprise me to learn that he has exemplary table manners.
2. Tom Glavine, Atlanta Braves: Remember when six-strikeout games weren't a freak occurrence for him? Me neither. If you like clearly outside, 76 mph changeups called strikes by overly deferential umps, Glavine is your glamour boy. Slight mitigating factor: he can talk more knowledgeably about hockey than many NHL commentators.
1. Tony Pena Jr., Kansas City Royals: Just as there are folks who get turned on by car crashes or avocado wedges, there's probably some dark soul out there whose heart pounds with primal lust after each of Pena's depressing at-bats. A steady though unflashy glove man, he might be the only player in the bigs for whom a 4-for-21 tear counts as a step in the right direction. The day he pops up on TV highlights for anything besides a collision with a teammate in shallow left field is the day I'll start planning for the apocalypse.
