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Oh, doctor, my aching head. What’s the last thing you remember? Swirling dust. You were sweeping? I was cheering. Cheering the dust? Cheering a baseball that fell through that dust, fell

into left field, raised Arizona. Please? Luis Gonzalez hit the ball, Tony Womack scored the run, and the Arizona Diamondbacks beat the New York Yankees and their unbeatable relief pitcher

Mariano Rivera in the final inning of the final day of the season. Then what did you see? I saw people crying. Because of the dust? Because of the drama. How so? The seven-game series

renewed faith in baseball’s enduring powers of imagination. Then what? Then I woke up and Minnesota had moved to death row, Montreal had moved to Florida, and chaos had moved to Montreal.

And? And Commissioner Bud Selig waved a gun at the union, the union waved a middle finger at Selig, and their road rage could send the season into a ditch. Anything more? Barry Bonds was

snarling at Sammy Sosa, and Mo Vaughn was belching on Troy Percival, and the Padres and Angels were trying to kill one another in an old folks’ home. How did all this make you feel? Oh,

doctor, my aching head. Could you take two Tony Gwynns and call me in the morning? Can’t. Maybe drink two tablespoons of Cal Ripken Jr., then go back to work? Not possible. Eat a Big Mac?

Going, going, gone. Welcome to the 2002 baseball season and, no, that dryness in your throat and throbbing in your temples has nothing to do with Byung-Hyun Kim. That’s a hangover. The buzz

that carried baseball through a splendid autumn has been replaced by the drone of an awful winter, the siren of an ominous spring. Our aching heads indeed. When baseball left the field in

November, at the completion of one of the best World Series in history, it was dancing. When it again sets foot on a field today in Anaheim, it will be weaving. Unsettled in its labor

situation. Lacking three beloved stars. Hoping for another dust ball in the bottom of the ninth. Open up the opener. Look inside. The Angels rescheduled their first game against the

Cleveland Indians for today, Easter Sunday, so it could be nationally televised by ESPN. But, it turns out, ESPN is going to bump the baseball game to smaller ESPN2 and show a higher-rated

event instead. The national championship of women’s college basketball. After an autumn that resurrected the game’s universal heartbeat, baseball has reverted to a league of its own.

Remember the playoff moment when the Yankees’ Derek Jeter ran across the diamond to cut off an errant outfield throw and flipped the ball to catcher Jorge Posada for a tag at home plate?

Remember how everyone said that Jeter had illustrated baseball’s splendid simplicity with his glove? In spring training this year, teammate Ruben Rivera stole that glove. Sold it to a

memorabilia collector. Got caught. Was fired. Nice. But it was no worse than other things that happened while we were burning our hands on that hot stove. Remember the Yankees’ opponent in

that playoff series, those low-payroll, high-fun Oakland Athletics? Remember how their success was symbolized by the lovably rowdy brothers Giambi? This winter, Jason Giambi was given a

gazillion dollars to sign with the Yankees while brother Jeremy was in Las Vegas being cited for marijuana possession. The Yankees lost four starting position players but still improved,

which is good for a sport whose history is anchored in dynasties. Yet some of the lousy teams got worse, and that is bad. Quick, name the manager of the Montreal Expos. A hint: He doesn’t

work for the Expos. Quick, name the manager of the Florida Marlins. A hint: He was not hired by the Marlins. Quick, name three of the nine players who will be in the opening-day lineup for

the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. We ask for three, because we could only name three. Selig had the right idea about contraction. But he wrongly tried to rearrange the apartment without talking to

the roommate. The union stopped him in mid-move, and now baseball looks a bit like a house with its furniture spread across the front lawn. Forget trying to guess whether anyone will break

Barry Bonds’ 73-home run record this year. A more intriguing pool would involve picking the lowest nightly attendance in Montreal. At least the Expos’ new president will be used to the empty

seats. A guy named Tony Tavares. Owned and operated by Major League Baseball until somebody has a better idea, the Expos are a dead team walking. In essence, so are about 15 other clubs,

suffocating in small markets with low payrolls. This means only about half of the teams even have a reasonable chance. And while the Seattle Mariners, Chicago White Sox, Atlanta Braves, St.

Louis Cardinals and Houston Astros will all be good again ... Only the Yankees will still have Don Zimmer, the bench coach who typifies a team that doesn’t let the little things bother it.

Don Zimmer, unabashedly appearing soon in a television commercial for Preparation H. Yet for all of its baggage, baseball still has no clock. And where there is no clock, there is hope.

Hope, on the tanned faces of players returning from spring training. Hope, on the chilled faces of those fans who will bundle up to watch them. The ivy at Wrigley Field is brown, but soon it

will be green. The monster at Fenway Park is green, but maybe a healthy Nomar Garciaparra hits enough line drives to turn it brown. There is hope in Anaheim, where the veteran starting

pitchers can remember if Tim Salmon and Darin Erstad can forget. There is hope at Chavez Ravine, if not for a championship, then for a return of competitiveness, and why not? A football

player roams left field, a hockey player leads the bullpen, and a young Cesar rules the middle. There won’t be any of the milestone moments of last season. But who knows, maybe somebody will

give Jose Canseco a chance to hit 38 more home runs and reach 500. Maybe Roger Clemens will catch enough breaks--and Alfonso Soriano will catch enough balls--for the pitcher to win 20 games

and reach 300 career victories. Maybe Ron Gardenhire will work wonders in Minnesota. Maybe Mo Vaughn will work off 50 pounds in New York. Maybe Chan-Ho Park will find a game face in Texas.

Maybe Rick Ankiel will find the strike zone in St. Louis. Maybe Gary Sheffield will be happy in Atlanta. Nah. Maybe, oh maybe, this is the year the Giants finish dead stinking last. Or at

least behind the Dodgers. Come to think of it, the cure for this hangover is no complicated formula, really. It’s a simple prescription that can be scribbled in two words from a pen whose

ink, while prone to fading, remains indelible. Play ball. * (BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX) Off-the-Field Dreams Some key points during baseball’s off-season: Nov. 6: Idea of eliminating two teams,

reportedly the Minnesota Twins and Montreal Expos, emerges. Nov. 7: Collective bargaining agreement with players expires. Negotiations continue intermittently, but season will start with no

new contract. Dec. 6: Commissioner Bud Selig is called before congressional panel, says baseball lost $232 million and is in dire financial straits. Congressional leaders ridicule the

findings and Minnesota Gov. Jesse Ventura says, “It’s asinine. [Owners] did not get the wealth they have by being stupid.” Feb. 4: Minnesota Supreme Court upholds injunction forcing Twins to

play out their lease at Metrodome, effectively ending any plans to eliminate teams. Feb. 5: Selig says idea to eliminate teams if off “for this season.” March 26: Selig says baseball will

not lock out players or declare a negotiating impasse in contract talk. Players’ union responds that that doesn’t mean there won’t be a work stoppage this season. * Bill Plaschke can be

reached at [email protected]. MORE TO READ