Tim McCarver rules all.

He's forgotten more about baseball than most people ever knew to begin with. His grasp of the nuances of the game are at next-level-scary proportions, and his working knowledge of field strategy, pitcher-catcher relationships and "position playing" are epic as well.

He makes the simple pleasure of watching baseball on my TV that much more pleasurable. And special.

Tim McCarver is the default poet-warrior of America's favorite pastime. His purple prose flows like Aunt Jemima Pancake Syrup upon the frozen waffles (Eggo brand) of cold statistics that have been warmed in the toaster to a welcoming and comforting golden brown. And baseball history.

He is Lennon to Joe Buck's McCartney; Page to Joe's Plant; Peaches to Joe's Herb; Paula to Joe's Simon.

Tim McCarver is so good that he could just sit there quietly and watch the game and not say anything at all and the game would still be more interesting. He's just that good.

This ain't no alien space zombie from outer space that feeds on human flesh. No way, sir. Not this time. Not even close. (This time it's actually a pre-cambrian overlord sent to our distant future to learn the future ancient art of cheese weaving and then back to the past future to invent deep-fried herring balls. I know, I know, we're still working through all the details.)

Wonderful!

So, from a grateful nation during trying times, I proudly say, Thank you, Tim McCarver. Thank you for what? For being you.