Fans who spend their lives rooting for one team in one town and listening only to the hometown announcers don’t have much of a basis for comparison of the men and women behind the microphones.  As a kid in Cleveland, after the Indians’ games I’d catch a few innings when atmospheric conditions were right from games on WJR in Detroit, WLW in Cincinnati, KDKA in Pittsburgh and KMOX in St. Louis. But I didn’t listen critically, and during football season I only listened to the Browns’ games. It was and remains harder to catch a distant football broadcast on radio, as most games are played during the day when AM signals are limited.

With the advent of satellite radio, fans have an opportunity to listen to broadcasts from other markets. I listened to enough broadcasts on XM Radio the past two baseball seasons to get a sense of the best, such as Bob Uecker on the Brewers network and the John “Yankees win” Sterling. (My opinion is certainly burnished by having lived in both markets, listening to each over several seasons.)

XM has also exposed the “homers” who are shills for their teams and those whose delivery leaves me cold or at least unmoved.

I don’t have access to the other teams’ NFL broadcasts, so my football impressions are based primarily on local broadcasts as I’ve moved around the country. I always catch the 49ers and often take in Raiders’ games – at least until I can no longer stand the pain. Which leads me to the point of this post: Gary Plummer (pictured at right from his days as a 49ers linebacker) must rate as one of the finest color men in professional sports.

In his smooth baritone voice, he consistently offers clear, honest, rational commentary. He praises each team on the field when they deserve it and, just as even-handedly, criticizes the failings of each. He brings his experience from his playing days to the booth, but it never overshadows what’s happening on the field.

I wish all football fans had a chance to hear him.

The floats that rolled down the Canyon of Heroes in the World Series victory parade have barely cooled their engines and the New York Yankees are already bolstering their formidable roster. The details aren’t final, but at the winter meetings in Indianapolis the Yanks have engineered a three-team deal that will bring them center fielder Curtis Granderson from the Detroit Tigers.

It’s deals like this that drive Yankee haters crazy. The Yankees give up a couple of guys you’ve never heard of and one prospect, and in exchange they get an A-grade player with speed, solid hitting and great defense. Their lineup from 2009 isn’t diminished in the least, and they make a significant upgrade in the outfield for the new season.

Can the Kansas City Royals ever pull something like this off? Can the Milwaukee Brewers? Can anybody but the Yankees?

Had Karl Marx been born in the 20th Century, I have no doubt his inspiration to take on capitalism with communism would have been the New York Yankees.

Hardly a week goes by when some pro isn’t whining about his wretched lot and demanding to be traded from a team that doesn’t sufficiently suck up to his skills and whims. Last year Jay Cutler could no longer stomach the Denver Broncos and by continual harangues orchestrated his way to the Chicago Bears.

Whining about your misfortune seems almost a requirement in the NBA, where a decade ago we had the famous case of Latrell Sprewell trying to strangle coach P.J. Carlissimo of the Golden State Warriors. Sprewell was dealt to the New York Knicks and kept playing. The Warriors, in fact, seem to have more than their share of the tempermental. Chris Webber famously bullied his way off the team in the mid-90s, and this year Stephen Jackson wanted out and got it.

It’s the same in baseball and football, where top college players have turned up their noses at some NFL franchises even before the draft.

Could any of us get away with this kind of behavior in our workplaces or communities?

“Sorry, boss, I don’t want to work evenings.”

“Either I decide my own assignments or you’re going to have to put me in a better job at a better location.”

“I’m sorry, officer, but my husband is asleep and isn’t available to answer your questions about how at 2:30 in the morning he ran over the fire hydrant and crashed into the neighbors’ tree.”

This is the point at which I’d normally conclude by saying “Give me a break.” But I’m not eligible for such. I don’t make enough money.

This is Black Friday, when millions of bargain-crazed Americans head to the malls to shop for deeply discounted merchandise. The only purchases I’ve made today have been on behalf of my son: at the doctor’s office, the pharmacy and – in a weak moment – an online gaming site.

If you’re a baseball fan and a fan of baseball caps, the Major League Baseball site is running a sale at the MLB.com Shop. I’m not buying anything there today, but this orange-billed San Francisco Giants cap did catch my eye.

I also stumbled onto a link to one of what the site describes as several recordings of classic baseball games on radio that you can buy. The one in the Giants’ area was of a game against the Astros at Enron Field. That park carried that name for so short a time that I’m amazed there was time to find a classic there. I’ll be poking around to find more classic broadcasts available on the site.

I’d love to dredge up some old Cleveland Indians’ broadcasts from the 1960s, when the team was usually terrible. Imagine reliving thrills from 1967 as the Tribe and Washington Senators battled for seventh place in the American League! Seriously, I’d love to hear random games from the past, if only to recall so many fine old players like Ken McMullen and Sonny Siebert or to hear announcers like Jimmy Dudley on WERE in Cleveland or Ray Lane and Ernie Harwell on WJR in Detroit.

Friday was an off day for the 2009 World Series, a reminder that the season is nearly over. Baseball is the daily game, and its rhythm regulates our lives most of the year. It’s the oldest and most established of our spectator sports, and I find it the most American of all.

There’s a doctoral thesis waiting to be written about the connection between baseball and our agricultural heritage: The games starting as the blossoms set on the trees in spring, the play flourishing under the summer sun, the shadows lengthening on the diamonds as the cool autumn harvest arrives.

As we’d visit my grandparents in the 1960s, my father often pointed out the places he and his buddies had played baseball when they were kids in the 20s and 30s. “There was a ball field there,” he’d say, pointing to an expanse of grass or a meadow as we drove past. At another plot, “We used to play there.”

Baseball changed as America changed, and urbanization is really what developed the sport into what it is today. While my dad and the other sons of miners in Pennsylvania were playing their games, city kids were playing stickball on the streets of Brooklyn.

In these days of luxury suites and retractable-dome stadiums, it’s important to remember that the game’s roots reach deep into a heritage of farm boys and miners’ kids playing pickup in any scrap of open field they could find.

The highlight of Game 2 for me, the fan sitting in the recliner in front of the 36″ screen in his family room, was the Yankees fans chanting “Who’s your daddy?” to taunt Pedro Martinez.

The self-proclaimed most influential man ever to set foot in Yankee Stadium took the loss.

This is a fun series.

The top three Google results for “baseball” are mlb.com, the Wikipedia entry on the sport and — drumroll — The Official Site of the New York Yankees.

A mere hour or so after the Yankees fell to the Los Angeles Angels in Game 5 of the American League Championship Series, what’s the lead video highlight on the Yankees’ site? The triple Robinson Cano hit to give the Yankees a short-lived lead in the game. Evidently the Yankees can’t handle defeat, so they settle for a mid-game highlight.

Twins win

The Minnesota Twins defeated the Detroit Tigers 6-5 in 12 innings Tuesday night to win the American League Central title, and I’m not happy.

Not because the Twins won per se. They’ve been a terrific story this season, charging from behind to tie the Tigers and force the one-game playoff for the division title.

What irritates me is the prospect of at least one more baseball game being played in the  abomination that is the Metrodome. Although I’ve never set foot in it, I’ve loathed that dome for years.

When the Brewers were in the American League and played there, I hated it on general principles.

When Kirby Puckett and Kent Hrbek and that generation of Twins were in their heyday, I hated it for the homer hankies the fans waved. (I’ve always hated any team whose fans in an act of mass silliness wave hankies or towels or – please, God, no – thundersticks.)

I even hate the dome in football season, as in the past two weeks when the 49ers and Packers lost in succession to the Vikings.

Why do I find the dome so revolting? I don’t begrudge the Twins and Vikings fans a warm place to sit when it’s freezing outside. But the Metrodome is an over-the-top artificial environment, a chamber of Nordic screams designed to rile and rattle the opposing team. The building is a huge advantage for the home squad, and unfairly so.

There are other domes in professional sports. I’ve been in Skydome or whatever it’s now called in Toronto and the old Kingdome in Seattle (inset), for which I had a minimal, grudging tolerance. I’ve also been in Miller Park in Milwaukee, with the roof open and closed. None of those parks approaches the Metrodome in affecting the outcome of a game.

Quirky differences among ballparks parks add to baseball’s appeal — the Green Monster at Fenway Park, the ivy at Wrigley Field, McCovey Cove in San Francisco, the arches at Yankee stadia, old and new. Those features constitute charm and give the home team a bit of a boost. But they don’t loom oppressively over the game as does the Metrodome.

That the Twins are moving to the new Target Field next season is good news. It can’t come soon enough.

Playoffs notwithstanding, for most baseball fans today is the first day of the long winter. The season is over, the concession stands are empty, the lockerrooms bare as the players have packed up to go fishing or hunting or whatever they do in the off-season.

For followers of the Chicago Cubs, the Cleveland Indians, the Kansas City Royals, the Pittsburgh Pirates, the San Francisco Giants, another year has passed without post-season play. We small- and mid-market fans will watch glumly as the Cardinals, Dodgers, Phillies, Rockies, Angels, Red Sox, Yankees and Tigers or Twins stretch their seasons.

For those teams, hope remains for October glory, a pennant, a World Series champagne spray. But for most of us — like this crushed Cubs fan — our refrain is “Wait until next year.”

Spring training can’t come soon enough.

A tip of the cap to Jonathan Sanchez of the Giants, who last night pitched the first-no hitter at AT&T Park in San Francisco. The accomplishment was especially sweet for Sanchez because, after having been dropped from the starting rotation, he got the no-no while making a spot start in place of the injured Randy Johnson. Further, his father had flown in to see the game and was there to embrace his son after the game.

With the scent of a no-hitter in the air, I normally would be glued to the TV set. But not last night, as I was at the ballpark with my younger son to watch a California League game between the High Desert Mavericks and Modesto Nuts. Not only was the great weather a draw, but we went to see if High Desert’s Jamie McOwen could extend his 45-game hitting streak.

It was not to be. McOwen went 0-for-3.

In the first inning, he bunted with a man on first base – a puzzling move for somebody hitting .355. The bunt bounced high, right to the pitcher, who wheeled and threw out the runner at second. McOwen beat the throw to first and had to settle for a fielder’s choice on the scorecard.

I forget the order, but McOwen walked in one trip to the plate and was retired in another.

For his final at bat in the top of the ninth inning, he struck out swinging. I thought he deserved a standing ovation, but hardly anyone in the crowd seemed to have a clue about what they had just seen.

In any event, I tip my cap to McOwen, who completed the eighth longest hitting streak in minor league baseball history. That’s quite an accomplishment.

My son and I managed to listen to the ninth inning of the Padres-Giants game on the way home. All in all, it was a special night.