Being Manny Ramirez means knowing no protocols.

He named his first born Manny Jr., then named the second son Manny Jr. He told a former general manager that in the batters box, the place where he has made nearly $150 million in the major leagues, he does not really keep track of the count.

Yet 90 minutes before the first pitch these last few nights at PNC Park -- yeah, the Pirates are still playing -- the game's most electrifying and destabilizing presence has dutifully started his rounds of batting practice by bunting the first pitch, which is nothing but an ancient baseball protocol.

You would no more call upon Manuel Aristides Ramirez to bunt a baseball than you would invite a crocodile to tea and crumpets.

It is seven weeks today since he was the headliner in a three-team deadline trade that potentially destabilized the fledgling Dodgers, restabilized the defending world champion Red Sox and rearranged the ancient dust on the mummified Pirates.

In the batting cage, there may be no better exemplifier of lock focus than the Dodgers' new left fielder, the one who has hit about .400 since Aug. 1 with 14 homers and 44 RBIs. It's impossible to tell, watching him there, whether the menace in his swing is more the stuff of pure giftedness or of the supreme hitting discipline Ramirez has refined to legendary degrees. He has a rigidly choreographed rhythm behind his quick right-handed stroke, the power in it seemingly available at every point in its arc and at every station in the hitting zone. He swats most every batting practice pitch hard the other way, jerking one to the seats in left only when there's apparently nothing else to do with it. His concentration is palpable.

This, as much as anything that defines him, is Manny being Manny.

That Ramirez can hit like few in the game's long history is a notion that has flown majestically beyond dispute like a pitcher's mistake into the night. This year alone, in two leagues, he has hit 34 homers, 1 triple, 34 doubles, 104 singles, 1 teammate, and 1 club official.

He took a swipe at teammate Kevin Youkilis in the dugout. He shoved 65-year-old traveling secretary Jack McCormick to the floor of the visiting clubhouse June 28 in Houston. McCormick's transgression: Warning Manny that a last-minute request for 16 tickets might prove difficult. "Just do your job!" Ramirez screamed at the point of attack.

He quit on the Red Sox on a Friday night against the Yankees, taking a night off with another phantom knee injury, just as he had in 2003, just as he had for the All-Star Game in Pittsburgh in 2006 (even though he'd gotten more votes than anyone in the American League), just as he'd found reasons not to attend three of the 11 All-Star Games to which he has been named. By July 31, Boston's management felt it could keep Manny or its own professional integrity, but not both.

On the day Manny's torrid bat pushed L.A.'s record to 25-18 since the trade, Joe Torre sat in the visiting dugout on the North Side pondering a question he never thought he'd spend a minute on as the new manager of the Dodgers, nor as the old manager of the Yankees or the Cardinals or the Mets or the Braves or anybody else. It had to do with his appearance on a list of Hall of Fame candidates to be submitted to the Veterans Committee, which occasionally puts players in the Hall after they've failed to get enough votes from the Baseball Writers Association of America.

"I haven't spent any time thinking about it," Torre said. "It's out of my control. I think [managing] has called more attention to what I've done as a player, but I've never politicked for it or lobbied for it, unless I might have done that without knowing it."

So look at this:

In 18 seasons, Torre hit .297 with 252 homers and 1,185 RBIs.

In 16 seasons, Manny Ramirez has hit .314 with 524 homers and 1,716 RBIs.

But unlike Torre, Ramirez has politicked and lobbied against his own induction; he has practically swift-boated himself without saying much of anything. Who can say whether he's aware of it?

The ominous atmospherics surrounding Ramirez issue constant invitations to forget what a tremendous offensive force he has been since he broke in with the Cleveland Indians in the mid-1990s.

In 1999, he drove in 165 runs, most in the majors in 61 years. With 17 more RBIs, he'll have more than Honus Wagner. He's in the top 10 all time in RBI/at-bat ratio, top 10 all time in slugging percentage, and top 10 all time in homers/at-bat ratio. Only Lou Gehrig had more grand slams. No one has more postseason homers than Manny Ramirez.

All of that is why I'm supposed to put him into the Hall of Fame the first time his name appears on the ballot. I'm supposed to ignore the fact that a poll of big league players put him among the five worst fielders in the game today and to ignore the general condition that he doesn't much care to, you know, run, much less hustle.

Moreover, it's a good thing for Manny that there are no provisions for considering integrity, sportsmanship, character and contributions to the team.

Oh wait.

There are.

In fact, I've just quoted you 67 percent of Rule 5:

"Voting should be based on a player's record, playing ability, integrity, sportsmanship, character and contributions to the team."