Wasif's World

Ah, spring training. To many, it is the dawning of a new season, where hope springs eternal ... except for the 24 teams that have literally no shot at winning the World Series. It’s the aroma of grapefruit or cactus in the air, the sound of the bat smacking against a baseball (and not against someone’s head as you might hear at a McGwire family reunion), and the feel of the sun beating down on your previously frostbitten forehead.

But for one baseball fan, these elements conjure, too, an incident of great trauma, one that lays dormant for most of the year until the rosin bags hit the mound and pine tar is applied to the Louisville Sluggers.

I want to take a break from my usual hard-hitting journalism to relay to you this tale, over a generation old, which has never been brought to the public’s eye with the proper attention it has deserved. It’s the story of a baseball player wrongfully-accused of a crime he didn’t commit.

It’s not a great crime, mind you, the kind that “60 Minutes” would cover, but it’s worthy of telling here.

On a beautiful spring Saturday in suburban Boston, two Little League teams faced off. It wasn’t a particularly intense rivalry, but individual personalities did clash. One was that of a diminutive shortstop whom we’ll call Dewey, sporting the eye black and a Napoleonic complex. The other was our victim, a cerebral player with less-than-textbook tools, but a gift for making the play when the situation called for it.

We’ll pick up our tale at second base in the mid innings. Our victim was on second following a double to right-center. Dewey, at his position, moved closer to the bag and looked overtly suspicious, like he was up to something. Though the runner was on the bag, it looked like a pick-off play was on.

The runner stopped for a moment to survey the situation. “Something’s up here,” he thought. “Gotta watch for the pick off. Second baseman’s playing straight ahead. It would only be a play to the shortstop. Strange that they’d even bother to hold me on since I’m no threat to run.”

He looked at the pitcher who toed the rubber. I’ll repeat that. The pitcher toed the rubber. And quite satisfied that he was protected, the runner took his lead, with his gaze focused squarely on the pitcher’s legs. Any movement that wasn’t directly toward the plate would send the heady player diving back to the bag.

One slow step off, right foot ahead, then left foot to right foot, just as he’d learned it from Joe Morgan on “The Baseball Bunch” with Johnny Bench. And then it happened!

He wasn’t two steps off the bag when the plotting shortstop lunged at him and tagged him with the ball.

“You’re out!” cried the umpire. The fielding team cheered as the giddy shortstop flung the ball around the horn.

The hidden ball trick – the most embarrassing plight known to man – had been executed to perfection, except for one minor detail ... the runner was safe!

As you’re probably aware by now, there’s a reason I mentioned the pitcher’s “rubber fetish” twice earlier. You can’t be caught if the pitcher is at the rubber, or on the mound for that matter.

According to the baseball rule book, a balk is to be called if the pitcher “stands on or astride the rubber without the ball.” You know this is a serious rule because it invokes the word “astride.” It’s like when your mother calls you by your full name.

It was an egregious crime perpetrated against this one individual base runner, almost conspiratorially. (How many of you knew the runner was safe as you were reading?)

The defiant runner stood on the bag, territorially. “The pitcher was on the mound!” he screamed. But to no avail. The umpire wasn’t hearing it. Was he Dewey’s father? Was he unfamiliar with the rules as were laid forth by Abner Doubleday? Did he have a soufflé in the oven he had to get home for? No one knows for sure what possessed the umpire to blow that call so fantastically.

The runner continued to plead his most valiant case. “I’m not out! The pitcher was on the rubber! It’s a balk!”

“Sit down,” yelled the ump. Looking for fairness in this suddenly oppressive tyrannical regime, the runner turned to his manager. Surely, she would put a fight for her player who was in the right. “You can’t pull the hidden ball trick if the pitcher straddles the rubber. It’s in the rules.”

“Sit down,” she yelled.

And thus came the second death of Julius Caesar. He screamed out, “Et tu, Brutus?” (Or Bruticia as she was a woman.) But the appeal fell on deaf ears. And our hero was sentenced without a jury of his peers in the most un-American manner, ironically, in this proudly American sport.

Getting caught off base is embarrassing enough; it’s like having a scarlet “HBT” written on your flowing dress, forced to absorb the stares and verbal abuses behind your back and to your face. Yet, there was no one to rescue the one sane voice in a village of morons.

The fielding team, and especially the shortstop celebrated their crooked victory, proud to have obtained it by cheating with their accomplices in high places.

And our hero lived the rest of his life haunted annually around this, the start of baseball season, until one day, he put it all behind him to become a writer for one of the greatest sites in the history of mankind, garnering thousands, nay millions, of views. While that poor shortstop, frustrated that he was never able to ride the big person rides at the amusement parks, lived out his life a bitter old recluse, having peaked in high school only as a lapse in the judgment and knowledge of the umpire granted him one moment he could be proud of, if even unfairly. He probably went on to sell women’s shoes for a living.

And those are the emotions spring training conjures up in me. Play ball!

Allegiances are funny. They make you see things that may not be there. They make you feel emotions that you wouldn’t otherwise feel. They change you.

For instance, take the words of one less-than-intelligent sports talk show host in Los Angeles as he proclaimed, after the recent gold medal hockey affair, that the Canadian coach was a “coward” for employing a “trap” defense for much of the game.

Really? A coward? For utilizing a strategy that earned his country a gold medal? That’s the kind of coward I want coaching my team.

The statement was less a swipe at the coach than it was a self-proclamation by the host that he was upset his team had lost. If the U.S. had employed that technique and won, it’s a safe bet that he would have been fine with it.

And that’s what allegiances can make you do.

I was born in Canada. But I grew up in America and have lived here most of my life (save for those three sordid months in a Turkish prison precipitated wholly on a classic misunderstanding, but that’s for a different blog post). So when the gold medal game was upon us, I was on the fence.

I figured I’d go with the northerners on this one since they’re always being made to feel inferior to the Americans. They needed this medal. And honestly, if America wants it so badly, they can always invade Canada at a moment’s notice and steal all the golden discs back.

I walked into the bar with a minute to go. Perfect timing, as I wanted to be around fellow hosers for the final horn. (Truthfully, I’m not exactly sure what a “hoser” is and if I am one, but I like the connotation.) Of course, I walked right in on a Zach Parise goal and the crowd started bellowing, “U-S-A, U-S-A.”

I realized that chant can be pretty annoying and obnoxious when you’re cheering for the other side, especially when the other side doesn’t have a comparable chant. No one goes, “CAN-A-DA, CAN-A-DA.” ‘Tis a silly chant.

In fact, it dawned on me that the pioneering papas like Jefferson and Hancock decided to name their new, “more perfect union” (seriously, how can something be more perfect?) the United States of America solely on the basis that the initials would make a good chant. And that’s the only reason.

But I would’ve been chanting that same thing if Canada wasn’t playing. So it got me thinking how the Olympics shake things up, twist things on their ears, throw a monkey wrench into the works.

When I was cheering for the U.S. team, I was alongside the likes of Yankees fans, Lakers fans, Colts fans, and Rai – well, I can’t say Raiders fans because I was nowhere near a prison. My point is ... my mortal enemies had become my brothers-in-arms.

A few weeks ago, they were idiots, incapable of holding a simple conversation without drooling on themselves. And now, they made more sense than anyone.

“That was a horrible call! He was offside!”
“Yeah, they obviously don’t want us to win!”
“That’s the only possible explanation.”

But being on the wrong side of a U.S.-heavy crowd (and with the rising rates of obesity, “heavy” has a double meaning here), I saw just how perceptions could change based on which side you’re on.

It changes how we view one another. At a local level, your high school team is valiant and heroic while the squad from the neighboring town is riddled with thugs; then you end up at the same college with these thugs and you realize they’re not that bad. In fact, they make a lot of sense when discussing the merits of your team versus the disgusting derelicts playing for the state school across the river.

But when you and the derelicts are slated to face those bums over the state line, it’s clear from whence the toxic waste smell has been emanating. It’s from the knuckle-draggers living in that other commonwealth, with whom any conversation is as contentious as can be. How can it not be? They are simply reprehensible cretins without a logical bone in their bodies; morons, the lot of them. The world would be a better place without them.

Until our country faces another country like in these Olympics, and we are seated next to those cretins, in which case they’re actually pretty good eggs that you’d like to share a beer with ... and not that imported swill, but a good domestic, tastes-like-water lager that will bring you arm-in-arm to the urinary trough together while belting out the national anthem, messing up the words to the point where most within earshot think you’re singing a Mariah Carey song.

That’s when the nationals from the other country make you sick with their weird way of talking and the lack of aglets on their shoes, which doesn’t seem bother us anymore on that day when the aliens come down to earth. For that is the day when we side proudly with the hosers, the limeys, the uppers, the trolls, the jets, the sharks, the Mujahideen, the infidels, the insurgents, the guerillas, the democrats, the republicans, the liberators, the oppressors, the Hoi Polloi, the proletariat the geeks, the dweebs, the nerds, the fatties, the dummies, the rednecks, the green thumbs, the blue bloods, the yellow bellies, the purple people eaters, the Black Panthers, the Brown Hornet, and my Syracuse Orange in order to defeat these evil beings from a foreign planet even if they’ve only come to impart upon us the secret recipe for their Universe-famous out-of-this-world (literally) Triple Fudge Chocolate Mousse Cheesecake as demonstrated on their top-rated show “So You Think You’re a Top Chef Alien that Can Dance?” and is available at their famous chain restaurant The Cheesecake Planet.

Because that’s what allegiances make us do! U-S-A! U-S-A! So you can just suck on that, Bahamas!

Sitting here watching curling for the tenth day in a row, I feel now is a good time to bring up a few thoughts on what I've seen thus far:

*** I am beginning to grasp the intricacies of curling. Like for instance, chimney sweeps would make ideal curlers. Aside from that, I feel that I could start training today and be ready for the Russian Olympics in 2014 with no problem. I just need a good broom.

I think that's why curling has earned such praise these weeks, because spectators can relate. I myself have spent many hours on a bocce court working on my toss; the pallino, my instrument of grace. In fact, why isn't bocce ball a summer Olympic sport? Or shuffleboard? How does curling rank higher than either of those? Throw some snow on a shuffleboard court and you've got curling, right?

*** So the Canadian Women's Hockey Team beat Team USA, but they celebrated in an "improper" way, by drinking and smoking OUT ON THE ICE. (Gasp!)

The United States called it "embarrassing." How about losing to a country you could invade at a moment's notice and as Jon Stewart has said before, is only safe until we run out of natural resources? Isn't that embarrassing? I've got a feeling, if you'd won and celebrated the way they, you wouldn't have a problem with it? (I'm a Canadian and an American so I don't have an axe to grind with either country. I call 'em like I see 'em.)

Haley Irwin poured champagne into the mouth of Tessa Bonhomme. In America, that's called "marketing. If that's what women's hockey is about, sign me up!

I didn't have a problem with Brandi Chastain taking her shirt off and I don't have a problem now. In fact, it should be a prerequisite.

And forget about Marie-Philip Poulin, an 18-year-old that can legally drink in Quebec, but not in British Columbia, getting caught downing a little bit 'o the bubbly. The real crime there is that her parents put "Philip" in her name.

*** Luge is an interesting sport. I once rode my sled down the hill of my backyard backwards.. I hit my house, breaking my ankle. I imagine luge is the same feeling, only sometimes earning a more favorable ending.

*** I'm impressed with ski jumpers. But tell me, how do they practice? First day, work on your form with feet on the ground. Graduate to a practice jump from five feet. Once you've got that down, plummet off the ramp at ninety miles an hour and hope for the best.

There's really no middle ground from skis on the earth to skis skipping along the backs of pigeons in mid-air.

I used to watch people run off a wall and flip over landing on their feet. It looked easy. But to get from running toward a wall and flipping off it without slamming head first into it was a world apart.

*** Every year, an Olympian loses a loved one shortly before they are set to compete. Such was the case this year for Joannie Rochette, a Canadian figure skater. My question - which NBC executive is ordering this done in the interest of having a better story?

*** With half-pipe and full-pipe and all the sizes of pipe now being included in the Winter Games, it's more an exhibition for a Cirque du Soleil show than an Olympiad.

*** Figure skating and ice dancing? Is that really necessary? That's like having synchronized swimming and water dancing.

*** I was told that around 100,000 condoms were supplied to the Olympic Village this year. All the more reason for me to start my curling training.

Enjoy the remaining days of the games. Go Bahamas! Daddy's got a bundle riding on you for a gold!

A lot of you may have read or witnessed the abridged version of the Tiger apology, but here is the unabridged version of his original speech, featuring text that went unsaid:

From Pointe Vedra Beach, Fla.

Good morning and thank you for joining me. Many of you in this room are my friends. Many of you in this room know me. Many of you watching at home have received texts from me, but I am not going to mention that here. Now every one of you has good reason to be critical of me.

I want to say to each of you, simply and directly, [deep breath] I am deeply sorry for my irresponsible and selfish behavior, regardless of how naughty it was ... and it really was naughty, especially with the event planner in Florida; she knows what we did -- er, uh, selfish behavior that I engaged in.

I know people want to find out how I can be so selfish and so foolish. But I mean, come on. I’m Tiger. Duh. But my obvious greatness aside, while I have always tried to be a private person, there are some things I want to say.

Elin and I have started the process of discussing the damage caused by my behavior. As Elin pointed out to me, my real apology to her will not come in the form of words. It will come from my behavior over time ... and a payment plan that includes incentive bonuses for each month she stays with me.

I am also aware the pain that my behavior has caused to those of you in this room. I have let you down. I have let down my fans. But most importantly, I have let down my sponsors. There are tens of millions of reasons I beg for your forgiveness.

But still, I know I have bitterly disappointed all of you. I have made you question who I am and how I could have done the things I did. Again ... I’m Tiger [expletive deleted] Woods. Now ask the question one more time and see if you can’t come up with the answer.

I have a lot to atone for, but there’s one issue I really want to discuss – frequent flyer tickets.

I spend a lot of money racking up flyer points with Delta, but then when I go to use my points for a free flight, these seats are unavailable because they’ve given them away to people that have flown partner airlines. I mean, what is that?! I’m loyal to you and you give the freebie seats to someone else? I should buy your crummy airline and fire the lot of you.

But I digress. [sigh] Some people have speculated that Elin somehow hurt or attacked me on Thanksgiving Night. It angers me that people would fabricate a story like that.

Elin never hit me that night or any other night. There has never been an episode of domestic violence in our marriage ... at night. EVER! ... at night.

Elin has shown enormous grace and poise throughout this ordeal. Elin deserves praise, not blame. [leans into microphone, whispers] Though if anything ever happens to me, you’ll know where to look. She’s really freakishly strong and has a dark side.

I knew my actions were wrong, but I convinced myself that normal rules didn’t apply. I never thought about who I was hurting. Instead, I thought only about myself ... Tiger Woods ... the most popular athlete in the world. Seriously, put yourself in my position. No brainer, right?

[strange, disapproving woman looks at Tiger’s mom who seems to be asleep with contempt, then back to Tiger]

I ran straight through the boundaries that a married couple should live by, not to mention the tree outside my estate with my Escalade. I felt that I had worked hard my entire life and deserved to enjoy

all the temptations around me. And boy, did I enjoy them.

But I don’t get to play by different rules. The same boundaries that apply to everyone apply to me ... Tiger Woods ... the greatest golfer in the world.

I hurt my wife, my kids, my mother, my wife’s family, my friends, my foundation, kids all around the world who admired me, and one special lady I hooked up with after a tournament at Pebble Beach. Well, I was trying this maneuver I like to call “dog leg left” and there was a slight tremor from a nearby fault line. I refuse to elaborate on this any further, other than to say she’s okay and recovering comfortably at her home.

It’s up to me to start living a life of integrity. And that starts by never repeating the mistakes I’ve made. Therefore, I have called Verizon to have my texting plan discontinued as a show of faith and to save some of the money I’ve missed out on from lost endorsements.

As I proceed, I understand people have questions, I understand the press wants to ask me for the details of the times I was unfaithful. I understand people want to know whether Elin and I will remain together.

Please know that as far as I’m concerned, every one of these questions and answers is a matter between Elin and me. These are issues between a husband and his wife and his daily blog, tigersmaritalstrife.blogspot.com

Some people have made up things that never happened. They say I used PEDs. This is completely and utterly false; at least until some rock solid proof is uncovered at which point I will hold another press conference and grant an interview to Katie Couric.

My behavior doesn’t make it right for the media to follow my 2½-year-old daughter to school and to report its location. How would you guys like it if I followed your kids to school and took pictures of them and blew them up to lifesize, then cut out the head and pasted it to a blow up doll which I danced around my bedroom with in my underwear to a Michael Bublé song?

It’s kinda creepy, right? So knock it off.

People probably don’t realize it, but I was raised a Buddhist and I actively practiced my faith from childhood until I drifted away from it in recent years. Buddhism teaches that a craving for things outside ourselves causes an unhappy and pointless search for security.

Obviously, I lost track of what I was taught. As I move forward, I would continue to receive help, because I’ve learned that’s how people really do change.

Starting tomorrow, I will leave for a Tibetan monastery where I will spend my days deprived of creature comforts learning the ways of the monks. I am giving up my fortune and place in this material world. [long pause] Nah, just playin’. I’m off to some more sex therapy.

I do plan to return to golf one day, but I just don’t know when that day will be. I don’t rule out that it will be this year. So let the Vegas pool begin!

I want to thank the PGA tour, Commissioner Finchem, the players, and most of all, my sponsors, both former and current ... and former sponsors who will be my future sponsors – [aside] we can talk – for their patience and understanding while I work on my private life.

Finally, there are many people in this room and there are many people at home who believed in me, including one poor soul, unfortunate enough to stumble during the “dog leg left” incident. Today, I want to ask for your help. I ask you to find room in your heart to one day believe in me again. And to my sponsors, you know where to reach me.

Thank you.

[hugs mom, holding her for a minute and a half]

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Personally, I think Tiger did well to adapt his original speech for the words he said, but the only thing I found curious was how a guy who always looks like he’s about to cry, didn’t cry. Just a thought. I wish Tiger well with his rebuilding his marriage and career.]

The Saints just won the Super Bowl. And not to be redundant to this little bit of rhetoric, but they truly deserved it. I’ve always been a big believer in awarding any game to the team that either a) scores more points than the other team or b) prevents the other team from scoring as many points as they do. They deserve it!

As I was in New Orleans at the time, getting “crunk” (or attempting to get my “crunk on” or “lubricating my crunk to prevent chafing,” whatever), I opted to geaux down to Bourbon Street to check out the scene.

When I got there, I was shocked at what I did see – nothing. That is to say, there was no rioting, no burning, no throwing, no climbing, no breaking, and, quite frankly, not a whole lot of crunking going on. I saw plenty of revelers singing, dancing, chanting, hugging, kissing, drinking, stumbling and reveling. It was, in essence, a good, clean party.

Ha, rookies. Who Dat Nation, haven’t you seen how it’s done before? In all your time as perpetual bridesmaids, didn’t you once tune in to see another town’s parades? Detroit? Los Angeles? Or how about during the late 90s when the Yankees won and several sexual assault arrests were made? You need a little lesson in the fine art of the sports celebration.

One thing I don’t understand -- outside of how fabric softener works -- is the sports celebration. It’s baffling. How can people mistake the whims of a fanatical sports mob for the old Viking practice of pillaging a town? Your team wins and you head to the streets to flip cars. You’d think the championship trophy was hidden under a General Motors vehicle.

(I did get to hold the Super Bowl trophy, by the way, which was cool. I was surprised to find it made of tin foil. Hard to believe that’s what everyone is fighting for.)

I was in Boston when the Patriots won their first championship, and people were climbing lampposts, smashing glass on the ground and lighting fires. Where does the fire come from? Are two roommates sitting at home with nothing to do when one asks the other:

“Hey, Mack, wanna come down to Coolidge Corner with me tonight?”

“Nah, I think I’m gonna just stay here.”

“But the Patriots could win the championship.”

“Really? I’ll go get my torch.”

I never thought one would need a torch to attend a post-game celebration. Not unless it’s held in a dark cave filled with snakes and maybe some mummies. But I learned in a hurry and had to fashion my own with a broomstick and some old rags dipped in kerosene.

Anyone who owns a store in a city fortunate enough to win a championship should immediately consider moving to one of those less fortunate places where perhaps the only prize they earn is first place in a national yodeling contest (though I’m not sure how destructive yodeling fans can be).

Oh, I saw some questionable moments in Nola, like the guy who tried to climb onto a parked segway that was leaning up against the wall. He didn’t understand the physics behind the vehicle. It runs by magnetism; that is, when it’s on. When it’s off, it moves by gravity, and only in one direction – down. So he smashed right onto his face, stood up, and with his arm covered in blood, stumbled on his way to celebrate, more than likely in the soon-to-be christened Drew Brees Wing of the County hospital.

Anything else that might have raised eyebrows was typical for Mardi Gras, so you can’t chalk that up to a championship celebration. (On a side note, I’m told I gave up my beads too easily. I needed to get something in return. Next time, I’ll bring a stern negotiator with me.)

But in your typical post-victory celebration, for some reason, the euphoric emotion mixes into a potion of violence creating mayhem. I don’t know where this happens, but I do believe it’s near the intersection of Civility Lane and Anarchy Way, where the thrill of victory meets the shrill of police sirens. That’s why property value on those streets is so low.

There’s no other aspect of life where we would see this kind of violent happiness. On your son’s graduation day, arguably the happiest day of his young life, you don’t put your arm around him and say, “Son, your mother and I are so darn proud of you that we bought you a car” ... then lead him to the window to view a top-of-the-line S.U.V. in the driveway engulfed in flames. “—that we set on fire,” as they continue to beam from ear to ear. “We wish you the best in grad school.”

I contend that the initiation of this custom may lie firmly with the players. Have you ever noticed how they celebrate? A player scores a touchdown and his teammates attack him, first knocking him down, then piling on top of him. It’s brutal! If the player had a wallet, I’m sure they’d take it from him.

It’s a unique way of rewarding such a play of grace and athleticism ... by trying to cripple him so that he may never do it again. And he’s on their side! Imagine what they’d do to him if he wasn’t a beloved teammate.

Cut to the locker room a few minutes later and they’re spraying champagne into each other’s eyes. Gatorade over the coach’s head in subzero January temperatures isn’t enough, they need something with bubbles that will sting.

At that point, an announcer comes up to the visually-impaired player and asks him, “How do you feel right now?” The answer I always expect to hear is, “I’d feel a lot better if I could see again,” but they always say they feel great, no doubt because the pounding they took caused them brain damage.

Well, New Orleans, for the city that parties more than any other city, after waiting 43 years for this, I would’ve expected something more shocking from you like slicing the French Quarter into eighths or voiding the Louisiana Purchase. Alas, it was just your typical Mardi Gras meets Saints-winning-the-Super-Bowl party. Maybe you’ll learn for next season.

Congratulations to Who Dat Nation! (Oh, and could someone tell me how to get this fleur-de-lis tattoo on my face removed? I’ve got a wedding to attend next weekend.)

Now is the time to predict who will win the Super Bowl. After weighing all the facts, poring over statistics, summoning forth the ghosts of Super Bowls past, listening to all the "experts" spout jibber jabber, and consulting with my Magic-8 ball, I’m finally ready to use all this information to corrupt whichever case I want to build.

Let’s first look at the case for the Colts. They will win. It’s obvious that they will win. First of all, they have Peyton Manning. He has never lost a Super Bowl.

Secondly, the team labeled the favorite by Vegas has won every year for the past one year.

Thirdly, these 2009 Colts have won every game that they’ve cared to win. They have the better defense and they don’t give teams a chance to capitalize on their mistakes ... cuz they don’t make enough.

Fourthly, they’ve proven to be the road block that precipitates an undeserving team’s demise. The Jets should not have beaten the Bengals (thank you, Shayne Graham). The Jets should not have beaten the San Diego Chargers (thank you, Nate Kaeding ... and somehow Norv Turner, because he always finds a way to lose). The Colts aren’t going to let teams that won because of bad play on the part of their opponents during the previous games beat them. Do you hear that, New Orleans?

Fifthly, the Colts put 30 points on the board against the No. 1 defense in the league. And then their defense only gave up 17 points to the high-flying New York Jets. (Wait ... 17 points to the Jets? Really? Okay, so maybe that’s a plus for the Saints.)

Sixthly, they’re playing in Miami again, site of their most recent Super Bowl victory, so they’re used the whole vibe there.

Seventhly, first-time teams don’t win Super Bowls (except the Rams ... and the Ravens ... er, and the Bucs.)

Eightly, Archie Manning didn’t raise his boys to lose ... save for Cooper.

Ninthly, Peyton is driven to win. (Unlike those other mere punch-the-clock signal callers who don’t care as long as the check clears.)

And tenthly, the Colts can come from behind.

Ten very sharp points giving definitive cause to bet the farm on Indianapolis (though the farm is usually located just outside Indy's city limits). So that's what Vegas would have you believe.

There's also very keen evidence to reveal a clear Saints victory. It makes it very obvious that they'll win. How shall they beat thee; let us count the ways:

One) The Saints are a bend-but-don’t-break defense. They gave up almost 500 yards of offense to the Minnesota Vikings, but caused enough turnovers to win the game. All part of their plan.

Dos) The last team that Brett Favre handed a Championship Game to went on to win the Super Bowl.

C) The Colts can’t be expected to succeed more than Brett Favre’s potent passing performance. So the Saints have handled the worst.

IV) Dwight Freeney is hurt. A speed rusher with a bum ankle? Advantage: Saints.

Next, the Saints are also a comeback team.

After that, the Saints are playing for their city. (Okay, that’s a dumb one.)

To be followed by, Reggie Bush plays well every other game. He took the Minnesota game off so LOOK OUT next week!

Thus pointing out, Sean Payton is a master motivator. At least he’s a master booker for motivational speakers like Ronnie Lott. Wonder who he’ll book this week. I hear Tony Dungy's available.

Leading us to learn that, the last team to win "every game that they've cared to win" lost the Super Bowl.

Thus elucidating us upon the fact, the Saints have a better fan base than Indiananoplace.

Which is less revealing than, the underdog as per Vegas has won 50 percent of the time over the last two years.

Describing the penultimate note, the Saints possess a more balanced attack.

And finally, the Saints and their passing attack represent a threat to the rules that the Colts’ Jim Irsay helped put into law; you know, those that make touching illegal. What's a Super Bowl without a hint of ironic comeuppance?

So looking at all that we have in front of us, I’ve got the definitive LOCK of the century, made of pure carbonite, baby! With the majority of bettors hopping on the SS Manning, I’m gonna go marchin' in with the Saints and predict a surprising 35-27 victory, providing a Category 5 party to kickoff Mardi Gras. It’s this kind of against-the-grain thinking that allowed me, while others were losing tens of thousands in the recent bottoming out of the market, to actually lose hundreds of thousands in the recent bottoming out of the market.

But if the Saints win either 3-2 or win by over 90 points, I’ll make my money back. Fingers crossed.

Enjoy the game everyone!

Let’s take a step back to look at the NFL in this the lead-up to the Super Bowl.

In a league where job security is as improbable as Heidi Montag making it a week without plastic surgery, Tom Cable and Norv Turner both will return next year to once again lead their respective teams to early offseasons. Congratulations, fellas!

Now, I’d like to address one of my fans, someone calling himself “swyner,” who wrote to me after my previous piece, “Your an idiot … This guy Brett is a superstar and the Vikings are the best team in football.”

Don’t you hate it when the “best team in football” gets beaten by those lesser teams? And I appreciate your observation, “swyner,” but you didn’t tell me what, of mine, is an idiot. You left out a few words. Did you mean to say “Your financial advisor is an idiot?” “Your parolee neighbor is an idiot?” Using the possessive “your” necessitates a conclusion to the noun phrase you’re attempting. Hey, I’m always here to help my readers.

Now on to pressing matters – Did anyone think Brett was not going to throw the ball to the other team? It’s what he does. Strong arm, tough player, not a great decision-maker. When you see the sun come up day after day, you kinda come to expect it.

That said, we should look at this objectively; Brett Favre is a Hall-of-Famer. He makes plays other quarterbacks not in the Hall of Fame can’t or couldn't. (He also makes plays quarterbacks who are in the Hall of Fame didn’t or wouldn’t. And that’s why we’re even having this discussion.) He’s still one of the greatest of all-time and the prefix “Hall-of-Famer” will never be withdrawn from his name.

As much as I joked about revoking his status due to blowing Super Bowl berths (now twice), he doesn’t deserve that ... though he has exactly as many rings as Brad Johnson does.

On the flip side, I heard someone refer to Philip Rivers as a “future Hall-of-Famer” the other day. Now that commentator should have his credentials rescinded.

Brett told Chris Mortensen, by the way, that it’s “highly unlikely” he’ll return next season. Uh, yeah, is there anyone buying that one?
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We’re going to be deluged by “experts” making their game predictions this next week. Half (approximately) will say one thing, the other half will say another. So either way, a large percentage of them will be wrong. How about we stop calling them experts please?

If you went to a doctor, an expert in the medical profession, and he said you had a hernia; then you got a second opinion from a doctor that said you actually only had hiccups, you probably wouldn’t consider one of them an “expert” anymore.
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Around this time, people take a moment to reflect upon recent Super Bowls and that will inevitably bring up the belief by some that Bill Belichick’s teams didn’t deserve to win because he “cheated.”

I love how the legend of this grows every day. It’s to the point where the story is that Belichick himself was on the sidelines of the other team’s closed practice with a camera. I think he even asked Andy Reid to have the players run through a play a second time just so he could shoot it from another angle.

The man is a genius, after all. He was so smart that he showed his team all these video tapes (that he took himself) and told his team not to beat the opponents too badly so no one would suspect their illegalities.

And that’s why Brady and his Bunch won each contest by only three points, including two with last-minute field goals. That was all part of Belichick’s master stroke. With the footage he had, including one shot through the keyhole of Donovan McNabb’s hotel room as the quarterback admired himself in the mirror, the Patriots could’ve won by 80 points easily, but that would’ve tipped people off to foul play.
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I really don’t care who wins this year as I have no fish in the tank, so to speak, no spice in the soup, no gun in the locker room, no ... okay, you get the point. I just want to see a good, clean game. Last year’s contest, though exciting, was still marred by controversy.

After driving the length of the field, the Steelers left the Cardinals with very little time for Kurt Warner to do a little magic of his own. But that should not have meant the game was over.

Holmes, after making a great catch in the corner of the end zone, used the ball as a prop in an effort to celebrate. Excessive celebration, 15-yard penalty. (Another one of the rules that probably shouldn’t be a rule, but it is.) However, it wasn’t called. Whoa! Why make a rule if you’re not going to enforce it? That’s like saying, “Intentional grounding, but y’know what? We’re just gonna let it slide this once. First down and 10!”

It would’ve pushed the kickoff back 15 yards, presumably giving the Cardinals better field position with which to work.

Then, after a few plays, Warner fumbled the ball in what was clearly not a fumble. But since there was less than two minutes remaining, it was an automatic booth review. (I understood why they called it a fumble, so there would be something to review. If it wasn’t called a fumble, then there’d be nothing to review.) So let’s just go up to the --- huzzah what now? The Steelers are being given the ball?!

What part of automatic booth review do you not understand? Did the booth guys go home? Were they relieving themselves after four quarters of large Miller Genuine Drafts? Or were they just Steelers fans?

I’m not saying the Cardinals would’ve won, but with Kurt Warner and Larry Fitzgerald on their team, there’s no better finish I would’ve liked to see. And I’m still waiting for the league to pick up with that game. Perhaps they could play that last minute as the pre-game next Sunday.
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My early prediction for Super Bowl XLIV, before I've pored through the myriad statistics and listened to the experts, is for either the Saints or the Colts to prevail. Though I wouldn’t put it past Belichick to find a way to somehow steal the crown from both teams. He is, after all, a diabolical supergenius who must have something up his sleeve.

As I watched another Baltimore Raven get whistled for a penalty simply for looking at an opposing player wrong, and longing for the days of actual football instead of the Jim Irsay “no touchies” rules, I pondered where my allegiances lay.

My New England Patriots are out, much to the delight of fans of teams who haven’t won in a while ... or ever, which is understandable as you take the position of Let Someone Else Have a Chance. But there are other positions one can take this dilemma.

In Brotherhood Always

One person ventured to guess that I’d be rooting for the J-E-T-S because they were fellow AFC East gladiators. Yeah, I’ve heard that logic before, but I’m not a tree-hugging hippy. If the Jets were banished from the division or the league, I wouldn’t feel too bad.

You get the sense that the only reason they spell out their name is for practice like a child (or Kelly Bundy, perhaps) spells out C-A-T. And do their fans deserve any sort of success? I mean, they boo players at the draft; guys who haven’t even played one down for them yet. Oooof!

So no on the Jets.

The Enemy of Your Enemy is Your Friend

It’s a good policy during wartime and every week in the NFL is wartime. However, it’s vague in football since your team has so many enemies.

If the Colts are playing the Jets, then shouldn’t I root for the Colts? First off, they’re more of a threat to New England’s standing than are any AFC East rivals. Plus, they’ve played each other once a year consistently now for a long time, almost like an honorary Grudge Bowl.

And please refer back to the first paragraph where I’m still upset the rules were changed at the endorsement of Jim Irsay and ratified by other owners to prevent actual touching in this men’s professional league. A blog for another time would be to analyze the success of the Colts offense minus all the pass interference penalties of which they are the beneficiaries. How much of their net yardage comes from these, once rare, now abundant, calls?

No on the Colts. I hope that game ends in a double forfeit.

Root for the Team that Beat Your Team

I was obviously rooting for the Ravens, right? I mean, Boston is the team that invented the “Beat LA” chant when it became clear the 76ers were going to be the ones to take on the Lakers in the championship series during the early 80s. It’s a way to say, “Hey, at least we lost to the eventual champs.”

But the odds were against these Ravens because they actually hit people and, as we now know, hitters never win, and winners never hit in this NFL. (The rule says nothing about puns, however.)

No, I didn’t root for the Ravens ... and I’m glad.

They’ve Earned It

The San Diego SuperChargers have earned it, haven’t they? They’ve come close the past couple of years and been snake-bitten each time. But there’s probably a reason for that. Norv Turner is their coach. It’s hard to get behind a team with Norv Turner as the coach. I believe that Jerry Rice once referred to Turner as the worst coach he’s ever had. That’s from the greatest receiver in NFL history, so I’m going to side with him.

But don’t let that stop you from offering the man a three-year contract extension, San Diego. That’s just good business.

No thanks on the Chargers. I don’t want to be a two-time loser this postseason after my Patriots already lost.

No Connection to My Team

Arizona was a good choice, if only because there’s no connection between that team and mine. Plus, I don’t know any Arizona fans so there would be no one to rub it in should they win. That’s always a selling point.

Come to think of it, are there any Arizona fans? Hmm ... I could be the only one.

Nah, I couldn’t handle the pressure. No, on Arizona.

Individual Dislikes

I dislike Brett Favre. There, I said it. I may be the only one who thinks he’s overrated. Plus, I still hold it against him for causing the Pats to lose the Super Bowl. I’m not talking about Super Bowl XXXI either, as the Packers deserved that win, but the Big Dance in 2008.

In the NFC Championship game against the Giants, this “game-changer” decides to hurt the ball into the air, to no one in particular, in a driving wind during overtime. They should’ve revoked his Hall-of-Fame status right there. The interception allowed the Giants, a team that could beat the Pats to do just that. Thanks, Brett Fav-rah.

No, on the Vikings.

Team Dislikes

There’s a saying in football that’s as old as the hills and it goes like this – “I hate the Cowboys.”

So, no on the Cowboys.

Pity

How ‘bout ‘dem Saints? Anyone rooting against these people has no soul. Their city was washed away for crissakes! Hurricanes almost ripped apart their stadium. Their fans were forced to become refugees. They deserve something good.

Pity is always a driving factor in building allegiances. Schadenfreude is usually employed to choose who to root against. It’s the practice of wishing something bad happens to a team rather than something good. You might know it better by its street name – being a Hater.

Well, the Saints provide you with reason to root for a team rather than against. They’re this year’s feel-good bunch.

At the risk of alienating this fan base with my run of recent fan luck, this is a team I can get behind ... or not. I really am just watching as a time-waster before the upcoming draft.

Mark McGwire, you’ve come out and said that you used steroids. Well, you’ll excuse me if I don’t believe you, Big Mac. I mean, up until recently, you said you didn’t use them.

You’re telling me that for years, almost a decade of speculation, you were lying to us and only for the past few days, you’re telling the truth? You’re saying that the whole “I don’t want to go into the past” thing was something you thought would help your case if you were really a user? You’re saying the Cardinals would hire a hitting coach who was only hitting as well as he did because of an illegal substance? Yeah, right. I don’t think so.

Sounds like you’re just trying to jump on the “Apology Tour” bandwagon. It’s a great scam. I can’t blame you. It gets you national exposure, whether it’s a seat with Katie Couric or Oprah; a shot at the Hall of Fame; perhaps some more endorsement deals after a brief interruption as “outraged” sponsors pull back; and the potential for book deals and speaking engagements as a “reformed” user.

It’s worked for Kobe, A-Rod, and will work for Tiger. You were wise to give this a shot.

But your whole explanation needs work. Did you really expect us to believe you when you said you only used performance-enhancers to get back on the field, even though that would mean you kept breaking down because you were using them? Ha! I did a classic spit take when I read that, which was embarrassing because I was sitting in the barber chair at the time. (I’m going to have to find a new barber as he was none too pleased.)

I mean, you are, after all, a college graduate. You must’ve known this statement would raise some red flags.

Tony La Russa never thought you were on steroids. He just thought you worked harder than anyone else, as if pushed beyond one’s human capabilities by unnatural means. The man’s a genius.

Of course, I am always skeptical of La Russa since the man separates his name. What’s going on there? Is “La” his middle name? Was there a mix up in the hospital’s maternity ward as there was with former Houston Oilers wideout Haywood Jeffires, pronounced Jeffries?

Mark, we watched your career. We know you had good years and bad years. It’s quite reasonable to assume that your best years yielded more home runs than anyone before you ... two years in a row. What’s not mentioned by the media is how pitchers wanted to surrender tape measure blasts to you. They wanted their name associated with you, the home run champ.

It is feasible to think you could have taken something as they were pretty prevalent in baseball during his career, but if you’re gonna spend a decade planning your defense, do a little research first.

For instance, you now say you took steroids, but they didn’t enhance your home run power. See, if you truly had taken them, you would’ve seen a marked (pardon the pun, if there is one) improvement in your numbers. You probably could’ve hit 80 or 90 in 1998. That would’ve given the American public quite a thrilling race to witness. In fact, you should be apologizing to us for missing this golden opportunity to really set the bar.

And blaming the “Steroid Era.” C’mon, Mark, that doesn’t wash, baby! By the timeline of your career and chronology of events, it was only the Steroid Era because of your now self-admitted use. You would have been the trend setter.

Finally, I think the most pointed flaw to your story is Jose Canseco’s report that he personally injected you with steroids. We all know that Canseco is a no-good liar, out to make a quick buck. He lies more than the imported Persian rug in your foyer purchased with money you earned using your God-given, natural ability. (Well, except for the stuff he’s said that’s turned out to be absolutely true.) So you can’t believe him.

Steroids did not enhance your home run power. You were given that gift by “the man upstairs,” as you said, who we can assume is God, unless you literally owned a condo underneath Victor Conte’s place, which would change things.

With all your contradictions, however, I know you’re as innocent today as you were in 2005 when you sat in front of Congress and translated English for Sammy Sosa. And you can rest assured that if I had a vote for the Hall of Fame, I still wouldn’t vote for you, not based on any one thing you did or didn’t do, but because I really think you were a one-note player. (Hey, if it makes you feel better, I’m not voting for Dave Kingman or Greg Lusinski either.)

Patriots fans are worried. As well they should be. Is this the end of their magical run of greatness? The team that dominated the decade, the team that set all sorts of records, the team that set a new bar of perfection in a season over which other teams must now jump has suddenly become (gasp!) mortal.

Unthinkable as it may have once been, it’s now a reality. I mean, we’re talking about a team that put itself in the same conversation with the Steelers of the 1970s and the Walsh/Montana, Seifert/Young 49ers.

New England won three championships, but was essentially four minutes away from five in seven years. If Reche Caldwell (he of the googly eyes) catches the wide-open, coverage-breakdown pass and runs into the end zone versus the Colts in the 2007 AFC Championship game, New England more than likely goes on to beat Chicago in the Super Bowl. And, of course, there were the events of one year later, during their undefeated season, when they lost the Super Bowl on a miraculous catch from David Tyree. (I mean, seriously, who catches a ball against his helmet?)

Then Touchdown Tom Brady gets hurt, the potent offense grows somehow stagnant, they sputter into the playoffs with all sorts of things wrong with them, and here we are; they’ve gone from perennial Super Bowl favorite to once-was, apparently with no more bullets in the chamber. It’s the classic depiction of the rise and fall of a dynasty.

Rome went the same way. Remember when Caesar’s offensive linemen gathered around him and stabbed him, right there at midfield, as he was about to hand off to Augustus, their scat back? “Et tu, Hog Hannah,” he uttered.

However, there’s reason to believe it may not be the end at all, but rather a hiccup in the finely-oiled machine that is the New England Patriots.

Patterns in sports are not too uncommon, as they are for imperial kingdoms as well. The Patriots, for instance, were a 14-point underdog to the purely powerful and potent “Greatest Show on Turf” one winter’s day back in 2002. They eked out a three-point win. Flash ahead six years and the Patriots

possessed a record-setting offense that was favored by 14 points. The Giants won by 3.

This is just one example of the repetitive plot lines that permeate sports. The mystery, however, is which pattern a team will follow, and that is what keeps gamblers and prognosticators on edge. To wit, I present to you, the New York Yankees. (Pardon the smell.)

Take a look at the larger picture and you may find that this certain baseball team from the Bronx serves as a remarkably similar model for Patriots fans to observe.

Picture it – the Bronx, mid 1990s; a core group of youngsters hit the scene and win multiple championships out of the gate.

And they were poised to win more. Jeter, Posada, Pettitte and Rivera had many years left in them. They were in the World Series for the fifth time in six years, in 2001. They lost in seven games, with their once perfect superstar, Rivera, blowing the save. The loss shocked the once infallible Empire.

Then came another losing trip to the World Series in 2003, and their monumental collapse to Boston in 2004. Their fans didn’t know what to make of this. That year, Buster Olney declared they were dead in his book, “The Last Night of the Yankee Dynasty.”

Sure, they kept winning games, enough to make the playoffs, but they couldn’t seal the deal as they had once done without difficulty. These Yankees weren’t the same.

But as we all know, the Yankees were not done. They were merely reloading.

The Patriots are that team now. Brady, the quarterback, and Belichick, the coach, the two most important cogs of a football squad, are still in place. But they’re struggling. It is the darkest night of their dynasty, as New York's baseball boys faced in the middle of the decade.

In baseball, free agency played a key role in putting the Yankees back over the top. They spent and spent and spent, and their investments came to fruition. It helped that they still had their core, though.

In football, the draft is the tool team executives and head coaches look to in order to replenish their gridiron warriors. And the Patriots have more premium draft chips over the next two years than any other team does. So don’t count them out.

With the addition of some studs during one whirlwind offseason to the solid foundation already in place, the team might be back on top like Navin Johnson at the end of “the Jerk.” Couple their potential draft coup with an uncapped season and you may be looking at the remake of “A Yankee Tale.”

Now, I know you’re all reacting emotionally right now – they’ve lost too many key ingredients; the league’s built on parity; Belichick’s grown too arrogant – but you don’t know the future. And neither do I (save for that one recurring vision I have of never getting a shot with Rachel McAdams). I’m just saying that a Patriots Rebirth is possible.

It looks dark now – and represents a wonderful opportunity for the Buster Olneys of the world (is there more than one?) to craft some very poignant prose about the summation of the Patriots path – but perhaps such fare is premature. Care to put money down on it, Augustus?

It's blasphemous, I know. I will be looked upon with shame; probably ostracized, never to be regarded with respect again. But I don't care! I'm busting at the seams here and I can't hold it in any longer. I'm coming out of the locker room here, publicly, in front of all of you. I love Peyton Manning!

I'm a Patriots fan. I have been ever since I started being one. So that's why this is a forbidden love that should never be uttered in these circles.

It represents a great leap for me. You see, throughout my young childhood and subsequent adult childhood, I've always hated the enemy.

For instance, Magic Johnson was public enemy No. 1 when I was growing up. It got to the point where I would deny any truth to his greatness. "Did you see the half-court fadeaway off the in-bounds Magic hit yesterday at the buzzer?"

"Yeah, I did. It was luck."

He did it every time, though. Yet it was always luck in my eyes. It took his retirement from the game to realize how great he truly was.

Patrick Roy was a thoroughly overrated goalie. At least, he was when he played, but after he left the ice, he was one of the best of all-time.

Derek Jeter is a selfish player that is only propped up by the media. However, I'm sure that when he retires, I'll ... no, I pretty much am gonna undercut any of his accomplishments until the day I die. That guy's gotta be taking some sort of illegal supplement.

But Peyton ... oh, Peyton! I may be married to Tom Brady, but I'm gonna go Tiger Woods with Peyton Manning.

How can you not like him? He's one of the best quarterbacks ever to lace 'em up on the football field, and a self-deprecating pitchman with brilliant comic timing off it.

Tell me you didn't bust a gut laughing at his "Saturday Night Live" performance when he said, "I'm gonna go home, bake some snickerdoodles, and make out with my French-kissing puppet."

I'll admit it trumped Tom Brady's Kermit the Frog impression, or his delivery of the line "No funnel cake! ... Bear!"

Now some is a factor of the show's writing. Tom appeared on the show when the new cast was just beginning to gel; Peyton, as they were hitting their stride.

Do I believe TB could have nailed the scripts Peyton was given? Without a doubt. He was great on "Entourage," so there's no reason to believe otherwise. But Tom's more the heartthrob and model than Peyton is. The middle Manning is more the straight actor/comedian/performer, not to mention Hall of Fame-bound team leader.

I'll be shocked if offers don't pour in from networks with acting gigs once Peyton's done on the field. And I'm not talking Michael Strahan's weak starring- vehicle.

I envision something with a logline like, "The perfect quarterback who can't do anything wrong, retires to find, in life after football, he can't do anything right." And hilarity will ensue! I'll watch . . . even if it's on the CW.

I'm rooting for Peyton. I wanted his team to go 19-0 and surpass the record set by my man Tom. I want Peyton to get injured next year so that he can get a "Comeback Player of the Year" nod like Tom has. (But nothing too crippling. Maybe just a chronic hang nail or something.)

Tom sets the bar and Peyton matches the jump. It's great to see. Like Larry and Magic. And I'm glad I can finally appreciate something like this while it's happening.

I believe in Prop. 18! A fan should have the right to love whoever he wants, regardless of team jersey! I just hope my fellow Pats fans don't block passage of this law.

After rigorously defending the fact that the decade has one more year in it, I have nonetheless decided to abandon my cause and write my End of the Decade blog. (Expect another one next year.)

Though for the record, decades end in 10. Let’s review the facts: When the Julian and Gregorian calendars switched over to Anno Domini – or Adrian Dantley as is the English translation – they did so at Year One. There was no Year Zero. Hence, the first new year’s celebration was January 1, 0001. And ten years later less one day, the decade ended on December 31, 0010. So we’re jumping the gun a little bit.

Although on the surface, it seems an inconsequential argument, but look closer to witness its necessity in navigating the all-too-important matter of how many championships the New York Yankees have won this decade in comparison with the total for the Boston Red Sox. As things currently stand, the tally is Boston, 2 – Yankees, 1. (Argue this fact if you will, but as we know, the Julians and Gregorians were never wrong ... except for that whole overreaching of the Roman Empire thing ... and probably also for betting long on the Latin language instead of short selling it.)

Anyway, it’s still been nine years since the last time we looked back a ways, so it got me thinking that I should open up my time capsule (a “Welcome Back, Kotter” lunch box in the back of my closet) to look at what I said about the impending “oughts.” Here’s the letter I wrote and stashed away on December 31, 2000 (the end of the 90’s, according to the early Italians):

12/31/2000
Dear Self,

Hey, how’s it going? Are you over Becky Lantana yet? Boy, you really screwed that one up, didn’t you?

Okay, enough small talk. I really didn’t think we’d make it through the decade. I mean, how many times can one person watch the Yankees win the World Series without taking his own life in the most disgusting manner possible? It’s just not fair! Spread the wealth a little bit, huh? The Red Sox and Cubs and White Sox haven’t won in over 80 years. You would think that at least one of them could win, even if only by accident!

(Though I’m not sure, but some of those Yankees looked to be on some sort of chemical substance that helps athletes perform at a higher level unnaturally. Hmm, well, I’m sure I’m just being paranoid. The increase in offense can most likely be attributed to better training and keeping the baseballs in a humidor.)

Seriously, I can’t take it anymore! For the sake of my health and my sanity, I am hereby renouncing my allegiance to the Red Sox. I know that I do that every year, but this time, I mean it! What more do I have to give? How can one fan be so unlucky?

[Disclaimer: In the event of an ownership change and comeback from 3-0 playoff series deficit, all claims, decrees, and statements regarding allegiances are to be rendered null and void.]

Look at my track record: I follow the Red Sox – 82 years without a title. Oh, but hey, they always make sure to get our hopes up before dashing them, so that's nice.

Then there’s the Patriots – oh, that’s a real treat. They make the Super Bowl only as a punching bag for the eventual winners. And they hired a guy who resigned as head coach of the New York Jets at his introduction press conference! Oh, yeah, that instills confidence. I give him two years, tops! And didn’t this guy fail in Cleveland?

I will admit, I don’t know what the Celtics are doing these days since I won’t watch current games, but choose to pop in old videotapes of the "Big Three" from the 80’s into my VCR instead. I wish there were some channel on television that showed classic sports events from the past just to protect me from having to witness such a monumental fall from greatness.

Oh, and lest I forget, the one chance I had to pick a team on my own, one that would be mine through thick and thin – I was born in Boston so I was forced into that family – I had to go out and accept Syracuse University’s offer to attend college there. And what happened the night I sent them my enrollment letter? They become the first No. 2 seed to lose to a No. 15 seed in the NCAA tournament. If that’s not a bad sign, I don’t know what is.

It’s gotten to the point where I’m considering going to grad school just to have another team to root for. Maybe I’ll go to Notre Dame. They’re a lock to be great every year!

Aside from my own miserable fortune, there are some things around the sports landscape that have caught my eye. For instance, I’ve been very impressed with Tiger Woods. I mean, this guy is perfect at everything. Does he have any flaw at all? If he does, I’m sure we’ll never see it ... on the golf course, at least.

On the tennis courts, I enjoyed watching Agassi play his guts out in the last few tournaments, especially during his Australian Open win over Yegev -- Yevgev -- Yagenvy – uh, over Kafelnikov. Andre was amazing! He played like a meth addict out there.

And I think now that the Rams have won in St. Louis, it would be hilarious if the Baltimore Ravens would win the Super Bowl. (Take that Los Angeles and Cleveland!) But they’ve got Trent Dilfer at quarterback and we all know from last year that offense ... wins ... championships!

Not that I’m big into the whole college football scene, but I gotta say that this BCS system really seems to be taking hold. I think the powers that be finally got things right. I love the fact that virtually any team with a reasonably decent record can claim a share of the national title.

All right, that’s all I got. Enjoy New Year’s Eve in this hopeless town with hopeless teams. Just remember, tomorrow is another year and with it, more hope for a positive outcome. You know what they say, “You can’t spell hopeless, without hope.” (Or is it “Hope is halfway to hopeless?”)

Oh, and give it a couple of months. Maybe Becky will forget what you did.

Yours truly,

You

It’s the 50th anniversary of the American Football League and for it, the league has been parading out throwback uniforms of its original teams. Just when you thought you’d seen it all, you find colors you thought should never have been made public.

And we have certainly seen a lot in the past 50 years. That includes one stretch of consecutive games won in one season that remains unsurpassed ... unless you include that streak that did surpass it.

Ah, here we go again: The NFL season extends into its winter months, and we start hearing about how no one has equaled the record of the Miami Dolphins 1972 “perfect” season. (You have to put “perfect” in quotes because an asterisk is too discriminatory. And their accomplishment still deserves praise, just with a dose of clarification.)

For you see, their fabric of greatness, of invincibility, has a tear in it. Records were made to be broken and the etiquette of such a process features the “passing of the torch,” so to speak from the holder to the breaker. Like when Roger Maris’ family was on hand as Mark McGwire was about to break their patriarch’s record. (Boy, I bet they wish they had that weekend back.) This is common practice.

But the 1972 Dolphins, once equated with the gold standard of excellence and perfection, are now synonymous with spiteful men uncomplimentary of the talented young upstarts moving into their metaphorical neighborhood, desperately trying to cling to glory, reluctant to acknowledge they’ve become obsolete. Like the father who is reduced to cheating in an effort to continue beating his son in chess once the boy learns the deadly art of en passant.

Yes, what the Dolphins did was impressive. And for many years, it stood untouched. Every year, they would toast themselves when the last undefeated team suffered a loss.

For those of you unfamiliar with their achievements – and that may very well be anyone under 40 – they won 17 games in a row, in one season, without a loss. Seventeen games! Fourteen regular-season games and three in the playoffs. That’s pretty impressive. At least, it was before other teams started doing it. (I am adding the Colts to the list because I’m confident they will become the second team to go 16-0 during the regular season since they’re facing the Jets and Bills to end the season.)

But the goal posts have been moved. The NFL season was shorter then than it is now. And yet, we continue to hear the media make mention of this team that has done what no other team has done, except that what these other teams have done is, in fact, more impressive than what the Dolphins have done.

It’s the equivalent of Paul Hines, organized baseball’s first Triple Crown winner, snubbing Ted Williams because Teddy Ballgame didn’t win the award during the Dead Ball Era. Hines was dominant in 1878, smashing four home runs – Yes, FOUR! – and a whopping 50 RBIs, while batting .358. Now that’s a Triple Crown winner!

And, of course, the 2007 New England Patriots most famously won 16 games in a season, then continued to win another two before finally meeting the loss column. Eighteen games in a row! That's one more than the Dolphins, mind you.

Yet instead of talking about the Pats not winning their 19th game, we should be wondering if the Dolphins could win 18 or 19. We’ll never know because outside of former Fins running back Mercury Morris’ mouth, they don’t have the speed to keep up with this decade's Colts.

Yes, in 1972, they won 17 in a row. And that 17th game was the Super Bowl. The Patriots also, in 2007, won their 17th game in a row. It just wasn’t the Super Bowl. And they continued to win. Seventeen. Eighteen. It wasn’t until No. 19 that they lost. And that’s less impressive than the Dolphins?!

The argument here, by the few supporters of the Dolphins' fading cause, is that the Pats didn’t win the Super Bowl that year. It’s a matter of semantics.

And if that's their point, then I present to you the 1985 Bears won more games overall and demolished anyone in their path, save for the Dolphins in Week 12.

Similarly, the previous year's Niners in 1984 lost only in Week 7. Both of them went on to win the Super Bowl with 18 total wins, one more than the Dolphins. They were not perfect, but they won more games than did Miami.

The Pats don’t have a ring from their perfect regular-season campaign, but they have three others from less “successful” runs.

I don’t know about you, but I’d rather have 18 than 17.

The 1972 Dolphins at one point showed dignity and class, as any Don Shula coached team would. They were revered by the media who relished the opportunity to look to them when speaking of perfection. But now they’ve become an inside joke, the punch line on many a media outlet. “We’re going to talk to the ’72 Dolphins, who hold the fifth-longest streak in the NFL for consecutive games won, about what it’s like to be dominant.”

Could the Dolphins have won an 18th and 19th game? Well, as we’ve seen, it’s pretty tough to do, so conventional wisdom would suggest no, but it’s entirely speculative.

And if the Colts lose in the playoffs, would they be labeled worse than the Dolphins after winning more regular-season games in a row than any other team ever and more in the same season than anyone but the Patriots before them?

I am undefeated in my Fantasy Football career. A 1.000 winning percentage. Sure, I’ve played only once, but I’m not bragging about it every minute ... except for here.

It’s time to move on. The Dolphins didn’t lose a game during their 17-game season. Nor did the Patriots. Nor will the Colts. And the Bears and Niners won more games total than the Dolphins.

Does Mercury Morris still want to toast his standing as the fifth-best team of all-time? What’s the drink of choice there? Seagram’s wine cooler? How about a bottle of Charles Shaw wine, a.k.a. “Two Buck Chuck?” Or just swig a bottle of tequila to make the hurt go away. You’ve been surpassed. Be gracious and quit bogarting the torch. Pass the dutchie. The wonder ball goes round and round … It’s time to acknowledge there’s a new gold standard in the league, and it ain’t the gold of the Broncos throwback uniforms. Yeech!

J.W., this pitch is hot! And I wanted you to get first crack at it. All the other studios were begging me -- BEGGING ME -- to pitch it to them first, but I said, “NO! Not until I let the man who built this industry into what it is today hear it first.” And that’s you, J-dub ... Oh, I see you have some top-shelf brandy over here. Mind if I? ... Thanks.

So picture this, our story begins in a gated community in central Florida. It’s hot. But not the kind of hot you turn the air conditioning on for.

Cut to: A man. Collared shirt, ball cap, pleated pants and cleats, all crisp and new. He steps out of his black Escalade. He’s perfect. Almost too perfect.

Muffled arguments heard behind sliding glass doors in the night. Suddenly, a car engine roars, the squeal of tires, acceleration and then -- CRASH!!! An abrupt stop not three seconds after acceleration.

Car totaled, airbag deployed, driver groggy. But wait! Through the spewing water of the damaged hydrant comes a figure, an angel. No, she’s angry! She has a golf club -- a 3-iron, maybe a pitching wedge ... or a putter. Something metal.

She’s 5’0” if she’s an inch, maybe 100 pounds tops. And she raises the club to the sky and starts hacking at the back window like John Henry driving steel. Once, twice, three times! Glass sprays from the vehicle under the brute strength of this slight, Nordic goddess.

Knocking the remaining shards away so as not to damage her flawless alabaster skin, she crawls into the back and disappears. There’s no light. There’s no sound. It was as if she got sucked into a black hole.

After what seems like an eternity, she reemerges, pulling the semi-conscious man, her husband, the vision of perfection we’ve come to know, from the back seat and tossing him over her shoulder with the same ease she did the golf club. She places him carefully on the ground and they make love.

But no, that’s not what happened at all!

Am I losing you, J.W.? ... Oh, yeah, that is a funny billboard outside the window across the street ... Anyway, here’s where it gets good.

He holds a press conference to say nothing’s happened. He lashes out at all those that bandied about ludicrous claims and asks for the media to respect his privacy, which they do in round-the-clock coverage from his front lawn.

The cops arrive. But he won’t talk. “You can’t make me talk, copper!” he says brazenly. He’s protecting the woman he loves. But which woman is that?

Cut to: Interior -- a Perkins restaurant. A girl serves an elderly man a bowl of vanilla pudding. It's 4 p.m. and dessert is included in the early bird special. The elderly man thanks her and she smiles, but we can tell her mind is elsewhere. On our hero, perhaps?

Back in Florida, without a lead and about to give up on the case, the dam bursts wide open. Police uncover text messages from one girl, a nightclub promoter.

Scrambling, our hero calls her to stop the flow of incriminating evidence, but it’s too late. And that call is the final nail in his coffin as the girl has recorded it and sells it to the 6 o’clock news for a lifetime subscription to US magazine and a $200 gift certificate to a neighborhood pilates studio. They’ve got him dead to rights asking her to take her name off her phone.

What of his wife, the woman we saw earlier saving his life after the car accident? A lawyer counsels her. She begins looking through very expensive jewelry catalogs. Her mother shows up from Sweden, wearing clogs and one of those hats you’d see on Pippi Longstocking. She announces she’s staying to see her daughter through this terrible ordeal.

All settles down and then, the night air is cut again, this time with the sound of a siren. It’s an ambulance. The same house. A lady is taken on a gurney. She needs the jaws of life. We can't see who she is. The ambulance speeds away.

And then, an Escalade, similar to the one before, but this one is in mint condition ...

What’s that? ... Well, they could own two of the same car ... Yeah, I suppose it could be a loaner for the damaged one ... Y’know, let’s just make it an Isuzu Tracker ... with tinted windows. We can’t see in. But we catch a glimpse through the front windshield.

It’s her! Our golden bombshell from before. But is it her? For she has a twin sister!

But it is her and not her twin ... or were you thinking it was the twin? We can make it the twin if you want ... No?

Okay, so they’re trying to resuscitate the woman as they're doing 95 along I-95 -- (have you ever wondered, J.W., what would happen if the speed limits were actually equal to the route numbers? ... Future script idea: “Speed Demons on Route 293”) -- they’re driving along trying to resuscitate her, but strangely, our hero, Mr. Perfect, isn’t there.

He’s at home, alone, pining ... pining ... pining. He holds a picture, but not of his wife.

Smash cut to: a seedy bar in another city. A woman, the one from the picture, leaves the bar and walks next door to the National Enquirer building. She’s crying. She holds documents, photos of her with him, and tape recordings as she whispers, “Oh, baby, I hope we can still be friends after this.”

Back to the hospital. It’s a media circus. And then word trickles out that the patient was, in fact, the mother-in-law. She heard that her son-in-law was cheating and her heart couldn’t take it anymore.

Will she survive or won’t she? Doctors tell our blonde heroine there’s a 50/50 chance of survival, but only a 10 percent chance of those odds being accurate.

She’s distraught. All the while, Mr. Perfect’s sponsors are leaving him in droves. He begs them, pleads with them. “I’m not perfect!” he screams. But it’s too late. They’re gone. He cries so passionately that he exhausts himself and passes out in front of his house under the tree he hit with his car. He wears his cleats and collared shirt, but no pants.

We pull back into the dark night air and slowly dissolve to this guy as a youth, 3 years old, thwacking a plastic golf ball with a plastic Fisher Price golf club in his backyard as his father looks on. His father wears no pants. Fade to black.

What do you say, J.W.? ... What do you mean it’s too far fetched? And George Clooney playing Batman wasn’t? Fine.

I happen to have another gem, this one even better, that I want you to be the first to hear. An incredibly gifted NFL quarterback and successful pitchman wins 26 straight regular-season games. He enters the playoffs and everything is going great until ...

As I was sitting here trying to decide if the best club to use in attacking your husband is, in fact, a 3-iron (I would’ve suggested the sand wedge to Mrs. Woods for more lift), I thought I’d take this opportunity to make a plea to the powers that be asking that they install regulations preventing the media and talking heads from using idiotic phrases that insult us as an audience. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t take it anymore.

This first one has been bugging me since A-Rod returned to the Yankees line-up this past spring. One of the play-by-play announcers doing an NBA game teased us with this gem: “Coming up at halftime, you’ll never guess what A-Rod did in his first at-bat today.”

Uh, he hit a home run?

He’s a power-hitter. That’s what he does. He hits home runs. Not really a stretch there. Now, if it turned out that A-Rod had gone up to bat sucking his thumb, then galloped around the field using the bat as a horsie, then no, I would never have guessed that.

We’ve seen a lot during our decades of televised sports. Not a whole lot is going to surprise us. A home run in his first at-bat? Pretty common, actually. Give us some credit, will you please?

Speaking of which, the word “unbelievable” needs to be outlawed. “He threw the ball up and over the backboard right into the hoop! Unbelievable!” You mean like Larry Bird and Isiah Thomas and Kobe Bryant, etc. have done?

It’s difficult, yes, but I believe it can happen. Like Inigo Montoya said in “The Princess Bride” when Vezzini claims it’s inconceivable to find the Dread Pirate Roberts continuing to climb even after the rope had been cut – “I do not think that word means what you think it means.”

And in similar fashion to “Unbelievable!” this term “breaks out of his slump,” used far too often in baseball.

For lack of more foresight, broadcasters revel at the opportunity to use this trite little idiom, which is embarrassing because it shows they don’t quite know what a slump is. A batter is mired in a slump. Let’s say he has one hit in his last 30 at-bats. Then he goes 3-for-4 in one particular game. Announcers are quick to pounce! “Well, he broke out of his slump today.”

Do you think his agent is going to be as quick to mention this week’s sampling when it comes to negotiating the player’s next contract? “Remember when he went on that tear and raised his average from .033 all the way up to .117? That’s a guy you need on your team.” Might I suggest using the phrase, “he’s sucking less than he was” instead?

How about doing away with anything relating to “Keys to the game”?

Do we need to see this? There really is only one key to the game and that is scoring more than your opponent does. By the time you’ve posted two or three things that could possibly transpire, we’ve already forgotten what you’ve said because the exact opposite has already occurred.

Darren Woodson spouted this a few weeks ago on an NFL segment – “The Patriots need to protect Tom Brady in order to win this week.” Is this as opposed to “The key for the Patriots this week is to let the other team sack Brady as much as possible. If they can allow 20 or more sacks, they should pull this one out.”

Over 10 percent unemployment and he has a job?! Can’t Nancy Pelosi introduce a bill on the floor of the House that suspends him from work until he can say something the foreign-speaking cab driver can’t come up with?

Though it’s actually not as bad as what’s said during such as, “That man is a football player.”

This is also known as pulling a Madden. Fortunately, with Big John retired, Dan Dierdorf has taken to using this one for Dierdorf is the new Madden, only without the insight and amusing speech patterns and likeability.

So wait, you’re telling me that the big guy down there on the field in the middle of a football game wearing all those pads and helmet, slinging the – what do you call that? a football? – slinging the football is a football player? I tend to doubt that. I believe, and I’m not the expert you are, that the man to whom you are referring is what’s called an actuary.

Ha! Football player. Yeah, sure.

There’s no question about it, that’s a dumb statement, but coming pretty close is the phrase “no question about it.”

I like to pass the time while I’m watching sports highlights and commentary by myself by playing a little drinking game. ([sigh] I’m so lonely.) Every time someone answers a question with the phrase, “Well, no question about it?” you drink. I tell you, if you want to get blotto in no time, this is the game for you. I frequently end up passed out in a puddle of my own drool until the rooster outside my window starts crowing. (I still regret getting the only apartment in the city with a landlord that owns a rooster.) And the sad part is that the TV is still on Sportscenter, which runs on a continuous loop throughout the evening so I have to play the game all over again.

“We bring in our ‘resident expert’ to ask him, a man who’s never ever met Joe Flacco, is Flacco nervous about facing the vaunted Pittsburgh Steelers defense today?”

“Oh, no question about it.”

Okay, stop right there! First off, I was watching. The man was talking before you asked a question! It had all the elements of a question – the open-endedness of the words, the slight pitching up of the voice at the end, the question mark at the end, ... the reason we brought you in in the first place!

How about if this happened: “Oh, no question about it.”

“Great, so you’re useless then ... Let’s go out to Mongo on the field and ask him the same question. Maybe we’ll get an answer this time.”

There’s one last thing I’d like to see done away with and that is the “guarantee.”

“I guarantee a win for the Nuggets against the Lakers.”

Blockbuster used to guarantee their popular new releases would be stocked on the shelves for you to enjoy. However, if they weren’t, they offered a free movie or something like that.

Think about that. They guaranteed it would be there. And it’s not. So it’s not exactly a successful guarantee.

You can’t guarantee something that’s out of your control. You can, however, guarantee something like, if the Nuggets lose to the Lakers, I will stick salt-water taffy up my nose right here at the news desk.

That will be an exception to the ban.

So I understand the implementation of these rules might severely curb my inebriating past time, but perhaps I’ll just have to find different criteria to play such as taking a drink each time Eric Mangini switches his quarterback or Rasheed Wallace gets a technical foul or Mercury Morris acts like he’s still relevant.

Hmm. Looks like I’ve got to make a run to the liquor store.