Yesterday I came across a Houston Chronicle dispatch on the Astros’ search for a new general manager. It reported that everyone from recycled former executives such as Ed Wade and Jim Beattie, to well-regarded prospects such as Ruben Amaro Jr., are all sitting down with team owner Drayton McLane and president of baseball operations Tal Smith to provide useful context around the search, and enabling readers to put the matter in perspective.

But I found the basis of the article bizarre. Meaning no disrespect, does anyone care about how Wade, a former Phillies GM — the man best known for sinking about $613 million into washed-up relievers — is doing in his job search? The answer is, of course, yes. And that’s what’s so bizarre.

I doubt that one in a hundred Americans who consider themselves concerned with military and intelligence matters could tell you who John Inglis is. Inglis is the deputy director of the National Security Agency, which has an annual budget greater than the combined value of all 30 major league teams. He is responsible for running the NSA’s day-to-day operations, which makes him something like the equivalent of a baseball GM.

Conversely, I’m sure that vastly more baseball fans could tell you that Bob Watson has served as GM of the Yankees and Astros. While there’s something charming about this, it’s also off-putting. Why is so much attention paid to old suits?

None of the answers here are compelling. One theory holds that the cult of the general manager is a by-product of the exponential growth of fantasy baseball, sabermetrics, and talk radio, developments that encourage fans to think of themselves as executives. But there are at least as many armchair generals in America as there are armchair GMs, and that hasn’t resulted in a similarly popular cult of the high-up middle manager. If you don’t believe me, run the names of Admiral Michael Mullen, chief of naval operations, and Dayton Moore, GM of the Kansas City Royals, through your favorite Internet search engine.

Another theory is that the recent rise of the celebrity GM is to blame. After Athletics GM Billy Beane wrote the popular best seller “Moneyball,” as the theory goes, the amount of worshipful attention paid to front office paper pushers was bound to rise. This isn’t compelling either, though. Branch Rickey, who invented the modern general managership, was profiled in Life magazine. Old school operators like Bill Veeck and Lee MacPhail wrote well-received books. But Beane’s wordcraft did not create a new phenomenon.

A third theory might be that this attention is the result of the intense coverage of — and interest in — baseball. After all, if a dozen full-time beat writers and a dozen more radio and television reporters covered the NSA’s activities every day, Inglis would probably be better known. Even this, though, isn’t convincing. It’s hard to think of a single field where the equivalent position to a GM is held up as a similar subject of scrutiny and awe. My own theory — and I’m far from convinced by it — is that there is a misunderstanding of what a GM does. Many fans and writers seem to think that if McLane hired me, I would be free to restructure the Astros, making trades and signings, and putting forth a team according to my own initiatives. This is not true of any team in baseball.

The reason that even members of the interested public don’t know or care much about Adm. Mullen is that they understand that he is a middle manager. The chair of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Secretary of Defense, and various figures in the White House and Congress (not least the president) all have far more influence over naval operations than he does, and they receive more attention.

By contrast, many members of the interested public don’t recognize that GMs are, in a basic sense, irrelevant. Look at the Mets. For as long as I can remember, their GMs have all followed the same policy: Surround a core of homegrown stars with expensive free agents and try to win. When some of them were luckier or more competent than others, they were more successful. Omar Minaya is a better general manager than Steve Phillips was. But the basics of spending money, maintaining an organizational philosophy, and so on are dictated by owners, presidents of baseball operations, and central baseball — something that’s true of all teams.

Think of any team you like, and think about whether or not their various GMs have made any real difference in the root basics of how the team is run. From the Athletics (who are run by Beane more or less the same way they were run under Sandy Alderson) to the Yankees (who are run by George Steinbrenner more or less the same way he’s always run them), it’s hard to think of an example disproving the rule. In the cases where teams have adopted notable changes in direction — the Red Sox, for example — there’s always an ownership change lurking right by the change of GMs.

Does this mean that we should pay Beane, Minaya, and the rest no mind? Of course not: Their competence and incompetence has an enormous impact on the fortunes of their teams, just as Inglis doubtless has enormous impact on the more important matters to which he attends.

But we should all try to remember that when reports come out of owners and presidents of baseball operations meeting with prospective GMs, it’s the former who are in charge and who count, as much as they might sometimes — such as when their teams stink — prefer we forget it.

tmarchman@nysun.com