The selection, announced yesterday, of Minnesota first baseman Justin Morneau as the American League’s Most Valuable Player is dumb and indefensible, good evidence of why no one takes baseball writers seriously. Morneau wasn’t the best, or the second-best, or the third-best player among first basemen and designated hitters. He wasn’t the best or second-best player on his own team. He wasn’t even the best player with the initials “JM” on his own team. (You take the guy with 130 RBI and I’ll take Joe Mauer, a Gold Glove-caliber catcher who led the league in batting average, and we’ll see who wins more games.) He wasn’t one of the five best players in the division. He wasn’t one of the 10 best players in the league.

There is, of course, nothing at all unusual about this. Ten years ago, for instance, Alex Rodriguez hit .358 BA/.414 OBA/.631 SLG with 36 home runs, 123 RBI, and 143 runs scored while playing an excellent shortstop. He lost the AL MVP award to Juan Gonzalez, who played in 10 fewer games, scored 54 fewer runs, reached base 60 fewer times, stroked nine fewer extra-base hits, and did all this while playing in a better hitter’s park than Rodriguez. Gonzalez also played a quarter of his games as a designated hitter and the other three-quarters as an inept right fielder. Rodriguez was a better hitter for average, a better power hitter, a better clutch hitter, a better on-base threat, and a much better runner. He played more often, played a vastly more difficult position far more skillfully, was better looking, a better quote, and by all accounts he was a better presence in the clubhouse. Gonzalez led the league in RBI because he had three good on-base threats ahead of him, so he won the MVP.

The year before that, Albert Belle became the first player since 1948 to crack 100 extra-base hits; he did so for a team that won 100 games in a strikeshortened season. He lost to Mo Vaughn, who tied him for the league lead in RBI despite a slugging average more than 100 points lower. Belle lost because his team won the division by 30 games while Vaughn’s won its by seven, and because he was an insufferable jackass. The year after Gonzalez’s illgotten award, Mike Piazza hit .362 with 40 home runs as a catcher while playing half his games in Dodger Stadium; right fielder Larry Walker hit .366 with 49 home runs while playing half his games in Coors Field. Unsurprisingly, Piazza did not win the MVP.

One could go on. The illegitimate triumph of Roger Peckinpaugh in the 1925 voting no doubt rankles Al Simmons partisans to this day. (Peckinpaugh hit .294 in 422 at-bats, Simmons .387 in 654 at-bats; closer scrutiny makes Peckinpaugh look much worse and Simmons much better.) The point is that MVP voters, individually the best of men, become fools when they cast their ballots. They were fools before the Great Depression, fools through World War II, fools during Vietnam, and they are fools today. One day, while we war as one planet against three-eyed Venutians, MVP voters will, insofar as it is humanly possible to do so, vote the player with the highest RBI total on a playoff team as the MVP.

No one need feel outraged on Derek Jeter’s behalf, anymore than they need to feel retroactive anger on behalf of Al Simmons. He was the best player in the league, and deserved the award. Everyone knows this. Jeter will have to console himself with his hundreds of millions of dollars, World Series rings, and fond memories of Scarlett Johansson. Nor should anyone begrudge Justin Morneau his award. He had a great two months in which he hit 18 home runs and managed to keep his slugging average near .500 the rest of the time. That’s not nothing. His award is a triumph for British Columbia and a triumph for a very well-run Minnesota club, and those are good things.

If there’s any indignant outrage to be directed anywhere, it should be directed at those of us who legitimize this silly award with columns like this one. The MVP award, all agree, has no credibility; it’s as relevant as a moss-covered, three-handled family credenza, or a tin of Boer War rations, slightly more meaningful than a Gold Glove. Why treat it with any seriousness at all?

To which I say that the award’s very silliness is the point exactly. This marvelously preposterous award, and the pretext for bewilderment it will offer future generations, are wonderful additions to the game’s ridiculous lore. Looking through the indices of past MVPs, there’s little joy in seeing the names of Willie Mays, Ted Williams, and Mickey Mantle; there is, however, great joy in seeing the names of George Bell, Jim Konstanty, and Marty Marion. A name has been added to this pantheon. Between now and the time the Venutians invade, thousands and perhaps millions of drinks will be won on bets involving Justin Morneau’s name. That’s a joy no superfluous validation of Derek Jeter’s already overvalidated greatness could bring. It’s an occasion to be celebrated.