A Changeup For Bud's Boys

Because at American Airlines Center you can score a foot-tall Cuban doll that blurts out ref-berating catchphrases such as, "C'mon Dick, that's a horse-BEEP call!" Sure, an arena employee says, the Mavs' souvenir shop has to give them away as add-ons because "who wants a doll that swears at you?" Well, just wait for the Wrigley version, the one that warbles an off-key rendition of Take Me Out to the Ballgame.

Because Cuban doesn't patronize fans but instead—and here's a kooky idea—listens to them. Those novel three-sided shot clocks at AA Center? The idea came from a fan's e-mail. You know, the ones Cuban gets because he splashes his address on the JumboTron, then reads all the responses. (No screening, ever.) "How many other owners would read e-mails from fans, let alone pay attention to them?" asks Nelson. And that, boys and girls, is as rhetorical as questions get.

Because he'd be the only owner shagging flies during BP. "Sometimes," says Dallas forward Dirk Nowitzki, "I'll head down to the gym to shoot, and he's already there, shooting three-balls." Of course he is.

Because he'd fill the George Steinbrenner void. Hey, even if you detest Cuban you have to admit that he makes an entertaining villain. And in case you hadn't noticed, we're currently down one Hall of Fame bad guy right now.

Because this is the centennial of the Cubs' last championship season, and Cuban is one of the few who would see first the shame in that, rather than the novelty or nostalgia.

Because he doesn't run a mutual fund or a hedge fund or any other fund. He prefers fun, without the "d." This is a man who sits courtside in T-shirts and plays soccer inside his Dallas mansion.

Because of the first three letters of his last name.

Because this isn't just any franchise. These are the Cubbies, a team America needs to love just as it needs to hate the Yankees, a team that defines all that is right and good about baseball. A team that needs someone who gets It, not smothers It in business jargon until It lies crumpled on the floor, profit-modeled to death.

Because someone should tell the owners that supersized sluggers and a luxury-box mentality are things to be afraid of.

New blood isn't.