Let me state right off the bat that the single best thing about this year's World Series was the lack of any players wearing black pinstripes. While I mean no disrespect to the World Champion Anaheim Angels or their vanquished foes from San Francisco, there's something positively rewarding about being able to watch the final three weeks of the baseball season without ever having to hear Tim McCarver gush, "My, isn't Derek Jeter simply the pinnacle of human evolution?" Yes, for the first time in recent memory I was able to enjoy an October free from Don Zimmer's droopy mug and Jorge Posada's humongous ears. Even without the Yankees to root against, this year's Series proved to be one of the more exciting championships of the past decade. It may be over, but the Fall Classic left plenty of food for thought.

For one thing, how cool is Francisco Rodriguez? I know that over the past month, the rookie relief pitcher has reached godlike status in the sports world, and that in writing this I'm only the most recent in a never-ending throng of slack-jawed admirers, but come on! The kid's 20 years old and has been embarrassing almost everything that's stood in his way. I kept waiting for Anaheim pitching coach Bud Black to slap him across the face and scream, "Do you have any idea how hard it's supposed to be to strike out major league baseball players?" Someday, my grandson will ask me what it was like to be 20, and I can tell him about studying for midterms, spending Saturday nights tossing a ping pong ball into little plastic cups, and going to see an occasional a cappella concert. Rodriguez can tell his about striking out future hall-of-famer Jeff Kent with the World Series on the line. Guess which one of us will feel like a huge loser.

Speaking of losers, what's with Benito Santiago? The Giants' archaic backstop is Barry Bond's primary protection in the San Francisco lineup, despite the fact he was nailing major league base runners at second base before most of the Class of '06 had even entered kindergarten.

So, is anyone else sick of hearing about Barry Bonds? Anyone else amazed that, with all the glorification and hyperbole, Barry's leaving the World Series just as despised as he was when he entered it? Barry may be the greatest player to step foot on a ball field since his godfather Willie Mays, but he just blew his last chance to ever shun the title of being a selfish jerk. For God's sakes, if you can't smile when you're playing in the World Series, then there's something seriously wrong with you. You may, for example, have an ungodly amount of illicit substances running through your veins. What Bonds has proven is that he has the amazing power to make millions of people root against a team simply because of him. Barry's postgame comments blaming teammates only further prove that he is not a very nice man despite what Major League Baseball may try to convince us.

I just can't get enough of the Anaheim pitching staff. Not only is their phenom too young to go out to the bars to celebrate with his teammates, but the rest of the pitchers in the bullpen are all blind as bats. Ben Weber and Brendan Donnelly are both bespectacled journeymen, and Troy Percival, one of the most feared pitchers in baseball, has to squint just to see the plate since he refuses to wear his glasses during games. Yikes. Oh, and lest we forget Jarrod Washburn, Anaheim's ace, whose resemblance to "24" star Keifer Sutherland seems a bit too convenient to not have been planned by Fox's vigilant marketing team.

It was cute when Mark McGwire's son was his batboy in 1998. It was even cool when Bonds' son held the same position for him last year. But, unless my eyes deceived me, there were more kids in the Giants' dugout Sunday night than there were players. You'd think for his $18 million annual salary, Barry could afford a baby-sitter for a few nights in October.

At times during the Series, it seemed as if the rally monkey had commandeered Fox's production booth and was just screwing around. I mean, how many times a night do we have to see Gene Autry's face from beyond the grave. And do we need to see Michael Eisner and John Travolta constantly hugging in their luxury box? Then, with the Angels celebrating on the field, whose idea was it to end the station's coverage with a sappy prepackaged set of highlights set to some sappy new school Springsteen tune? Finally, if you're gonna profile players, it seems only fair to pay attention to everyone. Throughout the series, listening to McCarver and Joe Buck talk, it was almost as if the Angels were squaring off against Barry Bonds.

Finally, Sunday's game seven offered a view of the single greatest thing about the World Series: the opportunity to see grown men jump up in the air and act like excited little kids. Baseball's had a trying time of it the past few years, but it doesn't take much to remind us why it's the national pastime.

And with that, baseball's gone and left us for a long, cold winter again. When it returns in the spring, the Angels will be yesterday's news, and I'll be back to fruitlessly following the Mets' exploits on a daily basis. Thus, the cycle will begin again.