What, you think we ain’t got the moves? Here, our 2008 preview rolls on with Mr. Bob Costas, the Paul McCartney of American sports kommentariat.

Salutations, baseball lovers. Isn’t this the best time of year? Somewhere, leather is popping, crusty old bench coaches are spitting and swearing and scratching themselves, and the only things greener than the outfield grass are the incoming rookies. Of course, I cannot see these things from my stunning multi-million-dollar condo in downtown Manhattan, where I live with my lovely wife Jill. But at this time of year, it’s enough for me to know that these things are out there somewhere, beyond my immediate ken. Spring, like hope, springs eternal.

Ordinarily, I would not be caught dead writing for an non-accredited website like this. It is crucial for me to preserve my lofty status as America’s most beloved sports commentator, radio and talk show host, author, and raconteur. After all, that’s why I’m here, all alone tonight in my glittering womb in the city, nursing my fifth gimlet and typing on my comped MacBook Air. What, exactly, have my folksy touch and twinkling eyes have bought me, other than isolation and bitterness? (And exactly how long can a charity auction last, anyway?)

This bitterness has, as of late, started to creep into my discourse. I am not proud of this; after all, my entire popularity — massive as it is — depends on me being seen as a more intelligent version of the common man. And, while I firmly stand by everything I have said about the odious new species called bloggericus minimus, I have enough insight to know that my hard truths have been seen as nothing more than the arrogance of an out-of-touch elitist. So here I am, scribing away for a “blog.” Will you love me again now, Joe Sixpack? (What, no more gin? Well, that’s why the good Lord invented vodka.)

All that aside, I am peacock-proud to preview the St. Louis Cardinals baseball club. As a former dweller in the great Gateway City, I became quite fond of the team, its loyal and knowledgeable fans, and its rich history. To be certain, I find it comical in the extreme that the hoi polloi still think of me — a New York City native who attended Syracuse — as “a St. Louis guy.” Truth to tell, I only went there because a horrid ABA team needed an announcer, and I got the hell out of there as quickly as humanly possible. But this is the kind of phenomenon that aids me in my epic quest for love from Larry and Louise Lunchbucket.

Of course, one needs a team to root for, and I will freely stipulate to the Cardinals being “my” team. You may rest assured that this partiality is not triggered by any kind of geographical altruism, but because the Cards are skippered by the only true genius left in Major League Baseball: the maverick and unconventional Tony LaRussa. He may have only won two World Series rings (to three losses), but it is clear that he is the single most iconic figure in the national pastime today. If you don’t see that, you are Stevie Wonder crossed with David Paterson, the legally blind governor of New York.

This isn’t opinion, folks — it’s just fact. After all, look what he did a couple of years ago — he won the whole kit and caboodle, the entire enchilada, the gargantuan gewgaw, with a relatively meager selection of players. I mean, sure, Juan Encarnacion and So Taguchi are both industrious gentlemen of great handsomeness; but how in the H-E-C-K did they become vital cogs in a championship machine? Anyone who can triumph in such dramatic fashion with nothing but Albert Pujols and a scrappy group of ne’er-do-wells must be acknowledged as a purveyor of pure baseball wizardry. For realz. (Was that right? Still playing catchup with this LOLspeak thing.)

Now, let me be the primary person to admit that last year was somewhat less than an annis mirablis for the Cardinals. Not only did they fail to earn a ring, they also managed to stumble into several scandals and tragedies. Some pusillanimous numbers-crunchers might opine this was nothing more than regression to the mean; smug moralists, their pinched lips forming the tiniest of circular shapes, might try to draw a connection to some mythical notion of karma. Some even dared to question the timeless wisdom of Tony LaRussa. But those of us who really know the game understand that these things happen in baseball. Character, as we have come to understand, is formed in darkness. In fact, I rather suspect that the team could have won the division in 2007, but that their ever-wise manager wanted to teach them some important life lessons.

But what of this year? Well, the computer predictions are united in their steely conviction that this just isn’t the year for the newest version of the Gas House Gang. They say the rotation is weaker than Mr. Ralph Furley, the ectomorphic landlord portrayed by Don Knotts on the hit show “Three’s Company.” They say Duncan and Schumaker and Ankiel are a law firm instead of an outfield, in an apparent jibe at their inexperience. They say the trade of Scott Rolen was nothing but the spite of an old man, and that Troy Glaus is weak soup. They even say that Albert Pujols’ game of chicken with his own elbow will end in tragedy. And we, like lemmings marching single-file over the cliff, all believe them. After all, computers are always right, aren’t they?

Well, I sayeth nay, in thunder. Baseball is a game of belief, and I believe in these guys. I believe in Izturis and Kennedy, who have the look of champions. I believe that Rick Ankiel has learned a lot of important lessons, and that he will be teaching them to National League hurlers all season long. I believe in Jason Isringhausen — with a name like that, he’s got to be good, like in the famous Smuckers commercial of the 1980s. I believe that Adam Wainwright will win 30 games and a Cy Young Award, and will drag the rest of the rotation with him kicking and screaming, whether they like it or not. And I believe in a guy named Yadier, the most consistent of all the storied backstop Molina siblings. He may run like a penguin and throw like a platypus, but underneath that cardinal-red Nike-made chest protector beats the massive 1,000-pound heart of a blue whale.

But most of all, I believe in a manager named Tony LaRussa. His every glower contains a dangerous blast of baseball knowledge, so it is good that his sunglasses are made of crystal quartz. His every muttered profanity is a Zen koan: he is the sound of one hand clapping; he is the wave breaking over Mount Fuji; his is the original face we all had before we were born. If you can’t have faith in a man like that, then shame on you, sir and/or madam. As for Mr. and Mrs. Costas’ son Robert — I believe.

Oh, and fate, I believe in that. Oh, and I believe in clutch hitting, that’s not something you can measure. And good vodka. And that there’s no way that a charity auction is still going at 3:21 a.m.