They say that when a person really bugs you, it's because they have some quality that you don't like about yourself. So, like, if your mom drives you nuts because she's always butting into other people's business, you can probably take a hard look at yourself and see that you, in fact, are the big buttinski. Or if a guy at work makes you crazy by honking his nose at full volume when the office is otherwise quiet, you might want to take a look at the noises you yourself are making in the relative still of the cubicle farm.

David Eckstein bugs me. When I watch his twitchy little stance in the batter's box, I just wish someone in the crowd would throw something at him. When he strikes out and mutters at the ump as he walks back to the dugout, I pray that he'll trip on something. When he's awarded a base on balls and sprints to first, I just want to kick him in the shins.

Clearly, I have an issue here, and if what they say is to be believed, it's with myself.

But what horrible quality could Eckstein and I possibly share? I'm not particularly short, I don't look like a troll doll, I don't have transparent hair, and I'm not atypically scrappy. I might have the discipline and concentration to come through with the base hit to start the rally when the Astros were one strike from clinching the World Series appearance, but I sure as hell wouldn't be doing it for the Cards. I'd be doing it for the Reds.

Wait, no I wouldn't. The Reds wouldn't let me play. I guess Eckstein and I have something loathsome in common after all: we don't play for the Reds.

But do I hate him for that? Yeah, maybe.

Or maybe it's because he's a little wiener.