There’s no need for the Texas Rangers to sign Sammy Sosa.

They don’t need him to contend in the American League West or take spring training at-bats away from young players such as Jason Botts, Victor Diaz and Nelson Cruz. They certainly don’t need the distraction he will create.

Understand, I’m not part of the self-righteous throng passing judgment on Sosa because I believe he used performance-enhancing drugs – he never failed a test – to become one of the best power hitters in major-league history.

I simply don’t think he can play anymore.

Apparently, Sosa will get an opportunity to prove his doubters wrong if he signs the one-year, incentive-laden deal he’s discussing with the Rangers. The old Sosa, the one who seemingly homered every other game, would have been worth whatever he wanted. This Sosa isn’t.

His power numbers – home runs and RBIs – decreased each of his last four seasons, as did his OPS (on-base plus slugging percentage). None of this takes into account that Sosa spent last year chilling in the Dominican and out of baseball. Nor have we discussed his reputation as a clubhouse diva.

You have to be leery of any player who can’t get along with Dusty Baker, known far and wide as a player’s manager. Sosa does have a good relationship with Rudy Jaramillo, the Rangers’ hitting coach, who might be able to squeeze what’s left from his talent, and what player won’t like new manager Ron Washington.

That said, Sosa’s teammates aren’t going to appreciate answering question after question about his alleged steroid use throughout spring training. Trust me, the questions are going to come daily.

“Sometimes, we can make too much of that,” said Jon Daniels, the Rangers’ general manager. “A productive player who wants to be part of a winner is going to fit in.”

These days, Sosa is a 38-year-old, one-dimensional player. But he’s no longer great at the one dimension that earned him fame and accolades beyond his wildest dreams as a 7-year-old who shined shoes and sold orange juice to earn money.

In 2005, he homered once every 27.1 times at bat. The previous two seasons, he homered once every 13.3 trips to the plate. You can blame his power shortage on back and hip injuries that prevented him from driving the low, outside pitch into the power alleys, which, in part, is how he became a household name.

Hitting a baseball is the hardest thing to do in professional sports, and after a year away from the game, it’s hard to believe Sosa could give the Rangers much of anything.

Daniels also must deal with the question of Sosa’s ego. A few years ago, Sosa was a mega-watt star. Now, he’ll be a role player in a clubhouse where Michael Young and Mark Teixeira are the stars? Can he be happy batting as low as sixth or seventh, if he becomes an all (home run) or nothing (strikeout) hitter?

He’s supposed to say all of the right things over dinner. The problem with aging superstars is they’re usually the last ones to recognize their declining skills.