Deciding to stay in school is never a bad choice. Even when it backfires and blows up in your face. Or more accurately, for Sam Bradford, his shoulder.

The Oklahoma quarterback and reigning Heisman winner has a sprained right shoulder, suffered initially in the Sooners' season-opening loss to BYU and re-tweaked last week against Texas. He's been ruled out of playing against Kansas this Saturday and sometime this week we'll learn more about his future.

I don't know of his medical diagnosis, but no matter. OU should shut Sam Bradford down. For the season. Whether he's going to need surgery or will simply undergo rehab and rest, he should not play another down in a Sooner uniform.

OU owes him that. It's the right thing to do for a guy who chose to return to school after his sophomore season rather than pursue the NFL. (Long-time readers of my blogs know I am an Oklahoma native, and a lifelong Sooner fan. So this post comes with extra cheese.)

Bradford was projected as being among the top choices. Georgia QB Matthew Stafford was taken No. 1 and signed a six-year $78 million deal, $41 million of it guaranteed. The next quarterback taken, USC's Mark Sanchez at No. 5 by the Jets, is banking $60 million over five years, $28 million guaranteed.

Bradford knew those numbers, yet he returned to Norman for another shot at a national title, after having lost to Florida in the title game last season. And he knew the risks, which he deemed worth the reward.

Now OU has no shot at the national title. Zero. So for his loyalty, OU should tell Bradford thanks for the memoiries, and allow him to begin doing what other college students are doing, prepare for the next phase of his life, which he still hopes will be a successful and lucrative pro career.

OU coach Bob Stoops said Monday: "We'll see what the path is, what everyone determines is best for him, what he and doctors and everyone else feel is the road to take."

Anyone who watched Bradford attemping to agonizingly crawl away from the pain after the sack against Texas should know the right road: The one leaving OU behind (but still taking classes, of course), then taking a right at Rehab and Riches.

That road should lead Sam Bradford right where he needs to go.

Where he deserves to go.

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 AP photograph

The NFL is supposed to be the league where every fan harbors hopes (no matter how faint) that his/her team will make the playoffs well into winter. That was the vision of former commissioner Pete Rozelle, who persuaded  owners to follow a revenue-sharing model used successfully by the rival AFL in order to enhance competitive balance and keep every seat filled (or eyes glued to the set) through the weather-challenged holidays.

His successor, Paul Tagliabue, nurtured the model by persuading players – led by his buddy, the late Gene Upshaw – that a hard salary cap was for their own good, allowing parity to thrive even as the New England Patriots established a new-era dynasty by winning three of four Super Bowls right after the turn of the century.

But now, at the onset of the league's annual fall meetings in Boston, Roger Goodell has a mess on his hands. Teams stink. Lots of them. More than I can ever recall. More teams are all but out of the running for the playoffs before Halloween than have been since the NFL claimed parity like it was a registered trademark.

Sure there's always been top-tier teams and, well, on the flip side, the Oakland Raiders. But in 2009, miserable more than has company – it's having a convention in the NFL.

Four teams are 0-5. That's 20 games played by the Kan't City Chiefs, the St. Limbaugh Rams, Tampa Buc Wild and Forget the Titans, and nary a W between them. Would never have happened in Rozelle World. And one of them's not even the Raiders.

Oaklnd is among five other teams with just one win each. (Carolina, Cleveland, Buffalo and Detroit join the Raiders) And in some cases just barely.

Jacksonville, Houston and Washington each have two wins, but no one would argue against tossing them into the stinky pile, as well. (By contrast, the other two-win teams – Seattle, Arizona, Green Bay and San Diego – can all talk playoffs without prompting a flood of LOLs.)

There's thus far been so much pitiful football, in fact, it's almost overshadowed the top-tier storylines unfolding in Cincinnati, Denver, Minnesota, New York (twice) and New Orleans.

Parity has given way to Paltry, and in this new economic age, when a fan's passion may no longer trump pocketbook practicality, it'll begin to touch the bottom line sooner than you can say "Raiders win!" three times with a straight face.

Each team may have arrived at its miserable state via different paths. Some (like Tampa Bay, Detroit and St. Limbaugh) are trying to dig out of years failed leadership with fresh, new coaches and/or talent.

Some (J'ville, Tennessee, Carolina) are holding on with veteran coaches and may be struggling due to the loss of key talent.

A few (Cleveland, Carolina, Washington) are in some kind of going-nowhere limbo.

And some just stink. (I will refrain from naming names …)

Whatever the reasons, Goodell must be hoping '09 is just a one-season malady, that it's not a trend that would upset the NFL's status as the model sport in terms of popularity and profitability.

So far viewership has not been affected. The league is averaging 17.4 million sets of eyeballs each week, thanks in part to high-profile matchups – like Brett Favre v. Green Bay – on Sunday and Monday nights. That's the highest level since 1989.

But there are concerns. There is no long runway here. The current collective bargaining agreement expires at the end of next season, unless the league can strike a deal with the players and their new leader, executive director DeMaurice Smith.

Talks have been progressing, both sides say. And I'm sure neither side wants to play chicken with their Bentley's when so many fans are worried about their jobs.

At that juncture, they'd all be losers.

AP photos

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My dad also took my brother and me to St. Louis once a year to see the Cardinals play in Busch Stadium. He wasn't particularly a Cardinals fan. In fact, my devotion was a sharp departure from the team of my parents' baseball passion - the Dodgers.

It was natural for them. Like almost every Negro (that's what we were back then) of their generation, they rooted for the team that signed Jackie Robinson, an act of historical significance that still ranks in the discussion with Brown v. Board of Education, the signing of the 1964 Civil Rights Act and the election of President Barack Obama.

For decades after Robinson's arrival in Brooklyn, the Dodgers were Negro America's team. And not just because of Robinson. Owner Walter O'Malley also signed other black stars, including catcher Roy Campanella, who played the coveted "mind" position, the equivalent of the quarterback; and Don Newcombe, who debuted by pitching a 3-0 shutout and in 1956 (the year I was born, by the way) became the first player to win the Cy Young and MVP awards in the same seasons. (Above, Robinson, Newcombe and Campanella with Cleveland's Larry Doby and Luke Easter) (Little-remembered Dodger Dan Bankhead became the majors' first black pitcher in August 1947, four months after Robinson's arrival.)

I don't remember much about the two Hall of Famers. But I do recall many of the black Dodgers that followed them, particularly Maury Wills, who stole 104 bases in '62 and was the NL MVP. In the '60s, the Dodgers also boasted John Roseboro (another catcher) and Tommie Davis, guys who upheld Robinson's legacy of excellence and class as the organization moved west.

I admired those Dodgers but they were not my team.

The Cardinals were actually only the 10th MLB franchise to sign a black player - first baseman Tom Alston, in 1954. Nothing admirable there. 

But by the time I was old enough to root, three black players had become integral to their success - base-stealing outfielder Lou Brock (938 SBs all-time), fellow outfielder Curt Flood (seveT Gold Gloves) and, of course, Bob Gibson, who holds career Cardinals records in any category that matters and is still recognized as one of the most dominant and intimidating pitchers ever.

They were the players who caught a young boy's eye, a young Negro boy who grew to cheer them as my parents did the Dodgers.

In time, blacks across the nation began rooting for their own teams, too. In cities like Cleveland, Chicago, Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, where black (and early Latino) players began to star.

The decline of black players in the game has been well-chronicled. No surprise: That decline has been mirrored by diminishing interest in baseball among African-American sports fans.

I love Albert Pujols, and Manny Ramirez is always worth watching. But the most prominent black player in this year's Dodgers-Cardinals series is L.A. second baseman Orlando Hudson, a two-time All-Star with three Gold Gloves. There's not a singular black star on either team, no one whose popularity transcends geographic boundaries.

As the series begins, I wonder who my kids will root for, who they'll remember.

Or if they'll even watch.

AP photos

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If you were there that evening three years ago, at the feet of the hills outside Pasadena, Calif., you just knew you were watching a beginning – not an end.

If you were there at the Rose Bowl, as the drama folded, refolded and unfolded again, you were convinced you were seeing the debut of the next great quarterback rivalry.

If you were there, as the final heart-stopping seconds ensued, you would have bet your pre-real-estate-collapse home that Southern California's Matt Leinart and Texas' Vince Young would be the faces of quarterback greatness for at least the next decade.

I was there, and you could not have done anything to persuade me that night that, three years later, Leinart and Young would be near-bust NFL benchwarmers today.

The two young men who starred in perhaps the greatest Rose Bowl ever have thrown just eight passes this season (all eight of them by Leinart). Three years and three weeks into their pro careers, they're clipboard-hugging also-rans.

Both men back up guys almost old enough to be their dads. In Arizona, Leinart sits behind 38-year-old Kurt Warner, while Young shags for Tennessee's Kerry Collins, 36.

But maybe not for long.

The Cardinals and Titans – teams which reached the playoffs in '08, with the Cardinals going to the Super Bowl – are an abysmal 1-5, collectively. And the whispers have begun.

Of course, the reasons for their woeful starts extend beyond the men behind center. Neither man, however, has shined this season (Warner's QB rating is 83.5; Collins languishes at 69.9, fifth from worst ahead of now-benched Brady Quinn of Cleveland, Detroit rookie Matt Stafford, Carolina's Jake Delhomme and JaMarcus Russell of the Raiders).

Not surprisingly, Warner's at least chewing up air yardage, passing for 287.7 yards per game (fourth in the NFL). Collins, though, has been dreadful, completing only 55 percent of his passes – and with as many interceptions (4) as touchdowns (4), he's truly thankful for Delhomme (2 TDs, 7 INTs)

It's too early to punch the proverbial panic button, but Arizona's Ken Whisenhunt and Tennessee's Jeff Fisher need to keep the sucker close by.

The Cardinals can draw on recent experience. They were 2-2 last season before crawling into the playoffs and engineering a stunning run that got them to the Super Bowl. And they still have two of the most dangerous weapons in the game in wide receivers Larry Fitzgerald and Anquan Boldin.

The Titans, conversely, are in a funk. They've lost five straight games (including the playoffs) since starting last season 13-2 and are dangerously close to a hole from which the postseason is all but an impossibility.

If their respective fortunes don't change soon – very soon – the franchises will have to make the call to turn it over to Leinart and Young. Not so much because their seasons would be "over," but because both men might be the injection of energy the teams need to mount a revival.

That is much more likely with Young, a former NFL Rookie of the Year. Leinart, who failed to hold off Warner in the summer of 2008, spent his offseason improving his conditioning and vowed to spend more time practicing than partying – finally.

But maybe the most important reason for playing the youngins' is to see, once and forever, if they can, well, play. If Leinart and Young are not capable of being the future of their respective franchises – as they were drafted to be – then the teams need to know now.

And if that's the case, then they're a lot worse off than their abysmal records. A lot.

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Photos by AP

He's a bit more testy than a guy in his position ought to be. His Florida Gators are No. 1-'till-knocked down, which few dispute. He's got the toughest QB in the nation in Heisman winner Tim Tebow and a schedule that's all but laid out for him to run the table and fly west for a shot at the Gators second consecutive national title.

Yet Meyer appears to be wilting a bit. A day after Florida's 23-13 did-what-we-had-to-do-to win over unranked and un-respected Tennessee, Meyer, who's typically cool on the sideline, tossed a salvo at Lane Kiffin, coach of the vanquished Vols.

He said he sensed "[no] urgency" when the Vols recovered a Tebow fumble at their own 2, trailing 23-6 with 11:37 remaining. Kiffin went conservative, running between the tackles and throwing only low-risk passes.

Apparently, that wasn't good enough for Meyer, who wondered why the Vols (30-point 'dogs, mind you) didn't take some chances.

Meyer wasn't even fazed that the Vols scored on the drive in just under 3 minutes, trimming the lead to 10 points, where it remained until the final gun.

The Gators are clearly the hunted and with other contenders tripping up every Saturday, they're in prime position to reach the SEC title game and more than likely defend their national title Jan. 7 in Pasadena. But if Meyer's already chippy, letting a guy like Kiffin annoy him, it's gonna be a bumpy ride.

As it should be.

The Gators face three more real challenges during the regular season, only one of which (at No. 7 LSU in two weeks) is a major challenge. The other two are Georgia (which is still hoping Matt Stafford realized the 'Dawgs are better than the Lions) and Florida State. Meyer's troops won't have to face 'Bama, the SEC's second-best team (for now), until a possible SEC title game.

And yet, after escaping with a clear yet unimpressive win, Meyer acknowledged the building pressure, though using the moment to spew yet another dig at Kiffin. "There's so much pressure on this team to perform perfectly, which is good," Meyer said. "I'd rather be on that end then, 'What a great job, we lost by 10.' I don't want to do that."

Remember when Meyer professed his high annoyance at the cover of Sports Illustrated's college preview issue, which depicted him posed reminiscent of Joel Goodsen, Tom Cruise's character in "Risky Business?" Meyer said he was duped into taking the shot at the end of the photo shoot and was promised the image was for the photographer's personal use only.

Maybe that was the beginning of something we should have seen coming. Who cares about the shot? Was Meyer already getting tight over the challenge before him and his team?

Now, it seems as if the cover may have been dead-on. The Gators' run now seems more risky than reliable, and if Meyers is going to celebrate in January he just might have to embrace a bit of Gooden/Cruise and tell us: Sometimes you just gotta say, "What the ----, make your move."

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 Photos: Reuters, studio, SI

We may now return to our regularly scheduled football.

Thank goodness.

After months of reporting on the lives, loves, trials, whims and thoughts of Brett Favre, Jay Cutler, Tom Brady, Mark Sanchez, Donovan McNabb/Michael Vick, Tony Romo and way too many other NFL quarterbacks, I'm glad to say Week 1 showed us, once again, that the guys who matter most are the ones who carry the rock.

Guys who endure the mayhem of mad men intent on doing them bodily harm.

Quarterbacks are sexy and all. They're the names atop the marquee. But without a solid, top-tier running back, they're eye candy. Or Jake Delhomme.

New Viking Favre, the most talked about re-retired player ever, was given kudos for winning  (and surviving) his three millionth consecutive start, a 34-20 victory over Brady Quinn and the Cleveland Browns. He was 14-for-21 for 110 yards and a TD – about what used to be a good quarter for Favre.

In truth he was just a bit more than the guy with the best seat in the house for witnessing the best player in the house, tailback Adrian Peterson. The NFL's reigning rushing leader barrelling over, through and around the Browns defense, rambling for 180 yards and three touchdowns. Even Favre marveled, calling him "awesome, and that's an understatement," and saying he'd never played with a running back like Peterson.

In Houston, Jets rookie Mark Namath, er, Sanchez grinned his way through New York's 24-7 mini-upset of the Texans. He was 18-for-31 with 272 yards, a TD and and an INT. As time ran out, he asked the ref for the game ball. He then should have done what he did all day – handed it to running back Thomas Jones, who had 107 yards and 2 TDs.

Ravens QB Joe Flacco (307 yards, 1 TD),  the Saints' Drew Brees (6 TD passes) and Matt Hasselbeck (279 yards, 2 TDs) in Seattle were all the toast of the town after victories, but they should have sent a bottle to, respectively, second-year runner Ray Rice (108 yards, at left), bruising Mike Bell (143 yards) and Julius Jones (117 yards, 1 TD) – other running backs who, like Peterson and Thomas Jones, gained 100-plus yards on the day.

On the flip-side, the Bears (now, officially the Bad News Bears) couldn't create even a slow lane for running back Matt Forte (55 yards), which forced Cutler into a nightmare four-INT debut evening and the Bears to a 21-15 loss.

Delhomme? He's still tossing crippled pigeons into the sky. In a 38-10 loss to McNabb and the Eagles, Delhomme threw nearly as many interceptions (4) as completed passes (7), and had to be re-named today as the Panthers' starter for Week 2. No coincidence that Carolina's leading rusher, DeAngelo Williams, managed just 37 yards on 14 carries.

Some chicks (and unschooled football fans) still dig the long ball, so quarterbacks will continue to dominate the highlight shows and daily headlines. But give me a good old-school running back any Sunday afternoon (or Sunday or Monday night), and I'll take my W and go home.

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Photos by AP and Reuters

What happened to the guy who was once proclaimed (many times, actually) the greatest running back in college football history after a stellar career at Tailback U?

What happened to the guy who co-starred (along with Texas QB Vince Young and teammate Matt Leinart) in the 2006 Rose Bowl, no doubt the greatest national title game ever played?

What happened to the guy who was so good that when the then-hapless Houston Texans and equally putrid San Francisco 49ers were about to meet late during the 2005 season (on New Year's Day, '06, in fact) the game was tabbed The Reggie Bush Bowl? The loser would have the inside track on the No. 1 pick in the upcoming NFL draft – and the superstar back.

Or so we all thought.

Now, three seasons later, the Texans look like geniuses. They filled the greatest of their myriad needs by choosing a relatively anonymous defensive end  – North Carolina State's Mario Williams – instead of the SoCal Stud or their homegrown hero, Young.

Like I said, genius. Williams is a stud, and Bush isn't, at least not on Sunday afternoons in the fall.  That guy is nowhere to be found.

Bush, picked second by the New Orleans Saints, of course, missed 10 games over the past two seasons due to injuries. All told, he's averaged only 3.7 NFL yards per carry, about half his average in college and less than his less-hyped teammates.

What happened? Well, Bush discovered what so many other precocious talents do – that about the only thing the NFL and college football have in common is the pigskin.

Like the high-school prom queen who suddenly finds herself in a college dorm filled with tiara-wearing beauties, Bush learned that his speed was matched by the speed of the men trying to bring him down. He could no longer juke and tap dance his way out of trouble and into the end zone, that his moves only worked on Kim Kardashian.

At least he says he's learned. "It's like an alcoholic when they go into an [Alcoholics Anonymous] meeting or something," he told the Times-Picayune last month. "That's the first step, just recognizing it and getting better from there. … I'm really just working on being explosive and, yes, hitting the holes. I think over these last two years I haven't done that."

Because he hasn't done so, Bush has been a good rusher but not a great one. And because of his injuries (he endured two operations on his left knee last year) the Saints have elevated the role of fellow running back Mike Bell, who joined the team last November after being cut by Denver. At 6-foot-1, 219 pounds, he's the hammer Bush isn't.

Despite the danger he presents as a kick returner, Bush is dangerously close to being labeled a bust as a running back – particularly given how high we was drafted and, yes, the hype that accompanied his arrival.

But only dangerously close. Not there yet, especially if the hard work he put in during the preseason to become an NFL back comes to fruition. Meaning? If he stops zigzagging at the first sign of trouble, and instead trusts the plays as they're designed, runs hard toward the hole and follows his blockers.

He was indeed that guy in the Saints' first preseason game, then sat out the rest of the fake season nursing a strained right calf. He says he's fit and ready for the Saints' season-opener Sunday against Detroit.

It's time for Bush to make as much of a mark during the season as he does during the summer.

It's time for him to be seen as much on the highlight shows as he is on the celebrity shows.

It's time for him be a smarter, tougher, healthier NFL-ready version of that guy – now.

AP photo

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I've generally stayed out of the fray when the topic is Dan Snyder. The man is a new-age mogul with new-age ways that don't always sit well with us old-school types. (Consider him the NFL's Mark Cuban, without the need to let us know what's on his mind every single waking moment.) What do I care if the Washington Redskins owner seems to know nothing about running a successful NFL franchise?

As long as he's not hurting anyone, he's not worth the bother.

Well, according to a well-reported story in the Washington Post, now he's hurting people. Even worse, people who love the 'Skins.

People like Pat Hill, a 72-year-old real estate agent who's been devastated by the collapse of the housing market.

Like Randy Clarno, 51, a developer who was forced to lay off 20 employees.

Like 37-year-old Rodney Hubbard, who lost his salesman job at a car dealership.

Like Dennis Butts, 62, a contractor who once even worked at the 'Skins headquarters.

Synder is hurting these people (and many others) by suing them because – due to various economic circumstances not unlike millions of other Americans are enduring – they could no longer afford their multi-year season-ticket contract and often would agree to a "settlement" they also could not afford.

According to the Post, Synder's Wfi Stadium Inc. sued 125 ticket holders for a total of $3.6 million, winning $2 million in judgments from 34 ticket holders, most of whom couldn't afford an attorney and subsequently didn't show up in court.

The judgement against Hill, who had a 10-year ticket agreement, was $66,364. Clarno lost a judgment for $80,837. Hubbard, $71,000.  And Butts, who had four Touchdown Club seats, a whopping $209,351.

This is unconscionable. Where is the outrage over this injustice? Where is Roger Goodell?!

The Redskins' general counsel, David Donovan, bravely spoke to the Post and addressed each of the individuals in the story. He added that suing is a last resort used only against a minuscule portion of the team's 20,000 annual premium seat contract holders. "For every one we sue, I would guess we work out a deal for half a dozen."

I fully understand that many season-ticket holders throughout sports stretch their wallets too far in order to satisfy their passion for their favorite team – just as millions of foreclosed homeowners bought houses they could not afford.

No doubt some of these 'Skins fans were guilty of such blindness, swayed in the midst of the same flush times that caused many of us to make foolish (or at least risky) financial choices.

Still, these times call for more compassionate action, especially by sports franchises, which, unlike banks, have a long-term relationship with their "customer" – often a die-hard, lifelong relationship.

Indeed the Post contacted several teams that said they did not sue fans over season ticket contracts: Baltimore Ravens, Cincinnati Bengals, Green Bay Packers, Houston Texans, Jacksonville Jaguars, New York Giants and Jets, Seattle Seahawks and Tennessee Titans.

The New England Patriots and Chicago Bears confessed that they have sued ticket holders. Seven teams declined to comment and others simply did not respond the reporter.

At worst, beleaguered ticket holders should be able to walk away from their ducats without future obligations. Particularly in the NFL where there's rarely an empty seat in the place. In most cities, there will be another willing fan to pay the freight.

To sue a down-on-their-luck fan in the midst of this economic tsunami is perhaps the greatest breach a team can make with its fans.

And that's something no sports team or league can afford right now.

Getty photo

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Is it just me, or is the NFL not all it's cracked up to be? At least from a quarterback perspective. Time was, a young QB had to get very familiar with a clipboard before even thinking of lining up under center in a game that mattered. At least two or three years familiar. Even Tom Brady, the standard by which all current QBs are measured, sat behind Drew Bledsoe for a season and a game before launching his journey toward iconic status with three Super Bowl rings and a hot marriage to model Gisele Bündchen.

Now, NFL QBs are starting before they're out of diapers. The Jets this week named rookie Mark Sanchez, New York's first-round pick, as their Week 1 starter. And I won't be surprised when Matthew Stafford, the No. 1 overall pick, is named the Lions' king soon thereafter.

Blame another Matt (Atlanta QB Matt Ryan) and compadre Joe Flacco of the Baltimore Ravens. They turned old-school thinking on its ear last season by leading their respective teams to 11-5 records and the playoffs.

Now rookies are all the rage. Play a couple of preseason games and get the keys to the franchise.

Take us to the promised land, young fella.

Is the NFL easier than wise elders tried to make us believe? Not at all. Reading a sophisticated defense and making the right call in a nanosecond -- as several 6-foot-7 supermen with muscles on muscles and bad attitudes and Usain Bolt speed descend on you as if you are dinner -- may be one of the most difficult challenges to master in all of sports. In fact, playing the position now is probably a lot harder than it was two decades ago.

Are the young QBs better? Yeah, but they're not that good.

Stafford and Sanchez came from big-time college programs -- Georgia and USC, respectively -- where they faced defenses schemed at the high end of the college football food chain. Ryan played at Boston College, which also faced major-college defenses. Flacco? Not so much at Delaware. But at Baltimore he was surrounded by enough talent and played on a team with one of the best defenses in the history of the league.

Why is this happening? Lay it all on the money. With first-round guarantees of a reported $41.7 million and $28 million, respectively, coaches are under pressure to seek early dividends. Very early.

So is this trend odd for the young guns? Time will reveal the truth. But until it does, I'll say no.

Now, Sanchez and Stafford (if he doesn't get the starting nod in Week 1, it'll be soon thereafter) are on the clock, willing but less prepared for the rigors of the position. They'll take their hits, and so will their teams.

Without strong offensive lines and a dependable running back, too much will fall on their shoulders too soon.

But it's the new NFL. Not easier, just less patient.

Gentlemen, best of luck.

 Photo courtesy AP

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Newsday reported that Knicks president Donnie Walsh isn't interested in signing Allen Iverson, the most intriguing free agent still on the market. The report didn't say why, but I can imagine the reasoning is something along the lines of: He isn't just our kind of guy.

Please.

Full disclosure: I hold Knicks season tickets. Pretty good ones, too. And I've enjoyed taking my kids to the game for more than a decade. Though some games I might have enjoyed a trip to the dentist better.

So I feel I have every right to say: Please sign Iverson! Give him a contract and slip a Knicks jersey on one of the most exciting scorers in the history of the game. (He tweeted this week that the Knicks were one of three teams that might sign him.)

I know all the reasons not to do it. Money. Age. Attitude. Blah. Blah.

Perhaps the biggest is that he was a one-man wrecking ball last season in Detroit, all but getting a head coach fired and sucking the life out of a team that once thought it was good enough to reach the NBA Finals. That's the reason few have called, despite A.I.'s 27.1 career scoring average, a respectable 17.4 last season - before he was exiled by Pistons president Joe Dumars.

But I don't care. These Knicks have no championship delusions. Make him a Knick.

A.I. cannot cause the implosion of a team that will likely miss the playoffs once again. Walsh & Co. haven't done anything this summer to greatly improve a team that finished 32-50, seven games out of the playoffs and 34 games behind top-seeded Cleveland. This remains the Off-Broadway Bunch.

And yet, there I'll be in my ridiculously expensive seats, just like thousands of other longtime sufferers. Why not give is a show? Give us an icon who scores in his sleep.

Make A.I. a Knick.

Sure, Mike D'Antoni's system was entertaining. But it's also porous. On too many nights, I left with the Knicks leading by 16 going into the fourth because I didn't want to see the inevitable comeback. Didn't need that aggravation.

Guys like Wilson Chandler, Al Harrington and David Lee thrived in the system. And there were many nights when Nate Robinson could have run for mayor and won.

But well before the end of the season, the guys were too gassed to put up much of a fight against teams priming for the postseason.

Now, close your eyes and imagine A.I. in that system. He might score fiddy once a week. Even at 34 years old.

Imagine A.I. and Nate on the floor at the same time - a midget backcourt that couldn't cover stick figures but would be the best show in town.

And I don't even want to hear the he-doesn't-play-defense argument, not with this system. Make him a Knick.

And as for him not being our kind of guy, A.I. has not been on the sports/police pages recently like so many of his peers. Michael Vick and Plaxico Burress and Donte' Stallworth, to name just a few, have certainly upped the ante in this area. And Iverson never was the gangsta his rep made him out to be.

I presume the team has a plan for building a contender, one beyond "Waiting for LeBron." Bringing in A.I. for one season wouldn't disrupt that - not if the deal is structured right, which I'm confident Walsh could do.

So c'mon, Donnie, drop the high-and-mighty movement, grab some cash and sign A.I.

At least it'll make my expensive nights a lot more interesting. And practices will no doubt be a hoot.

Photo courtesy NBA

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I never thought I'd see this celebration. You probably didn't either.

At least not on the day that shook us to our core nearly 18 years ago - yes, 18 years! - when Earvin (Magic) Johnson told us he was HIV positive.

On Nov. 7, 1991, America thought it was looking at a dead man holding a news conference.

Instead, Magic turns 50 today.

Where were you when you heard?

I remember as if it happened this afternoon. Actually, I heard before you. I was an editor at Sports Illustrated and about three hours before the nationally televised announcement, a source close to Magic informed me the three-time MVP "has AIDS." (He was wrong, of course, but it shows we were still learning the language of HIV and AIDS.)

Because we were still in the media dark ages -- before Twitter and websites --  I couldn't break the story. Heck I couldn't even tell anyone at SI because everyone was out to lunch. When my editor returned we both sat in his office stunned.

Then we watched, and while no one said it aloud, almost everyone thought Magic would soon be dead.

Of course we now know that being HIV positive is not a death sentence, and that's in part because of Magic.

In fact, he stands as one of the most significant figures in the evolution of HIV/AIDS. His contracting the virus took the disease out of the closet and put it smack in the middle of the kitchen table.

Suddenly, we were talking to our friends about HIV/AIDS.

We were talking to our neighbors and co-workers about HIV/AIDS.

We were talking to our kids about HIV/AIDS.

But Magic's most vital impact on HIV/AIDS isn't because he contracted the virus, but because he lived with it.

He lived as he always did -- with his head high and with that smile.

He made myriad public appearances in an effort to educate us about HIV/AIDS, as did his wife, Cookie (pictured with him, above, on "Oprah").

And he continued to win. In fact, his success with the multifaceted Magic Johnson Enterprises has made him one of the few recent pro athletes who's made more money in retirement than he did as a player.

He's alive today because of advances in HIV treatment, a disciplined diet and undoubtedly his own positive attitude.

He's been a model for many infected by HIV and an inspiration.

Today, as Magic celebrates, it's appropriate to consider where he stands among the most influential athletes ever.

Not whether he's the best point guard ever (duh) or the best player (many whisper yes). But where he ranks among those athletes who not only were among the best in their sports but who also moved the needle beyond the field or court or ring or rink.

Here are my Top 5:

1) Muhammad Ali

2) Jackie Robinson

3) Billie Jean King

4) Earvin (Magic) Johnson

5) Babe Ruth

Each of the top four had an impact beyond the playing field. They changed us, often at some personal risk or cost. Babe made baseball big time.

My next five:

6) Pele

7) Joe Louis

8) Wayne Gretzky

9) Bill Russell

10) Tiger Woods

Happy 5-0, Magic. Not just because you're here, but because you helped us grow, in ways we never thought we'd see.

Photo courtesy the Oprah Winfrey Show 

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They're supposed to be a model, a franchise whose "ups" meant they were World Series contenders, and whose "downs" meant they were at least in the hunt for mid-October.

The Braves were never flashy. And they weren't  scary – unless you consider a slew of HOF arms coming at you night after night, a nightmare on Peachtree.

They were built on solid, if not dominant pitching, anchored by the likes of Glavine, Maddox and Smoltz. And clutch hitting. Not since David Justice (maybe Andruw Jones in his prime) has any Braves batter caused a pitcher's knees to quiver, or forced an opposing manager to click the OMG tab on his digital playbook in search of a trick defensive strategy.

Do a Yahoo! search for "manager" and "Braves" and you'll likely get Bobby Cox because he's been the Braves' manager since, like for...ever.

He was the constant. Through generations, lineup changes, trades and tweaks, he sat, Buddah-like, in the Braves' dugout, the model's architect.

But it's been a minute since the ATL Braves were those guys.

Like, it seems, for...ever.

They failed to reach the postseason in the past three seasons, slipping entirely out of the postseason discussion last year when they were 72-90, the franchise's worst record since it went 65-97 in 1990.

The following season, in 1991, the Braves stunningly won 94 games and reached the World Series, losing to Minnesota in a dramatic seven games. After that they reached the postseason 13 straight seasons (save for the 1994 strike year when there were no playoffs) through 2005.

But it's been a minute.

Yet suddenly the Braves are those guys again.

After winning three of four from the Dodgers over the weekend, they're back in the October hunt. At 58-54, they're just 4 1/2 back of NL East leading Philadelphia, with the wobbly Phillies coming to town next weekend for three games. (They're 3 1/2 back in the wild-card standings.)

Since June 28, they're 24-14, baseball's best mark in that span, though as late as last week the Braves still were not on anyone's postseason radar.

Now they are. And they've even done it with the same Braves formula (though without the HOF arms): consistent pitching and timely hitting.

Once again they're not a scary team. Their ace, Javier Vazquez, didn't make the All-Star team, though he's 5-0 in his last six starts, with seven strikeouts in an 8-2 win over the Dodgers on Sunday. (The win made the Braves 5-2 for their West Coast swing, which even surprised them. "We Georgia boys," leftfielder Matt Diaz said afterward, in jest, "we don't like to travel west of the Mississippi.")

Nor did the guys who've keyed the surge - shortstop Yunel Escobar (.306, 110 hits, 59 RBIs) (left) and Martin Prado (.312), and outfielders Diaz (.292) and Nate (rhymes with "mouth") McLouth (15 HRs, 100 hits, 56 RBIs), who arrived in a trade with Pittsburgh in June.

Chipper Jones, perhaps the Brave with the highest Q rating, didn't even play in the three wins over the Dodgers with a strained left oblique. (He's expected back Tuesday when the Braves face the stunningly hot Washington Nationals.)

And , of course, Cox is still there, sitting on the bench in the dugout like a pile of old, comfortable clothes. He's been "fired" numerous times over the last three seasons, ostensibly because the game had seemingly passed him by. Or at least he would have been if the chattering masses had their way.

That they didn't is a testament to the model, to the belief that if it worked then it would work again.

And it is.

 AP photos

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I'm done with debating whether Michael Vick should play. I believe once a citizen has paid dues for his crime, he should be able to earn a living. I also believe in forgiveness.

Lord knows I've needed some myself.

Moreover, Vick is going to play. Neither the torrent of venomous comments that accompany any story written anywhere about Vick, nor the threat of protesters, nor, clearly, the NFL commissioner will prevent that from happening.

Sometime by Week 6 of of the upcoming season, Vick will take the field in the NFL.

And he just might be a better quarterback than he ever was prior to serving nearly two years for bankrolling a dogfighting operation.

In fact, I'm willing to say he will be a better quarterback.

Certainly not on the first snap, or during the first series or first game. Probably not even during the first season.

But sometime before Vick takes his last snap, he'll prove to be better than the three-time Pro Bowler who was one of the game's most exciting players.

That will either be a towering task or pretty easy, depending on whether you believe Vick - who, in six seasons in Atlanta, led the Falcons to the playoffs twice and to the conference title game after the 2004 season - was a top-tier QB or a bust.

Most have set the bar pretty low for him, citing, essentially, atrophy. The layoff no doubt will have an effect. While he looks good in a suit (pretty much the only way we've seen him since he was released from prison), Vick is far from peak condition. And he hasn't been hit by any frothing 260-pound defensive ends in a while.

On the other hand, the latter may yet be a reason why he's probably healthier than any player reporting to training camp. Any injuries, nicks or bruises are surely healed. 

He's 29 years old. That's younger than Peyton Manning and Donovan McNabb. It's younger than Chad Pennington and David Garrard. It's younger than Jake Delhomme. It's younger than Tom Brady.

And it's light years younger than Kerry Collins and Kurt Warner.

It's even two months younger than Tony Romo.

Vick will be rusty, and at times he'll look bad, especially for a guy who relied on quick feet and instinct.

But no matter where he ends up (Seattle just might be the perfect franchise and city for him), age will not be a factor in Vick's success.

Though maybe somewhat dormant, his skills will still be there. His legs, his arm. He will still marvel.

It will take more than talent, of course. But beyond the talent around him, the offensive scheme and, maybe most importantly, the coach Vick plays for, the biggest factor in Vick's football future, and the reason he'll ultimately be a better quarterback, is that he's had to become a better man.

Prison breaks a man. And by all accounts, Michael Vick has been humbled. He's been forced to look at the depths of his heart and assess not just who he is but, most critically, who he wants to be.

I'm not really sure what "remorseful" means anymore -- the word gets tossed around so much as the emotion every tattered athlete must show in order to be forgiven that it means about as much as the final quarter of a preseason game. But whatever the definition, Vick has shown it enough to be conditionally reinstated by Roger Goodell.

I'm good on the remorse front.

I'm waiting to see what kind of man Michael Vick has become.

And if he's a better Michael Vick than the one we knew, being a better quarterback will be easy.

Reuters photo

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Thank you for saving us from what may be the most boring baseball season ever.

I didn't see your perfect game live, but I felt the buzz as it made its way from Chicago through the myriad technologies, from talk radio to Twitter.

Perfect game. There's no better term in sport. It's simple, and it says all that needs be said.

In no other sport can an athlete play a perfect game. Some can be near-perfect. A quarterback can complete every pass. A basketball player can hit every shot. A batter can go 5-for-5 or hit for the cycle. Even a tennis player can go double-bagel.

But not even those performances are perfect. Good? Great? Rare? Yes. Yes. Yes.

They're all that, but they're not perfect.

Only baseball has the perfect game.

No-hitters are cool. Very cool. I still remember being in Yankee Stadium for Dave Righetti's gem on Independence Day in 1983 – against the Red Sox, no less. Every heart beat faster and faster as the last nine batters fell.

It was great, but it wasn't perfect.

Thanks, Mark, for reigniting the awe for the sport I had in my youth, for pulling the 2009 season out of a stupefying malaise.

This has been a season void of "stories," at least new stories.

Sure, Albert Pujols has been the game's best and most inspiring player from Opening Day, and Joe Mauer remains America's baseball sweetheart.

And the Dodgers have been a great story, both for winning and for giving us all the drama of Mannywood.

Beyond that? Nothing to write home about.

The Angels are as good as we expected and the Mets are imploding. The Phillies are solid, though I'm counting on a Cardinals-Dodgers NLCS.

Detroit? OK. Tampa Bay? Let's see you do it again.

The Yankees' hot streak is pretty much a stunner, but in New York it's all about the postseason, so it's too early to get excited.

Other than you, Mark, and the aforementioned sluggers, who has made headlines this season for their performances on the field, not their antics off it?

Jonathan Sanchez's no-hitter two weeks ago was cool, yet he remains barely the third-most recognized pitcher on his own team – behind Giants ace Tim Lincecum and bet-the-family-on-it-HOFer Randy Johnson.

Not even Johnson reaching his 300th win was able to shake the season slumber because he accomplished it on his first try. It needed to be dragged out through three or four failed starts to build up any real drama. Alas, one and done.

Really, the most exciting game of the season – before Thursday night – was the All-Star game, for goodness' sake. When was the last time you could say that without being made to supply a urine sample?!

So just as this was shaping up as a regular season to forget, Mark Buehrle happens.

Perfect happens.

AP photo

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Maybe the only way Brett Favre will see that it's time for him to go on with the rest of his life is for him to just step up and say, "I'm in." Just quit playing with the high school kids down in Hattiesburg, Miss., hop a private jet for Minnesota, grab a purple jersey and have at it.

He said earlier this week that he'll let the Vikings know his decision before Minnesota reports to training camp at month's end. Why wait, Brett. As I tweeted yesterday: What are you going to learn between now and then that you don't already know.

Your heart will not change, and right now it's clearing telling you to play.

Whether he's motivated by the same drive that prompts other aging athletes to play until they have to be dragged from the turf, or by some twisted desire to stick it to Green Bay for how the team let him go, all signs point to Favre joining the Vikes, whom he's been teasing for what seems like an eternity.

He underwent surgery to repair his throwing arm, and is now working out four days a week with the Oak Grove high School football team (above). "I'm trying to get everything to where I feel 100 percent when I go in," he told the AP. "I can't go in any less."

Favre won't be 100 percent, not at 39 years old, and not after 18 seasons under center for Atlanta (for a hot minute) Green Bay and the Jets.

But he's going anyway, much to the consternation of many – especially fans of the Packers who view him as a turncoat for even entertaining the idea of playing for an NFC North rival.

It's a bad idea, but the only people who seem not to know that are the Vikings brain trust – owner Zigy Wilf and head coach Brad Childress – and Favre.

It's a bad idea because Favre is clearly more favre than Favre. It's easy to attribute his almost pitiable performance with the Jets in the second half of last season to his injured arm. But it was often his legs that made him look as if there was a sign on his back saying, "Hit me as hard as you can."

When he was able to throw the ball, the gunslinger no doubt shot blanks way too often, unable to make the laser pass necessary to beat a defense.

Maybe the Vikings see something I don't. Yes, even at a few sacks and INTs less than 100 percent, Favre has more pure talent than current QBs, Tarvaris Jackson, John David Booty and Sage Rosenfels – maybe more than all of them combined.

But numbers don't lie, and for Favre, whose digits will someday carry him into the Pro Football Hall of Fame, the only figures that matter are 39 (his age) and 16 (the number of regular season games).

Being the editor of Men's Fitness, I'm a firm believer in age being just a number. However, I'm also mindful that in NFL years, 39 might as well be 69 and while Favre isn't risking the kind of permanent damage an aging boxer might, it could still get very ugly for him.

Though Favre hasn't missed a game since his first season with the Packers in 1992, injury or fatigue could cause him to sit at some point (which, of course, puts him right there with almost every other NFL QB). The plan must be to have Favre start and play in as many games as possible – knowing the team has two QBs (Jackson and Rosenfels) with significant experience – then be ready for the playoffs.

The Vikings also possess the league's best running back, Adrian Peterson, so they must also feel as if there will be less of a burden on Favre to win games than there might be for almost any other QB in the league.

Last season, the Vikes went 10-6, good enough for the NFC's third seed, but lost at home to Philadelphia in an NFC wild-card game, 26-14.

There's a big gap between the wild card and the Super Bowl, but the Vikings think Brett Favre, or rather brett favre, is the closer.

And no doubt, so does Favre.

So let's get on with it.

AP photo

The USGA needs a mulligan. Its premier event is shaping up as yet another mundane stop on a deteriorating tour because the organization altered the qualifying rules for the U.S. Open in a way that locked two of its must recognizable and popular players - Michelle Wie and Natalie Gulbis - out of the field.

Essentially, they made the Open less open.

The most impactful of the four changes was one limiting those exempted from qualifying to the top 10 in the LPGA's money list. Last year, the top 35 were in. If that were the case this year, both Wie (12th on the list with $435,000) and Gulbis (33d, $220,000) would be teeing off today at  Saucon Valley Country Club in Bethlehem, Pa.

Instead, only the most passionate women's golf fans will know anyone besides American Paula Creamer and the world's top (but slumping) player, Lorena Ochoa.

And at a time when the LPGA is reeling from lost tournaments, bleeding sponsorship dollars and imploding over a brewing insurrection against its commissioner, Carolyn Bivens, the women needed every opportunity to attract spectators and eyeballs this week.

Instead, the Open will likely be like the proverbial tree that fell in the woods. Nobody heard it, and nobody cared. Great job, USGA.

Both players participated in qualifying tournaments but failed. Last year, Wie played her way into the field by finishing second in the qualifying event. She missed the cut at the 2008 U.S. Women's Open, as did Gulbis.

This year, Wie should have been granted a special exemption by the USGA but the group went as weak-kneed as an amateur on the first tee at Pebble Beach and "never seriously considered it," said Mike Davis, the senior director of rules and competitions.

Why? Because of the meowing sparked in 2003 when Wie, then just 13 and already anointed a "star" (prematurely, it was proved), was granted an exemption into the tournament after winning the Women's Amateur Public Links tournament that year, becoming the youngest player to do so. Ultimately, she made the cut at the Open, becoming the youngest woman to achieve the feat.

Six years later, though, Wie is bona fide. She earned her Tour card last December and has finished as high as 2nd in her 10 tournaments in '09, in the top 10 four times.

I doubt there would have been the kind of petty reaction that occurred in 2003 should she have been given an exemption. Wie is a different player, and these are different times. (If fact, most players should have applauded it since it would have no doubt boosted TV ratings.)

But the USGA was scared of a shadow that had long disappeared. Ugly swing, folks. That one went OB.

Gulbis is another matter. It would have been great to see her tee it up.

Really great.

Let's face it, Gulbis is the Anna Kournikova of women's golf. Known more for her looks than her game. (The words "toned" and "tanned" are used to describe her more than "talented.") In her last seven years on the LPGA Tour she's won only one tournament and finished in the top 3 in only six other events. She's been a Top 10 money-earner only once (2005 when she won $1,010,154, 6th overall), and finished 56th last year.

But still, we like to watch.

If the qualifying rules had remained the same, she would have been in the field and perhaps (though not likely) playing on Sunday instead of signing autographs at Saucon Valley for one of her sponsors, Lexus. Granting her an exemption would have been wrong, a pure bow to television gods.

But I wouldn't have been mad at all.

AP photos

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What if Richard Williams had not had the vision? What if he'd been engulfed by the hopelessness surrounding him and his family in Compton, Calif., and had simply given in to it? What if he never had handed his daughters rackets?

Venus and Serena Williams no doubt would have been successful at whatever careers they chose. By now one of them might have been a doctor, an actress or a teacher. The other a designer, entrepreneur or a rising star in some corporation.

Instead, on Saturday, they will face each other for the eighth time in the final of a Grand Slam, including their fourth final at Wimbledon.

More than any of their peers, the Williams sisters have defined the current generation of women's tennis. Since joining the tour in the mid '90s, Venus and Serena have won 89 tournament titles (singles, doubles or mixed doubles). They've won 37 Grand Slam titles, 17 of them in singles.

They're among several women who have held the No. 1 ranking over the last decade, among the likes of Martina Hingis, Justine Henin, Lindsay Davenport, Jelena Jankovic and currently Dinara Safina. There have been Jennifer Capriati, Kim Clijsters, Maria Sharapova, Ana Ivanovic and Amelie Mauresmo.

Yet despite the kind of interest Sharapova and Co. generate, this forever will be defined as the Williams Era. They've outlasted and/or overcome every top challenger, and almost as often as not, a Williams is the last woman standing.

Still, women's tennis has long been conflicted about the Williams sisters, celebrating them one moment, then criticizing, whining or moaning about them the next.

Why don't they concentrate on tennis?

Why don't they play more tournaments?

Why don't they play more Fed Cup?

Why are they trying to be actresses?

Why are they doing their own reality show?

Why are they on the red carpet instead of the practice court?

Why doesn't Richard just sit down?!

But what if they had not come along? What if Richard had bought his girls golf clubs instead, or simply told them to go play basketball?

What if Hingis, a graceful champion, or Davenport, popular and steady at her peak, had been the top players of the era? What if either of them had been the face of this generation?

Ponder women's tennis in the last decade without the Williams sisters' powerful games, engaging personalities and outsized personas. Think of it without their celebrity, which attracted new fans and kept tennis in the cultural "chat rooms" throughout the year. Think of it without their hairstyles, outfits and jewelry, without their buzz.

Think of it without the up-and-down-and-up dramas of their Big Sis vs. Little Sis encounters.

Think of women's tennis without Richard.

Booooring.

But tennis does have the Williams sisters -- and this weekend, so does Wimbledon.

Women's tennis owes more to Venus and Serena Williams than it ever will acknowledge --  at least not until they're gone.

Too bad.

Associated Press photos

It's not about LeBron, really. Sure, it is for the Cavs, their fans and for those who believe the Little Franchise That Should put all its hopes for an NBA title in the LeBron Era (however short it may be) on the shoulders of 37-year-old Shaquille O'Neal.

In other words, it's next season or probably not.

But it's not about LeBron.

This trade, the biggest of a major trade season already, is at least as much about legacy. Shaquille O'Neal's legacy.

Should he lead LeBron to the jewelers, should he give Cleveland its first championship in any sport that matters, O'Neal will thrust his Shaqulicious self smack into the debate over the best player of the generation.

And he knows it.

He's been pretty quiet since Kobe won his first ring without him earlier this month. Uncharacteristically so. He was gracious and congratulatory in words, deeds and tweets, even as Kobe was elevated to "best ever" status by some and at least a solid No. 2 by most.

He was also patient, too, though I'm certain he was aware that something was brewing up north, that he was soon going to be paired with the Chosen One, where he'd have the chance to fit his third Young Thing with a ring.

Kobe was the first beneficiary, three times; then Dwyane Wade rode the Big One to the title in '06.

Now, it's LeBron's turn to saddle up.

Or maybe it's the other way around.

Winning rings with Kobe, D-Wade and LeBron would make O'Neal, at minimum, the league's MVT (Most Valued Teammate) of this era.

Certainly the most dominant.

Arguably the best.

That's what it's about. Really.

AP Photo

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I feel cheated. Don Fehr just can't walk out the door like that. Not after a quarter century as the head of the baseball players' union. Not after reigning as one of the most powerful men in sports.

And certainly not before he tells all on the union's role in aiding and abetting what for all time will be known as the Steroid Era.

He can't just leave like that, turning over the union gig to 47-year-old attorney Michael Weiner.

Sure, there are players who feel the union may be in need of a new face (though Weiner isn't that new; he's been with the union for two decades). But if I were a player, especially one who did not play when one could hardly tell the difference between baseballs and Super Balls, I'd stamp "Not Accepted" on Fehr's resignation letter.

Heck, if I was Albert Pujols, I'd grab Fehr by the back the neck as he was running out the door, plant him behind his desk and say, "Not until you tell everyone why."

Why did the union block drug testing until 2004?

Why did the union say nothing as players were sneaking into toilets to stab themselves in the butt just before the national anthem?

Why did the union allow the "culture" of drug use to occur?

Of course, the questions are almost rhetorical. Fehr is credited with overseeing an era in which player salaries soared tenfold. And since the 1994 players' strike, the sport has been without labor strife, a period unmatched by any of the other major pro sports.

But those gains came at a heavy price, one that will cost baseball for decades – maybe not so much financially (fans still continue to spin the turnstiles) but in the imagery of needles and syringes and little clear vials.

Don, How do you feel about a generation of your clients being shunned by baseball's Hall of Fame?

C'mon, is there a fan out there who doesn't wonder about an overpowering hitter or pitcher these days -- no matter the absence of any evidence of their use of PEDs?

I wonder, and I hate that I do.

Don, should YOU be inducted in the Hall?

Baseball commissioner Bud Selig appears to be public (or at least media) enemy No. 1 on the list of those most culpable for baseball's Powerball period. But Fehr has to be No. 2.

He was adamant against testing until it became clear that the use of PEDs was pervasive and, if nothing was done, permanent. Congress was knocking. Former players were twisting in the wind. Former trainers were refusing to stay silent.

Only when it got ugly -- when 104 of 1,198 players tested in 2003 (anonymously . . . ha!) came up positive -- did the union acquiesce and agree to a policy for testing and punishment.

Fehr's stonewalling said early on that the union was hiding something, that it had no real motive or incentive for proving the game was clean as long as no one could prove it wasn't. Then came the so-called Anonymous 104.

Don, were you surprised the number was that high?

I'd like to ask him, before he's out the door.

AP photo

Athletes don't really want to hear about a "window of opportunity."

No matter their reality, no matter how much better their competition, no matter the toll time has taken, they think they can win until someone pries the ball, glove, bat, club, racket or whatever from their cold, dead fingers (in homage to the late Charlton Heston).

James Blake's "window" is creeping downward. He's still the second-ranked American in the world, but that calling card doesn't scare anyone on the other side of the net any more. This year, he's gone 18-11, reaching only one final (this week's grass-court AEGON Championship in London, where he lost in straight sets to rising Brit Andy Murray, the world's No. 3) and losing four times in the first round, including to a qualifier at the French.

He's dropped to 17th in the world, and this year he'll turn 30. In 2006, he reached a career-high No. 4. (After No. 6 Andy Roddick and Blake, there are only two other Americans in the Top 50: 27-year-old Mardy Fish, ranked 26th; and 21-year-old Sam Querrey, 46th.)

And yet, as expected, Blake heads toward Wimbledon with a hefty dose of confidence in his bag.  "I feel great about my chances," he said after losing to Murray.

You expect that from a competitive athlete, and I respect it.

I just don't happen to agree with it.

Grass is a great surface for Blake, a strong baseliner with power and solid skills at the net. But he's never reached a Grand Slam final, and there's no reason to think he will now.

He's reached the quarters three times but has never been able to break through, not through lack of effort but, well, each time the other guy's just been better. It happens.

Blake has been (and remains) a great representative for the U.S. He's a Davis Cup regular. Since making his debut in 2001, he's played every year except 2004 (when he broke his neck during a fall on clay and hit the net post). He's won 21 Davis Cup matches, losing only 10.

He's a guy crowds root for, even when they know his chances aren't "great."

They root for him, in part because he's a bit of an anomaly - a top athlete who does not land in the Hollywood tabloids nor strut the red carpet. He simply plays, and when he found his form in 2006 - two years after the injury that almost cost him his career - he may have been the most popular male on tour not named Federer or Nadal. 

But as Federer cements his legacy as the game's best ever, and Nadal frets over how gimpy knees might impact his own legend, Blake slides along, playing dutifully and ably as his window closes. 

AP photo

Auto icon General Motors, mired in its own economic hell, announced recently that it would cut funding at all levels of NASCAR, forcing key teams, including Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s Nationwide team, to trim their budgets and, like the rest of us, make do with less.

NASCAR was sputtering long before GM's woes made its recent cutback inevitable. Earlier this year, Chrysler, just out of bankruptcy, sliced its funding of Dodge teams, which forced Richard Petty Motorsports to lay off nine employees a few days ago. At the end of last season, more than 1,000 team members were laid off. Ford is spending less on racing as well.

Like the market, what was once the "fastest-growing sport in America" has pretty much lost all its heyday gains. No wonder NASCAR is all in a lather over prospects that open-wheel driver Danica Patrick would be "open" to jumping to stock cars when her three-year contract ends at the close of IndyCar season in October.

Patrick may be the second-biggest star in auto racing. But like No. 1 - Earnhardt - her star status has less to so with her skills behind the wheel than her, uh, other assets. Much has been made of the fact that she has not won a race in the United States, but she stands fifth in IndyCar Series points. Clearly, she can race.

One of the top NASCAR teams should do all it can to sign Patrick and place her in a full-time Sprint Cup car. It's the only way she'll jump to stock after seeing some of her former open-wheel colleagues struggle on NASCAR teams with limited resources.

Patrick would be a spark to NASCAR. She knows it. NASCAR so knows it.

But if the sport thinks the diminutive driver will get it back on track, well, that's wrong-headed. Danica Patrick isn't NASCAR's savior, not even if she drives in a swimsuit.

Her presence in open-wheel racing shed new light on a sport that was pretty much known for one race - the Indy 500 - before she came along. But how many other races can you name? How often have you tuned in to watch Patrick race?

Like the rest of us, NASCAR has to figure out how to save itself. It must solidify its core fan base by recognizing their pain and making races more affordable. After years of chasing Madison Avenue, it must return to Main Street.

Danica Patrick's arrival will be a start, but not enough to reach the checkered flag.

AP Photo

Labels can stick forever, if you wait too long to shed them.

Last year, Anthony Kim rid himself of the "Not Serious" label he earned as a rookie when he treated the PGA Tour as if it were a travelling frat party. He started choosing a bucket of balls over beer and actually going to the gym.

As a result, he began living up to another label - "The Next Tiger Woods" -  with two victories, eight Top 10 finishes and a rousing contribution to the U.S. triumph in the Ryder Cup. He won $4,656,266 in earnings, good enough for sixth overall. (Until then, the only things he had in common with the world's best golfer were an Asian genealogy and the ability to hit the ball a ton.)

Now, though, Kim is trying to avoid another potential label - "Underachiever."

Nagging injuries are partly to blame for an '09 now mired in a slump. Kim has finished in the Top 10 only once in 11 events and in so doing gained another label - "Conundrum."

He's third among all players in birdies per round (4.41) but 146th in scoring average (71.54). He's hit exactly half of fairways (184th) and less that two-thirds of greens in regulation (145th).

What does it all say? He's scrambling like a banshee, making something out of nothing, it seems. Just not enough to get back in contention.

Which is why Kim has not discarded one label: "Cocky."

"It's coming along," he told the Patriot-News last week. "I know my game is getting better."

Bethpage Black, site of the U.S. Open this week, will test that belief, though it is also the kind of venue that fuels the likes of Kim, who may be the face of a generation on tour that was weened on Tiger but haven't yet had their brains beaten out by him. They admired and emulated him, some adopting his habits and some his strut.

They see him more as an ideal than a nightmare. They seem to relish the thought of  facing him on a Sunday in a major, and don't hear soft-cleat footsteps when he's charging.

"I want it all," he told Sports Illustrated last year. "I'm a man of the people. I want to help kids. want to be Number 1, to win majors, and I want to be the baddest person on the planet."

Right now, at least on the PGA Tour, that label is taken.

Just not permanently,  Kim hopes.

The End is rarely pretty for professional athletes. On occasion, the athlete, mindful that his/her skills have declined to the degree that they are no longer elite, will let us know it is The End, announcing that a particular season will be their last.

Some amble away quietly, like the Good Guy in the old cowboy movies. Their departures often goes unnoticed until some ask, "Whatever happened to [fill in the blank]?"

Most often, The End is sad. Men, some barely past the peak of their youth, are cut or ignored. Or both. Not on their terms, as it's often said. Their heart and mind still says I can play, but the body can't follow through.

Less than a week after the 43-year-old, 305-game winning certain HOFer was unceremoniously cut by the Atlanta Braves (where he won a World Series ring in 1995). Glavine is reportedly pondering a grievance against the team for firing him for "business" reasons rather than for his ability to pitch.

Coming off shoulder and elbow surgery, Glavine said he was ready to pitch. He wanted to have the ball in his hand at least one more time.

The timing of the move (the day before he would have been activated for a Sunday start) was, at best, squirrelly, at worst, cruel. It allowed the Braves to avoid paying him $1 million bonus due when he was placed on the active roster.

"By not paying me, I think that freed up some money for them to do that," Glavine said. "So I think it was much more of a business and financial situation than it was a performance situation."

He's probably right. Of course it was a business decision. Baseball's collective bargaining agreement says players cannot be released for soley financial reasons (wink) but it happens all the time in sports. Not always involving a legend, but it happens nonetheless.

That said, the cut was cold. Glavine's status as an icon in Atlanta, his value to the franchise as a tie to the team's most recent glories exceeds $1 million.

Even the Braves admit they bungled it.  “I, as the president of the club, could have taken more time to explain not only the circumstances around the decision, although we made that decision in unanimous fashion, but to explain to Tommy our high regard for him,” said John Schuerholz. “But I don’t feel like I really expressed myself as completely and as fully and to the level that somebody like Tommy deserves,” Schuerholz said.

Here's the irony. The Braves bungle is allowing Glavine to go out on his own terms.

If he thinks about it, if he allows his anger and personal embarrassment to subside, I bet he'll see that wading through a protracted grievance process isn't the way he'd like to go out.

It would make an ugly exit even uglier, a The End not befitting Glavine.

Right now, the ball's in his hand again. Right where he wanted it all along.

Photo: AFP/Getty Images/File/Mike Zarrilli

U.S. Rep. Steve Cohen (D-Tenn.) is outraged. He's fired up. So much so that he's whipped off letters and talked up a storm of indignation.

The object of his ire is the NBA's age minimum, requiring aspiring ballers to be at least 19 (and a year out of high school) before entering the league's draft.

Not the implosion of the American economy, nor the war in Afghanistan. Not the President's speech on the Middle East. Nor the growing number of Tennesseans who've lost their job, or might be losing their home to foreclosure, or who can't afford health insurance.

None of the above, but a rule that affects fewer than a dozen young men every year.

Why? Or even better: Why now does he stand before the near-empty Congressional chambers (and a TV audience, of course) to rage against a rule that was put in place two years ago? Didn't hear a peep out of him then. Didn't hear a word of outrage out of him when Derrick Rose, a mega-talented freshman, led Memphis, which is in his district, to the national championship game in 2008.

Why now is because Rose is presumably at the center of an allegation that a Memphis player cheated on an SAT test, an allegation that has already stained the Tiger program and threatens to lead to NCAA sanctions.

Now, Cohen (pictured) is outraged.

I don't mind politicians sticking their cattle prods into sports when needed. Often, it is. (See: BCS championships and bowls) But when they are motivated by a clear personal agenda that dismisses any thoughtful discussion, they really just need to shut up.

Especially when they sink to the depths of banality, as did Cohen.

For starters, he said the young men who have to wait a year to be eligible for the NBA draft are "forced to go to school when they have no desire or interest in going to school."

Uh, don't a lot of kids do that every day?!

So there's something wrong with a young man spending a year or two on a college campus? It hasn't hurt myriad young men, from Magic Johnson to Kevin Durant. And their schools or programs did not seem to be hurt by their drive-through.

Moreover, there are now other options for young players, such as Europe, where most notably Brandon Jennings has spent the past year, waiting to become eligible for the NBA draft.

Cohen's remarks were just silly. This is outrageous, insulting and just dumb. Cohen compared the rule to "slavery," saying it's "a restraint on a person's freedom's and liberties."

Jeez, my ancestors never quite described slavery in those terms. Nor have the thousands of women being held as sex slaves in too many places around the world.

Congressman, have you written any letters against that? 

Posturing such as this is so transparent and insipid it diminishes any real discussion about the argument for or against the target of the politician's scorn.

And that's too bad.

But I'm sure it will pass once the next great recruit signs a letter of intent to attend Memphis -  forced to do so like a slave.

Photo courtesy Rep. Steve Cohen

Too bad chicks don't dig the squibbler, the seeing-eye single or even the laser up the middle. If they did, baseball might not still be trying to extricate itself from the morass known as PEDs.

If they did, Ichiro Suzuki might be dominating sports pages (paper and digital). During his first at-bat Tuesday night in Seattle, Ichiro sent a pitch into the hole on the left side of the infield forcing Baltimore shortstop Roberto Andino to backhand the ball, which meant the still-speedy Ichiro would be credited with a single, extending his Mariners-record hitting streak to 26 games.

Yeah, that's not even halfway toward Joe DiMaggio's historic 56-game run (a.k.a. The Mark That Will Never Be Broken). But it's the best in two seasons; since 2002, there have been only three longer streaks, led by Johnny Damon's 29-gamer in 2005.

Ichiro, the veteran Seattle outfielder, is the game's best hitter. Period.

No, he doesn't possess the highest average (though his .353 clip ain't shabby), nor does he have the most hits (71, tied for fourth with L.A.'s Orlando Hudson). And he certainly doesn't make a pitcher's knees shake like Albert Pujols does.

In fact, he's more surgeon than slugger, more of a scientist at the plate.

And lately, he's not only been on a tear but he's shown a new twist - pulling the ball.

Ichiro, a left-hand hitter, typically slaps and slices balls over and around helpless shortstops and third basemen. But lately he's been turning on the ball. Last week in Anaheim, he hit a homer and a double to right.

Such is a move of a confident hitter, but Ichiro's confidence isn't new. He may be more relaxed, however, relative to last season when some teammates whispered that the Snoop-loving guy was somehow "selfish," putting himself and his single-minded focus on base hits ahead of the team.

Nonsense, of course. But one could easily draw a correlation between his hot star this season and the new presence of Ken Griffey Jr. The Mariners icon has contributed to a more relaxed air in Seattle, which is hovering just under .500 and hopes to make a run at a postseason berth. But he's taking a particular liking to Ichiro.

He apparently knows Ichioro's most vulnerable "spots." He tickles his teammate mercilessly, and awhile back he had T-shirts made with the No. 51 on the front and "Ichi Balls" written on the back in Japanese.

Ichiro, likely to be the first Japanese player from the majors to be inducted into baseball's Hall of Fame, reminds me of the school where the confrontation between pitcher and batter was as much about chess than brute strength, when the batter picked his way through an at-bat rather than crashed it. The only performance enhancer needed is a keen mind and fast hands.

One of his aims this season is to reach 200 hits for the ninth consecutive season, a major league record and one that should be acknowledged with the kind of awe and hosannas usually reserved for ball bashers.

If only the chicks loved the single.

AP photo

Sunday was a good day for starting pitchers. Ten of them ended the day with a W. In 15 games, that's an impressive ratio.

However, none of them put in a full, impressive day's work.

The closest was Detroit right-hander Edwin Jackson, who threw eight shutout innings against Baltimore before yielding the mound to Fernando Rodney, the Tigers's bearded and imposing closer.

That's not unusual. The complete game an endangered species. Pitchers like Zack Greinke, the Kansas phenom (above) who's pitched five complete games in 2009 is an anomaly. The next best is a six-way tie with two complete games.

But even guys like Jackson, workhorses who often take their teams deep into a game, are fading thanks to conservative pitch counts and complex bullpen strategies. He's averaged 6.6 innings in his last 10 starts, five of them wins. Four pitchers - Greinke, Roy Halladay, Kevin Millwood and CC Sabathia - are averaging at least 7.0 innings per start this season.

Most top-end starters are averaging at least six innings per outing, a good two-thirds days' work. And that's the minimum a starter should have to perform before being able to earn a W.

Unfortunately, baseball barely requires a half-day's labor - five innings - from starters for a W. That's just not enough.

On Sunday Milwaukee's Yovani Gallardo lasted into the sixth but managed just one out before being lifted, having allowed two runs. Yet because the Brewers scored five in the first three innings he was credited with the W. It was the fourth time in 10 starts that Gallardo failed to pitch six innings, and he earned victories in two of those outings.

Sorry. Not enough.

If I could take some white-out to the rule book, I'd require starters to go seven before getting the W. That's man-ball. In 1978, baseball's 10 winningest pitchers (plus any 20-game winners - remember them?) averaged 7.4 innings per outing. (As a side note: Mike Caldwell pitched 23 complete games that season.)

A decade later, the number was only negligibly less - 7.3 innings per outing.

By 1998, with the development of bullpen specialists, the starter's day had shortened to 6.7 innings among those same 10 winningst pitchers. And the number didn't change during the 2008 season.

My seven-inning rule would undoubtedly rile some human-rights activists, claiming it's physically and mentally cruel and unusual, or somesuch. Wimps. I'd settle for six innings at this juncture, reluctantly.

The five-inning rule coincides with the rule that if a game is called after five innings, it goes in the books as a completed game. Frankly, that rule should be changed, too. Five innings is like a date that ends at the appetizer. Or a book you stop reading halfway through.

It was fun but hardly fulfilling.

Changing the rule would not throw the stat book into a tizzy. As noted above, Gallardo would have been the only "winner" stripped of a W because he did not complete six innings.

It also would not have a dramatically adverse effect on any individual pitcher's pursuit of history. Very few are winning 20 games any more, and after Randy Johnson reaches the 300 milestone (it could happen Wednesday), our grandkids might be in the majors before another 300-gamer comes along - even if they shortened the requirement to three innings.

Raise the bar now and let's see pitchers earn their Ws.

AP photo

Come on. You knew it was going to come to this when he was hired, that sooner or later, John Calipari would blow up in the Wildcats' paws like a Fourth of July firecracker. The good folks at Kentucky probably knew it, too. Maybe they were just in denial - though no one thought it would happen this soon.

Two months was all it took for the cloud that always seemed to hover over Calipari to burst like a summer storm. The charges are that a former player (reports are sourcing the player as Derrick Rose, now of the Chicago Bulls, the NBA Rookie of the Year) submitted a doctored SAT score at Memphis, Calipari's last sideline-stomping ground; and that the player's relative copped a few free plane rides.

If true (and, of course, there are denials all around), Memphis might be forced to vacate its 2008 Final Four appearance.

And Calipari, it seems, will have to give up nothing. He is no doubt a great coach and by all accounts a decent guy. He's already saying he had no knowledge of either incident until informed of the allegations by the NCAA earlier this year.

Even Kentucky is paying the charges little mind. Athletic Director Mitch Barnhart says the school knew about the allegations during the interview process and discussed them with Calipari. (He did not, however, say how long he discussed them with JC. Barnhart: "Did you have anything to do with these?" Calipari: "No, sir." Barnhart: "Fine. So when can we start winning again?") Barnhart even said the NCAA's enforcement director told him Calipari was clean.

That may ultimately prove true but the coach has been one step ahead of dirty for much of his career, which is why most schools with big-time programs shied away.

Not Kentucky. Not a program so desperate to win it ran off a decent man and good coach who actually won a national title at the school - Tubby Smith, now happily at Minnesota - to chase a return to glory. A return already tainted.

Maybe this is Tubby's Revenge, or perhaps payback when a school punts a good coach because he's just not good enough (see: Notre Dame football).

Maybe it's the NCAA's way of taking a shot at the one-and-done's who now shuttle through while waiting to become eligible for the NBA draft. In the letter outlining the allegations, whose contents were first reported by the Memphis Commercial Appeal,  the organization had harsh words for the alleged player involved, saying he "failed to deport himself in accordance with the high standards of honesty and sportsmanship normally associated with ... intercollegiate athletics."

I won't even address the haughty irony of those words.

Though that the NCAA would place any player as the perpetrator and not the victim of a system that can easily be said to exploit young men like him every day is not surprising.

Just as Kentucky fans - even those who want to believe their latest move was the key to salvation - should not be surprised that the key might have already broken off in the lock.

Before the program even got close to opening the door.

US Presswire photo

I hate pitch counts. I understand why they might sometimes be necessary - for a young arm, or a pitcher coming back from an injury. But pitch counts are a prime example of a baseball-by-the-numbers strategy that is numbing the game.

A guy should throw until the game dictates he shouldn't throw any more, a decision a manager is paid well to assess.  Not when somebody with a laptop taps the manager on the shoulder and says, "He's at 110. Yank him."

Nolan Ryan hates pitch counts, too. Texas Rangers owner Tom Hicks may not have known  - or cared - about that fact when he hired the former Ranger and Hall of Fame pitcher as team president before the 2008 season. He hired Ryan hoping some of the legend's greatness would rub off on the only baseball franchise left that hasn't won a playoff series.

Right now, it's looking like whatever Ryan had is catching on.

The Rangers (and it took all my willpower not to type "lowly" before "Rangers," as I've done practically every other time I've written about them) are sitting atop the American League with a 27-18 record, second in baseball only to the Los Angeles Dodgers.

I'm not a big payroll guy because the amount of money a team spends doesn't always correlate to how good a job it's doing building a team - one that can win. But it's just too tempting to note that they're doing this with a a payroll that stood at $68,178,798 on opening day, 22nd in baseball. That's exactly $133,270,391 less than the payroll of the New York Yankees. who stand 26-20.

General manager Jon Daniels, 31, isn't just spending less. He's spending smarter, relying on a scouting system second to none to build a roster peppered with young talent and a farm system that has been rated the best in baseball.

Daniels and Ryan clearly have patience. Not just with their young talent but with their manager as well. Last season, it seemed Ron Washington was on the proverbial hot seat for 161 games (Hey, no one is on the hot seat on opening day, except the Yankees manager). The team started 9-17 and it looked as if the former longtime Oakland A's coach would not survive. But the Rangers were one of the game's best teams in the second half of the season and finished in second place.

That confidence carried over and should help the Rangers avoid the kind of summer swoon the franchise has been known for.

With a strong defense (the team's .992 field percentage in May was the best in the game), and a solid lineup (once Josh Hamilton is 100 percent healthy), the Rangers will last as long as their pitchers will.

So far, they're lasting longer because Ryan hates pitch counts. The concept is too new-age sissy for a guy who stood on the mound until you knocked him down. During spring training he told his pitchers that they'd be allowed to pitch as long as they were earning the right to stay on the mound. And to prepare them to do so, he and Washington's staff - which included newly hired pitching coach Mike Maddux - instituted a more rigorous fitness program that emphasized physical and mental toughness. Jogging was replaced by sprints, for instance, a move designed to forge pitchers who could endure the Arlington heat.

Maddux has also been smart about how he introduces his young arms to the bigs. Rather than simply toss them the ball and say, "Go get 'em, kid," he has put young pitchers on the mound in small doses. Derek Holland, a 25-round pick who was recently ranked as the Rangers' No. 2 prospect, spent three weeks in relief, making seven appearances, often for at least two innings.

So far, Rangers pitchers have thrown five complete games, tied with Kansas City for tops in the majors.

Clearly, the Rangers are poised to stand as long as their game dictates it should. Just the way Ryan likes it.

AP photo

The Rooney Rule could go down as the second-most influential move ever when it comes to impacting diversity in sports. Second to the Brooklyn Dodgers signing Jackie Robinson, of course.

The NFL mandate requiring GMs to interview at least one non-white candidate for head-coaching vacancies has been so effective that hiring a black head coach is no longer news. (At least not in the NFL; in college sports it still inspires cries of "Hallelujah.")

The league is considering expanding the rule to include GM vacancies. (Jerry Reese of the New York Giants, above, and the Detroit Lions' Martin Mayhew, below, are two of the NFL's three African-American GMs. Ozzie Newsome of the Baltimore Ravens is the other.) Essentially, owners will be holding themselves accountable.

As they should.

Why stop there? The rule should be expanded to all openings – from radio and television announcers to team doctors to marketing, sales and finance positions.

The disintegration of color barriers and misconceptions in sports rightfully began on and around the field. Players and coaches are the most visible participants, and most highly paid. Opening those positions to all was not only right but it was vital to the long-term viability and credibility of all sports.

But I've long been troubled by the reality that no matter how wide the net is cast for athletes and coaches, it still reaches only a very small, elite group of men. Yes, men. Every young man in America is told they stand a better chance of becoming a physicist than playing professional sports. Yet ask them what they want to be when they grow up and almost every one of them (including my own son) will say, "Play pro ball."

The better reality is that there are myriad jobs in pro sports, ones to which almost any kid (boy or girl) can aspire. Jobs in accounting, ticket sales, arena management, training, public relations and on and on.

The league is doing pretty well, actually, when it comes to race. Last summer, it received a B+ on racial hiring practices among top team management, administration, physicians, head trainers, and broadcasters on the annual Racial and Gender Report produced by Dr. Richard Lapchick at the University of Central Florida.

That was despite the fact that the NFL did not provide Lapchick with data for the survey – it was the only pro sports league not to do so – nor did it corroborate data gathered and submitted by UCF prior to publication. With insufficient data, the league was issued an I (Incomplete) in gender hiring. In 2004, the last time it received a grade on gender hiring, the league received a D+. "The record of NFL teams regarding the hiring of women remained poor," the report said, "especially compared to the significant progress on race."

Sticking its chest out about the Rooney Rule yet not participating in the most credible measurement of race and gender hiring in sports is, frankly, hypocritical. That must change.

Subsequently, expanding the Rooney Rule to include all positions would not only allow the NFL to add women to the interview process, it would also send a critical signal to young men and women nationwide who are aspiring to "play pro ball" that they can do so without having to be an elite athlete.

Photos by NY Daily News and AP

Neither option is ideal. But desperate times breed desperate decisions, and even at this juncture, NFL teams without a talented, proven quarterback they trust are indeed desperate. So much so that their best options for the upcoming season may be either a QB who's way over the hill or one who's waaaay controversial.

The Minnesota Vikings have apparently already decided they're going with Option A, 39-year-old Brett Favre, if the gunslinging icon can fix the pain choking the tendons in his throwing arm. Conflicting stories this week had him meeting with noted sports/knife Dr. James Andrews Tuesday and deciding whether to opt for surgery or a non-invasive option. If either procedure sacks the pain, Favre is expected to don purple for his 19th season.

But is he the best option for the Vikings, or any other team looking for a talented quarterback. Or is there a better call to make for the Denver Broncos, Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Cleveland Browns, St. Louis Rams, Kansas City Chiefs and other teams with less-than-stirring QB options on their roster?

Let's just briefly put aside the "issues" with Michael Vick. Depending on myriad factors, not the least of which would be how gracious and forgiving Roger Goodell is feeling these days, Vick, a three-time Pro Bowler, could be available for next season. Not likely all of next season but for much of it.

He'll be 29 years old. He'll be younger than Chad Pennington, Kurt Warner (okay, everbody's younger than Kurt Warner), Drew Brees, Peyton Manning, Donovan McNabb, Kerry Collins and even slightly younger than Tony Romo – all guys considering to be still playing at our near their peak. And he's just a few months older than Eli Manning.

He hasn't played since the 2006 season, of course. And when he did, Vick didn't exactly stir confidence with his play. His talent was unquestioned, but decision-making often unnerving. He was the game's most exciting QB, one capable of breaking a game with his legs or arm (more likely in that order; only Randall Cunningham and Steve Young have more rushing yards among quarterbacks). But he was also the most aggravating, at least to Falcons' fans. He was all promise with little payoff, going 2-2 in playoff games.

That said, if you're looking at Chris Simms, Kyle Orton and Tom Brandstater on the QB depth chart, as the Broncos are doing; or Marc Bulger, Kyle Boller and Keith Null (really, it's Null), as the Rams are, Option B starts to look pretty good.

Based on what we saw in the second half of last season with the Jets, Favre is done. Whether eliminating the pain in his arm changes that, I'm pessimistic.

Based on what we last saw of Vick, my bet is that, in time, he'll be close to the same game-changer he was, for better or not.

Of course, the "issues" are real with Vick.

You can assess two years away from the game two ways: 1) He's rusty and his skills have no doubt deteriorated; or 2) his body is healthy because he hasn't been pummelled by any angry, 260-pound defensive ends in two years.

That's easy, though, compared with the baggage Vick will carry onto any NFL field, no matter how much remorse he shows, how much he apologizes, how much he pays for his transgressions.

But just as some fans will never forgive him, at least as many will see that he has paid his debt and deserves to move on with his life.

And if he can help some team to the playoffs, at least one team's fans will cheer like they're doing in the Bronx when A-Rod smashes another game-winner.

If Vick gets Goodell's blessing, some owner will choose Option B.

If you're an NFL GM and the option is Favre or Vick, which call do you make?

AP photos

You can't help but look, even though you really want to look away.

Instead you stare. At his hair, gelled into a blonde, rooster-like crown.

At his arms, for goodness sakes, festooned with so many colorful tattoos he looks like a cartoon character as he bounds about the court like an energizer, uh, ostrich.

I'm talking about Chris Andersen, the Denver Nuggets reserve center/forward, though you probably thought I was referring to Dennis Rodman, the player whose spirit Andersen has revived.

Like Rodman, he is one of those guys you couldn't make up. You couldn't create him because the tale would be too implausible.

It would go something like: Six-foot-10 white guy from Central Texas, who was abandoned by his mom because she couldn't afford to take care of him and his sister; who was stashed in a childrens' home; who played about a minute of college ball; who played in a Chinese League; who got thrown out of the NBA for drug use; and who looks like a parent's worst nightmare (though his own mom, who eventually regained her kids, rides a Harley and has tattoos down to her ankles), suddenly becomes one of the most valued contributors on a team that just might reach the NBA Finals.

And whom everyone calls Birdman.

Andersen didn't play in Game 4 of the Western conference semifinals Sunday because he was in the locker room wrestling with the effects of a bad meal that afternoon at the team's hotel. He lost. It's not a coincidence that the Nuggets lost, too, 119-117, to the Dallas Mavericks; or that Dirk Nowitzki scored a game-high 44. Had Birdman not been clipped back in the locker room, you've gotta think Dirk's night would not have been so easy.

In Game 3 Andersen fouled out in just 11 minutes. (You almost have to try to foul out in 11 minutes.) In Game 2 he had eight points and nine boards in 25 minutes.

Andersen isn't a stat machine. He's averaged 7.8 points and 6.3 rebounds, along with two blocks, in eight playoff games. But when he's on the court for the Nuggets, his presence can outweigh everyone but Mr. Big Shot, Chauncey Billups.

On defense, he's always where it seems he shouldn't be, around the ball, usually swooping in from the weak side to block it. Offensively he's more effective than he looks like he should be, scoring mostly "hustle hoops" around the rim with an occasional J thrown in for entertainment purposes only.

It's Rodman, the Re-Mix, from the childhood dramas to the hair to the tattoos to the indefatigable presence he has on the court.

And the fact that you can't look away, even though you want to.

 AP photo

Maybe Carl Pavano was allergic to pinstripes. It happens. Athletes come to the Apple, only to have their bodies (or minds) break down, typically beneath the burden of an obscenely burdensome contract.

Pavano's Yankee four-year deal weighed 39.95 million pounds -- one for every dollar he was paid -- and his body folded beneath it like a carry-on garment bag.

Now, after four years in which he made only 26 starts, won nine games and missed an entire season, all due to injury (shoulder, primarily, but name a body part and he's probably hurt it), Pavano is pitching like the guy the Yankees thought they'd signed in 2004, the guy who humbled them in the World Series. He's 3-3 with the Cleveland Indians, following a gutsy effort against the Chicago White Sox. He allowed four runs and 10 hits but didn't give up a walk and had three Ks. It was his third victory in three successive starts.

He was praised by Indians manager for throwing strikes. Heck, the Yankees would have been happy if he just threw.

Pavano is a nice guy whose very name ultimately came to represent the essence of Yankee excess without success, another inane decision that bore no fruit. He wanted desperately to prove his worth in New York, trying to return time and time, even when it was clear (at least to Yankee fans) that his body was unable. He actually pitched well in two Yankee victories last August. But in his final Yankee start, in September, he walked off the mound with a hip injury after six innings.

He left with boos raining down upon him from every seat in Yankee stadium.

And maybe even the dugout.

Pavano's drama had also poisoned his relationship with teammates. Before the start of the 2007 season, fellow pitcher Mike Mussina said of Pavano's injuries: "It didn't look good from a player's and teammate's standpoint. Was everything just coincidence? Over and over again? I don't know."

Even Joe Torre said the work Pavano had to do to repair his relationship in the clubhouse was "sizable."

It was never going to happen. Not in New York. Not in pinstripes.

Not with an anchor of a contract hanging around his neck like a rapper's medallion.

After becoming a free agent over the summer, Pavano signed with the Indians for $1.5 million. Finally, it appears he's worth every penny.

AP photos

At least once in life, if you're lucky, you're in the right place at the right time when profound steps on your foot. I was in the locker room of the Philadelphia 76ers in the spring of 1983, amid a gaggle of reporters surrounding Moses Malone sitting casually at his locker after a shower.

You always listened closely to Moses. His deep voice, combined with the slow Southern tone of his native Petersburg, Va., and the fact he tended to clip the end of his words, made understanding him a challenge. Malone was a very smart man, wise in a down-home way, but most folks hardly knew it because he was difficult to quote.

On this occasion, the 76ers were preparing for the playoffs, which were three rounds at the time. The 76ers boasted, besides Malone, Julius Erving, Maurice Cheeks and one of my favorite players of all time, Andrew "The Assassin" Toney. They were far and away the league's best team (they were 65-17) and Malone, an undersized center with a deft scoring touch who was a rebounding machine, was the game's most dominant player.

The question put to him was simple: How do you think you guys will do in the playoffs?

"Fo', fo' fo'," was what he said, which caused us all to pause for a bit, pens stilled as we deciphered and digested his words.

"What?" someone asked.

"Fo' fo' fo'," he repeated, this time with a slight hint of incredulity.

Almost at once, we all seemed to realize what he was saying - that the 76ers would win all three playoff series in four-game sweeps. Fo', fo', fo'.

It almost happened. The Sixers swept the New York Knicks, took out the Milwaukee Bucks in five games, then swept the Los Angeles Lakers.

So it was fo,' five, fo', but who was counting. Those of us who were there when Malone uttered his prediction still talk about it like fans who were at a game when something historic happens. We chuckle about it, and are amazed that the words still stand a generation later, as if Moses had carved them into a set of stone tablets...

...then handed them to LeBron James.

The Cleveland Cavaliers are not those Sixers. After James, there's not a Hall of Famer among them, nor even a perennial All-Star.

But they are far and away the best team still standing in he NBA postseason and, right now, they're threatening to go fo' fo' fo' (fo') for real.

They trampled Detroit as if the Pistons were the Washington Generals and spanked Atlanta so badly in Games 1 and 2 of the Eastern Conference semis that the Hawks looked as if they might lose to the Generals.

While most of the other combatants are slugging it out in their respective series (Denver being the exception where opponent Dallas has so far been only the slugee). the Cavs act like they're auditioning for "Dancin' with the Stars," putting on a running, passing and dunking show that looks more like a performance than a competition.

"I'm having a ball," James said after Thursday's 105-85 romp. "I'm having a ball."

It isn't exactly fo' fo' fo' but it'll have to do for now.

AP photos

Guess hip-hop isn't so hardcore after all.

No further evidence is needed that bling is out and bland is in after the election of 65-year-old Dave Bing as mayor of troubled Detroit. Seven years ago, the city swept 31-year-old Kwame Kilpatrick into office, billing him as the nation's first hip-hop mayor. But after years of scandal and fiscal fiascoes, it pulled the plug on Kilpatrick and installed a man known as a steady, heady guy who makes things happen, both as a basketball Hall of Famer and one of the nation's most respected businessmen.

Bing has some task. Detroit's troubles extend well beyond a young mayor in over his head, one forced to resign after admitting that he lied to city investigators about his affair with an aide. The city has a reported budget deficit between $250 to $300 million, double-digit unemployment and a tsunami of foreclosures.

Moreover, it has a bad rep. Under Kilpatrick, the proud city became a laughingstock before its financial troubles began to be reflected in cities big and small throughout the nation. Its public schools can barely be called places of education, so much that the state appointed a financial manager earlier this year to handle the system.

Bing's clear charge is to heal and revive – challenges that require the kind of tough decisions needed by any successful entrepreneur. Or anyone who's a survivor, like Bing, who endured a serious eye injury that threatened his playing career but performed another seven seasons.

In 1980, two years after his retirement from the NBA, Bing launched the Bing Steel Company, which evolved into the Bing Group, a steel manufacturer and supplier to the auto industry. It grew it into one of the area's most successful businesses, employing about 500 people.

After winning the mayoral election, Bing promised to bring a businessman's eye – and scalpel – to Detroit. He'll almost certainly have to lay off more than the 334 city workers proposed by his predecessor and the man he defeated in the special election, Ken Cockrel Jr. He says he'll also consider a proposed 10 percent pay cut for city workers and cuts in various areas.

Neither Bing nor his team of advisers, which will be led by Denise Ilitch, daughter of Detroit Tigers and Red Wings owner Mike Ilitch, will draw a salary. "None of them are looking for a job," Bing said. "They just want to see the city turned around."

And they've tabbed another kind of Bad Boy to do it. A bland one who will probably get the job done.

Photos: Getty, AP

Who knows if the body is willing. Dwyane Wade, maybe the toughest guy in sports, has fallen down/been knocked down so many times in the first-round playoff series between the Miami Heat and Atlanta Hawks, it seems as if his old "fall-down-seven-times-get-up-seven-times" mantra is back in circulation.

He's a walking ice bag/back brace. He gets his mail in the whirlpool. Who knows what kind of phyiscal condition he'll be in when the Heat, down 3-2 in the series, try to stave off elimination.

But we do know his spirit is in Game 7 form. Wade, almost uncharacteristically, offered some pointed thoughts about the Hawks to reporters yesterday, particularly stinging and personal. He rebuked Mario West, a Hawks reserve guard who guarded Wade periodically during the series; and perhaps the Hawks best player, forward Josh Smith.

Wade mocked West, an undrafted second-year player who's averaged fewer than five minutes per game in the series, and just .4 points. After Wade, being guarded by West, missed a 3-pointer at the end of halftime in Game 5, allowing the Hawks to have a 63-40 lead, West danced around and celebrated as if Beyonce had just said she'd leave Jay-Z for him.

"His celebration for his one stop?” Wade asked rhetorically. “What is this game coming to?”

Indeed.

Even worse was Josh Smith's attempt at a through-the-legs dunk with the Hawks up by 20 in the fourth.

"I go back to something my high school coach always told me: Act like you’ve done something before," Wade said. "He used to hate when I used to dunk and pound my chest all the time. He used to tell me, 'Act like I’ve been there, act like I’ve done it. Be classy.' Win, lose, or draw, you’re supposed to be classy."

The Hawks haven't been there, and it shows.

Atlanta should win this series, whether tonight or back in ATL in Game 7. The Heat are a MASH unit and the Hawks are the healthier, if not better team. It's their time, to advance after a tough seven-game defeat by Boston last season. It's their time to showcase the wondrous talents of Smith and Joe Johnson, two of, perhaps, the most-overlooked stars the NBA offers.

But right now they're embarrassing themselves.

“So [there are] some unprofessional things they have to take care of from their standpoint," Wade said. "On the court you show emotion, and that’s great, but celebrating after one stop? That’s funny."

Wade didn't spare his own teammates, either, wondering whether the young 'uns on whom the Heat must depend for their survival, are up to the task.

When asked if they understood what it took to win in the postseason, understood the all-in intensity and focus required every moment on the floor, Wade said: “To be honest with you, I have no idea. I don’t. [Friday] is going to show a lot to see if our young guys really feel it."

He was specifically speaking of the Heat's top rookies, point guard Mario Chalmers and forward Michael Beasley, the No. 2 overall pick in the draft. These guys are no Mario West: Chalmers starts alongside Wade and has 13 steals in the series, eight more than anyone else on the team. But he's averaging one fewer assist per game (3.8) than during the regular season (4.9). And Beasley, the designated future star, is shooting only 31 percent in the series and averaging 9.2 points, after shooting 47 percent during the season and scoring nearly 14 points per game.

“I’m not calling them out," Wade said. "But I want to see our young guys play like it’s Game 6 of the playoffs. If ‘Rio [Chalmers] says he’s won a national championship [at Kansas in 2008], well, I want to see him play like it. I want to see Michael play.

"It’s not about making shots; it’s about your intensity; it’s about your focus. And I want to see our young guys tomorrow focused and playing with energy.”

Wade has been there, many times. He owns an NBA championship ring and an Olympic gold medal. He's earned the right to say what he did, and I'm glad he did.

It's time to play, and both the Hawks and  the young Heat need to know that. Now.

AP photo

Only a 15 percent tipper at Hooters?! What a bum!

Say what you will about Alex Rodriguez -- and a heck of a lot is being said today based on the nuggets reportedly contained in SI writer Selena Roberts' new book, "A-Rod" -- but even in the midst of the storm that looks as if it will never end, he remains the the most vital Yankee.

Whether you like him or not.

Sure they crawled back above .500 with a couple of wins in Detroit. And with gems from Phil Hughes and Joba Chamberlain, the mystery known as Chien-Ming Wang and the Yankees' pitiable bullpen aren't quite DEFCON 2 as it was a week ago.

But we now know this: The Steinbrenner millions spent during the offseason to acquire brand-name talent won't bear a dime of dividends without the team's biggest brand name, A-Rod -- whether you hate him or, well, hate him.

And admit it, you might actually miss him. The Yankees sure do.

If he were here, the players would be able to do what they would typically do -- blame him for everything from Wang's wayward pitches to Hideki Matsui's sore knees to the cost of front-row seats at Yankee Stadium (pre "sale" prices, of course).

Without him? It's quiet as a monastery.

And go ahead, name their interim third baseman. It was supposed to be Cody Ransom but he and his .180 average are on the disabled list. So far, the Yankees hot corner has been an igloo, with three guys producing just five runs and six RBIs in April.

Mark Teixeira, the man who wrangled a $180 million free-agent deal in the worst recession since the Great Depression? Without A-Rod to protect him, he's just barely batting above .180, at .200 with only three HRs and 10 RBIs. Last April, A-Rod had those numbers in a week.

The Yankees also miss Rodriguez's swagga. A-Rod may be an L-Rod (as in lightening) for all that has gone wrong with the team since he slipped into pinstripes, but without him this is a cast of aging or relatively faceless stars and kids with unfulfilled potential.

They're the Royals (who happen to have the same 12-10 record, by the way).

This is a team with great talent, not a great team. And it won't have a chance of being one until Rodriguez returns, which may be soon, according to new reports. He's been taking batting practice, sliding and running bases.

He went 1-for-6 in a minor-league intraquad game and will play in an extended spring game at Bradenton, Fla., Friday afternoon.

"It's been a long time," he said.

Don't the Yankees know. He can't reach Yankee Stadium soon enough for the team that needs him more than it would like to believe.

But now they know: They need him because he's the new straw, even when the drink is curdling.

AP photo

"I've got patience with talent."

Patience. There's a concept in short supply these days. A friend says we live in the "microwave age." We want everything – the high-paying job, the promotion, the new car, the hot babe – in under a minute, with the push of a few buttons. Bing!

In sports, it's championships. We want them now! Or … fire somebody, cut somebody, trade somebody … do something!

Jim Leyland, the man who uttered the words at the start of this post, comes from another age. In fact, the 64-year-old Detroit Tigers manager has lived through a few "ages," which may be why he's able to make an old-school strategy work in this new, "microwave" age.

You can see it at work as he sits in the dugout, void of highs or lows. And particurlarly when he strides to the mound to talk with a pitcher. Most often he's not out there long enough for station identification, stopping by only long enough to say, "How ya doin'?" or "Go get 'em."

The Tigers reached the World Series in 2006 behind another couple of Ps – pitching and power – then fell on hard times last season when the plan went awry. Justin Verlander, the young arm that was supposed to anchor the staff, fell from an 18-6 season in 2007 (3.66 ERA) into a runt of a year (11-17 last season with a 4.84 ERA). And the hailed acquisition of Dontrelle Willis didn't pan out.

The Tigers have gotten off to one of the most surprising starts this season. Not spectacularly so, sneaky so, in part because last season's misery was not an excuse to flush patience down the drain. With much the same leading cast, Detroit is 11-9, good enough for first place in the mediocre AL Central. Verlander, 26, remains the anchor and though only 1-2 with a 6.75 ERA, his last start –  seven innings of BBs that shut out on the Yankees – indicates he just might be rounding into his earlier form.

And there've been unforeseen contributors. Before going 14-11 last season for World Series-bound Tampa Bay, Edwin Jackson languished for the Dodgers under the burden of being a top prospect. Now, after shutting down the Yankees for six innings on Tuesday, he's 1-1 with 21 Ks and a 2.25 ERA.

The Yankees acted like they were on the driving range once Jackson left the game, teeing off on reliever Ryan Perry and the rest of the Tigers' pen for 10 runs in the seventh on the way to an 11-0 victory.

In some cities, the manager's office might have been a bit warm after such a night. But that's when Leyland uttered his "patience" line, adding, “I’m not going to get all up in arms over one outing."

Tonight, Leyland goes with 20-year-old Rick Porcello, the team's first-round pick in the 2007 draft and a kid so good he pitched just a year in the minors before making his "show" debut this season. He's 1-2 with 11 strikeouts and three walks, having thrown 57 strikes in 89 pitches in his last outing.

Number like that don't require much patience but when the time comes – and it likely will with such a young staff – Leyland will have it in reserve.

Image courtesy Getty

Geezers aren't built for the grind. The regular-season grind. Too many games. Too many back-to-backs. Too many planes, aches and strains.

Geezers are built for moments. They're weapons of selected destruction, unleashed only at times of dire need. Like the playoffs. Like when you're down so big even your relatives are starting to reach for the remote.

At 35, Donyell Marshall (left) is a geezer, in NBA years. The man's played 15 seasons, 999 games, including playoffs. He's one of the few remaining players who defended Michael Jordan, the pre-Wizards MJ. There are many miles in those knees, which is why Marshall, now the with Philadelphia 76ers, played in only 25 games this season.

But on Sunday the 76ers were desperate - down by 18 points to the young and feisty Orlando Magic with just nine minutes, 16 seconds remaining in Game 1 of their Eastern Conference first-round playoff series in Orlando.

Enter the geezer. Marshall went MJ on the Magic. He grabbed a couple of boards then unleashed an arsenal: 11 points, including the treys, the latter of which tied the game at98-all with 34.8 seconds left to play.

At one point, during a timeout in the flurry, Magic coach Stan van Gundy, never one to miss an opportunity to ignite his emotions, turned to his players and asked: "Do any one of you guys know who Donyell Marshall is?"

Yeah, most people think geezers are retired. Or, in case of the young Magic, perhaps never knew they even existed. Then they just show up and remind you of some highlight reel you haven't seen in years.

By the final buzzer, after a 100-98 76er stunner, the Magic knew Donyell Marshall.

They also knew that young and feisty won't do it in the playoffs. Been there rules. The Sixers, a forgotten, underachieving team during the regular season, defeated Detroit in the Game 1 of their playoff series last season, then lost. So though still a young team, they know young and feisty only gets you so far now.

Like up by 18. But even at that juncture on Sunday, Van Gundy knew his team was vulnerable. How they got there wasn't quite right. Assignments were missed. Communication was lax. And then ... 

"We relaxed when we were up by 18," point guard Anthony Johnson said. "You are 16 wins from holding that trophy. You got all summer to relax."

"You think you have the game won," Rafer Alston told Orlando Sentinel columnist David Whitley. "And the other team continues to play hard."

Lessons come hard and fast in the playoffs, so do introductions.

The Magic have met reality and Donyell Marshall, geezer. Welcome to the playoffs.

Photo courtesy Philadelphia Inquirer

Blame Bernie Madoff. Had it not been for him, maybe the Mets would have been less budget conscious and more like their recession-be-damned neighbors, the Yankees. Maybe they would have gone all-in and, in addition to building a gold-plated bullpen, added some pop to a lineup in dire need of something.

Maybe they would have signed Manny Ramirez.

The company that owns the Mets, Sterling Securities, was among Madoff's many victims. CNBC reported that Mets owner Fred Wilpon and his partner, Saul Katz, could have lost as much as $300 million.

The Mets never publicly said so, but those losses could have been the primary reason the team decided to spend whatever it took to fix the team's most glaring weakness - the bullpen - and nary a dime on Ramirez in an effort to address another flaw: the inability to get clutch hits.

There seemed to be a lot of sentiment in the dugout for signing the then free agent. manager Jerry Manuel called Ramirez a "historic" hitter and said he'd be "excited" to manage him every day.

Of course, that was mitigated by the undercurrent that follows Ramirez everywhere, the buzz that he's not a great teammate, that he's selfish, that Manny-being-Manny is not good for the locker room. Here's what Manuel said to that: "I don't have a problem with people that produce in the form and fashion that Manny Ramirez produces. We don't spend, shouldn't spend that much time in the locker room, anyway."

But it didn't happen, and right now (yes, it's amazingly early in the season), it looks as if it was a mistake.

Ramirez instead signed with the Dodgers and he's been all of Manny-being-Manny. He's hitting .340 with 10 RBIs and 13 runs scored. But more than numbers, he's been a major catalyst to L.A.'s 10-4 start, highlighted by a eight-game win streak.

The Mets, meanwhile, are 6-7. And their biggest flaw thus far has been their inability to get the key hit. They're fourth in the majors in on-base percentage, yet 21st in runs scored.

And they're batting .235 with runners in scoring position.

The Mets lineup is more than respectable, with Jose Reyes, Daniel Murphy, David Wright, Carlos Delgado and Carlos Beltran. On paper, it's almost down-right dangerous. But it has not produced when it matters most.

Imagine it with Ramirez in place of Murphy. The youngster is off to a soild start - .375 BA and 5 RBIs. But he's no Manny Ramirez. His bat strikes fear in no one.

Manny's does. He's a game-changer. His presence makes the hair stand up on the back of a pitcher's neck and brings outfielders to full attention.

With Bonds gone, Ramirez may now be the most feared hitter in baseball.

And the Mets could have had him. Should have. And probably would have.

Were it not for Bernie.

AP photographs

Baseball, more than any other sport, is a numbers game. Too much so, in my view. But it is what it is. Managers make in-game decisions based on the numbers. GMs make personnel decisions based on the numbers. Owners, the numbers. Boring.

On Wednesday, I found one particular number - 10.2  - intriguing. That was the percentage of African-American players on major league rosters last season, according to Richard Lapchick, director of the University of Central Florida's Institute for Diversity and Ethics in Sports and the man who has made his life's work being the watchdog for racial progress in sports.

Ten-point-two percent is an uptick from 8.2 percent, which was the number of African-American players on MLB rosters in 2007. It was also an all-time low for the sport that boasts Jackie Robinson, the second most significant agent of racial change in America, behind Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King.

Sometimes I wonder why it matters. Why, in an age when black kids are no longer "denied" the opportunity to play baseball, an age when we have an African-American president for goodness sakes, why does it matter what percentage of players in any sport is black, brown, yellow or white?

Blacks stopped playing baseball for myriad reasons. Better access to football fields and basketball courts. Bigger stars in football and basketball. Bigger paychecks, sooner. And no minor leagues.

But there was something troubling about the diminishing number of blacks in baseball, something that made you wonder whether they would all but disappear.

That would have been sad, and bad for baseball. Without the tacit "endorsement" of urban America, it would have dissolved into a near-fringe sport. There, but not. There, but who cares?

So the uptick is good. But I'm not quite ready to celebrate, because an uptick is not yet a trend. It's probably more than a coincidence but that's about all you can say about it now.

Even Rachel Robinson, Jackie's widow  - baseball's true First Lady, really - knows that.  "I feel encouraged," he said of the news on the day all players wore another significant number -  42 - to commemorate her husband on the 62nd anniversary of his barrier-bashing debut. "It's not a huge leap, but it's a step forward."

And it's no accident. I've been a consistent critic of Bud Selig for his policies (i.e. the All-Star game deciding home-field advantage for the Word Series!), inaction (steroids) and antics (Barry Bonds, Hank Aaron). But I give him props for supporting the numerous initiatives that I believe at least laid the groundwork for the "uptick."

Initiatives that were largely conceived and championed by Jimmie Lee Solomon, MLB's Executive Vice President for Operations. They are:

* The Urban Youth Academies in Compton, Miami and Houston.

* The annual Civil Rights Game.

* The Urban Invitational, highlighting Black College teams.

* The Negro League Draft.

* The new Breakthrough Series, showcasing talented high-school junior and seniors for urban communities nationwide. 

* Little League returning to Compton.

Of course none of these events can take direct credit for the uptick. There's no way any of them has produced enough major league talent to halt the needle and push it in another direction.

But they certainly have not hurt, nor have the efforts of many of the games black players - like CC Sabathia and Curtis Granderson - who regularly speak out for more black youngsters to consider baseball, who support personal programs and who've been great stars in the game. They are role models for what can be accomplished at the highest level.

So I'll take the number, for now. But whether the 10.2 percent is indicative of a trend or is merely an aberration, I'll wait.

photo by Reuters

Baseball killed The Bird. Not literally, of course. Sadly, Mark (The Bird) Fidrych, a shooting comet that captivated all of sports 13 seasons ago, was found dead yesterday under a 10-wheel dump truck on his Northborough, Mass., home, the victim of an apparent accident. He was 54.

If you didn't know The Bird, if you're not old enough to recall his Disneyesque 1976 season, you missed perhaps the most captivating, quirky and endearing figure of of a generation. A 10-round draft choice in 1974, he reached the majors two years later and took a no-hitter into the seventh inning in a complete-game two-hit 2-1 debut win over the Cleveland Indians.

That night was just the beginning. The kid became the quintessential phenomenon. He led the league in ERA and won 19 games. He pitched 24 complete games (twenty-four!), including two successive 11-inning complete game wins. He pitched before sellout crowds in Detroit (generating $1 million in extra revenue, according to estimates), and huge throngs on the road. He finished second in the Cy Young to future Hall of Famer Jim Palmer.

But forget pitching: It was what Fidrych did between pitches that ignited the legend. He "manicured" the mound between pitches, smoothing out cleat marks on his knees. He talked to the ball. He talked to himself. He circled the mound like a ostrich after each out. He tossed out balls that had "hits" in them, demanding that they be removed from the game.

He was young. He was original. And he was having the time of his life.

Baseball needs The Bird, but would never tolerate him today.

First his manager would pitch-count him into extinction. Complete-game gems? Please. Last year Toronto's Roy Halladay led the majors with nine. No pitcher's had as many as 15 since Jack McDowell in 1991. No one's had 20 since Bert Blyleven (24) in '85.

So we'd never see an an 11-inning complete game masterpiece on SportsCenter. (Of course, Fidrych's young arm threw 250 innings that rookie season, which may have led the torn rotator cuff he suffered a year later, though it went undiagnosed for eight years. He pitched just 161 innings over the next four seasons, and won but 10 games.)

More important, The Bird would be clipped. Individuality and enthusiasm in baseball today is frowned upon deemed by too many as arrogant (Manny Ramirez), immature (Jose Reyes) and showoffish (Francisco Rodríguez).

A boring player is somehow deemed more "professional" than one who shows passion, enthusiasm, fire.

Talk to the ball? Try to throw it out because it has a "hit" in it?

The guy would be lit up like fireworks on opening night. Opposing pitchers would seek payback, bench-clearing brawls would ensue and sports writers would vilify him.

Too bad. Maybe this is just another vestige of the steroid era, which seems to suck the innocence, if not the life, out of the game.

Or maybe we can blame the wave of national conservatism exhibited by Newt Gingrich (version 1.0), Rush Limbaugh and others just too angry about God knows that to have any fun.

Whatever the cause, we all need to lighten up and have the kind of fun the Bird had, on an off the mound. He once said: "When you're a winner you're always happy, but if you're happy as a loser you'll always be a loser."

I miss the fun, the quirkiness, the game that tolerated its quirky brethren. Even celebrated them.

And baseball misses The Bird.

Corbis photo

So let's see. Agents are enriching college athletes' families and friends like "Extreme Makeover." Former players and other alums are running amok trying to build new ties. And boosters are still luring recruits with tales of their institution being the promi$ed land.

And the NCAA goes ballistic on a college freshman over his Facebook page?

File this as yet another chapter of college sports' Keystone Kops, under "you couldn't make this up."

North Carolina State freshman Taylor Moseley received a "cease and desist" letter from the NCAA after its "investigators" uncovered, after weeks of intense discovery no doubt, the kid had created a Facebook group imploring John Wall, a 6-foot-4, 185-pound senior point guard from Word of God Academy in Raleigh, N.C., to attend N.C. State.

Wall (above) might be the nation's most coveted recruit.

The group, called "John Wall PLEASE come to NC State!!!!", attracted more than 700 members. But it apparently violated NCAA Division I Bylaw 13.02.13.

The rule targets "individuals who would develop a social networking site or use an existing one to send recruiting messages to prospective student-athletes," according to NCAA spokesman Erik Christianson. "Those communications are not allowed."

The letter to Moseley said: "Should this activity not cease and/or it continues in the future, we will have no choice but to take further action." Such "action" might include barring the student from getting even student tickets to games or "disassociating" the school from the student, like some scofflaw booster.

Way to go, NCAA. Now we are all criminals.

All of us who are fans. All of us who would like to see our alma mater land the best athletes.

All of us who have integrated the newest communications technology into our lives. And that's a lot of us. Some estimates say there are nearly 200 million Facebook members in four languages.

That could mean a lot of C & D letters. And a lot of silliness. Not to mention millions of possible violations of First Amendment free-speech rights. "NCAA legislation hasn't caught up with technology, and that's being discussed nationally," Michelle Lee, N.C. State's interim associate athletic director for compliance, told the News & Observer.

All Moseley did was what fans across the nation have done for years, use whatever means available to induce a top recruit to attend their school. A generation ago, there might have been telephone calls or letters or even fresh-baked desserts delivered to his home.

Later it became email and even later text messages to recruits. Many, if not most, come from other kids, students, not big-bellied, deep-pocketed boosters.

Where does it end?

And is this may be just a start. Not surprisingly, there are several Internet-based sites encouraging (begging?) Wall to attend various schools. (According to the News & Observer, Wall is still choosing among Duke, Memphis, Baylor, Kansas, Miami, Kentucky and N.C. State)

Moseley deleted his original group, then launched "Bring a National Title back to NC STATE!" Wall's name is nowhere on the site, only his picture.

Smart kid. No doubt, the NCAA keystones are on the case, while those who are truly out there tainting a system continue to run amok.

AP photograph

Follow him. No, not him. Not Tiger. I'm not concerned with what Woods does at the Masters on Thursday and Friday. Just tell me whether he's in it or not. Woods does not produce highlights on Thursday and Friday. So I don't need a Tiger Cam for the first and second rounds at Augusta (unless he needs to make a putt on the 36th hole in order to make the cut...Ha!)

Instead, follow one of the game's greatest characters, and one of its greatest players.

Follow the guy who was Tiger - the top player in the world - for 331 weeks.

Follow the guy who's produced some of the Masters' most memorable moments.

Follow Greg Norman.

Follow the 54-year-old Aussie who very well may be playing his last Masters.

Follow the guy who deserves a green jacket more than Zach Johnson and a few others, honestly.

This will be Norman's 23rd Masters, a rightly-earned likely-swan turn. He'll be there based on his third-place finish at last year's British Open. It was a "comeback" that allowed us to remember just how much golf missed his presence, his class.

And he brought Chris Evert along. America's sweetheart is now Shark's sweetheart, and his return to Augusta is in part due to how she helped him overcome demons that we won't let him forget:

*The bogey on 18 on 1986 to miss a playoff.

*The playoff loss to Larry Mize in '87.

*And of course, '96, losing by five strokes after leading by six as the sun rose on Sunday.

Norman could have disappeared then. And he did, slowly. He finished third in he Masters two years later but missed the cut three of the five years after '96. Demons do that.

Demons also do divorce, but demons didn't count on Chrissie. She loved him and lifted him from the ashes of his professional and personal failures. She'd been there, too. On both fronts. The only difference was that she overcame her demons.

"She completely understands," he told the BBC earlier this year. And now, it seems, so does he.

So follow him. Follow him not because he may earn a green jacket. That's not likely. But no matter.

Follow him because he seems to be having fun. Because he deserves more than we recognize and remember him for.

Follow him because he understands, finally.

Tiger Woods may not win the Masters. Okay, he probably will but, of course, there's always a chance, a very slim chance, someone might go Zach Johnson on Augusta National and prevent Woods from winning his 15th major.

Not likely. But this will happen: If Woods has to make just one shot next Sunday to win, he will. If he has to make two shots, he will win.

Greg Norman thinks so. "Tiger Woods, to me, is the best clutch putter I've ever seen in the game of golf," he said earlier this week.

It's easy to say that, given the gallery of fist-pumping highlights Woods has produced on 18th greens all over the world, including his most recent: the 12-foot birdie putt on the 72nd hole at Bay Hill to beat Sean O'Hair.

Quite frankly, as I watched the moment with a group of very loud friends, I didn't think he'd make it. It was too late in the day and there was barely enough sunlight to see, let alone to accurately assess the contour of the green. And it was too soon. It was only Woods' third tournament after a long layoff and knee surgery. Too soon.

"He won't make it," I said as he prepared to putt.

I'll never say those words again.

Putts like that are why Norman and others say he's the best clutch putter ever, but they don't go far enough. He's also the best clutch golfer ever. His putts often overshadow the shots he makes in order to set up the winning putt.

At Bay Hill, for instance, few talked about the 164-yard approach shot Woods made to within 12 feet. He could have hit an 8-iron that distance. But Woods assesses each shot like a NASA scientist and a fighting wind was a clear factor.

The golf gods tell you to take more club that you need in thess conditions but when your mind knows you might hit the ball 20 yards over the green, your body goes cartoonish on you and you swing like a 46-handicapper.

But you're not Tiger Woods. He pulled out a 5 iron, a club he easily hits 200 yards. The downside was huge: a slight mis-hit would have ended up in the water near the green, a full-on clean shot might have sailed the flag into the bunker behind the green.

But Tiger lasered the ball into Mother Nature's teeth; it landed where he needed it to be to give him a chance. And that's all he needs. Birdie. Win.

But even declaring Woods the best clutch golfer ever doesn't go far enough. He's the best clutch athlete ever. Ever.

More than any other athlete, in any sport, if winning comes down to a single play, a singular convergence of mind, body and moment, Woods will come through.

Many great athletes are also clutch, but not always. And many athletes who've never been called great by anyone outside their own family were extremely clutch. Greatness is about talent and dominance. Clutch is about execution when the eyes of the world are upon you.

Here's my list of the 10 most clutch athletes ever:

1. Tiger Woods

2. Michael Jordan

3. Joe Montana

4. Reggie Jackson

5. Jimmy Connors

6. Michael Phelps

7. Jesse Owens

8. Robert Horry

9. Florence Griffith Joyner

10. Reggie Miller

No doubt there are others - from eras I did not witness and sports I don't pretend to be an expert in. (Hockey fans, who should be on this list? Gordie Howe? Bobby Orr? Patrick Roy?) And there's no boxer on the list because fights rarely come down to "moments."

I also struggled for a pitcher, though Bob Gibson and Don Drysdale made noise.

And I pondered Babe Didrikson, Bo Jackson, Jackie Joyner-Kersee and Jim Brown.

But I only had ten slots. And each of the athletes on my list created memorable moments I could see, images I could recall as if they occurred this afternoon. (Even if those images are grainy flip clips, as with Owens).

And at least one of them will likely create many more, beginning next Sunday.

AP Photo

This whole thing still doesn't make a lot of sense: One coach is fired; another is hired. The Young Star likes the old coach, so he pouts. The new coach handles it like a rookie coach, which he is. Next thing we know, the Young Star is traded to one of the game's most storied franchises.

Welcome to the crosshairs, Jay Cutler. You're now a Chicago Bear.

Whether he actually wanted to be traded or not, Cutler's actions since the Denver Broncos hired Josh McDaniels told me he wanted out. So I don't care what he or his agent or any of his relatives say now. Because now he's a Bear.

He's out from "under the radar" relatively speaking.

Sure, there was pressure in Denver. Cutler was the Broncos' Young Savior. He was The One Who Was Supposed to Be Elway. And in the three seasons since he was selected in the first round of the 2006 draft, 11th overall, he's thrown for 9,024 yards and 54 touchdowns, with 37 interceptions. He was a Pro Bowler.

Now he's a Bear. And if he thought it was tough to live up to lingering love for John Elway, he ain't seen nothing.

Cutler is the Bears' best QB since Jim McMahon, the renegade headband-wearing guy who led the Bears through their magical 1985 season and to victory in Super Bowl XX. Even after he was injured the following season, after being body-slammed by a defensive lineman, McMahon won 22 straight starts. Say McMahon's name even now almost anywhere in Chicago and you might hear harps and angels from on high.

Sure, following Elway was tough. But everyone follows someone. Now it's different. Denver is a town that's passionate for its team, but at the end of the game – win or lose – they'd just as soon go skiing.

In Chicago, they go, well, not skiing. Da Bears are an obsession.

And now Rex Grossman is gone – not literally (at least not yet) but he might as well be. In the minds of Bears fans he's all but disappeared. Because Jay Cutler's a Bear.

Be careful what you wish for, Jay. Now you've got to stand and deliver. For real. If not, skiing will look pretty good. Skiing, even, with Josh McDaniels.

AP photo

It's a bit sad when the great ones fade away, in any sport. Very few know when to call it quits, and allow us to give them a proper gushy, appreciative good-bye. Typically, with a rocking chair and another Hummer.

Most athletes keep playing until someone pries the ball from their cold, wrinkled fingers.

Pedro Martinez, a sure Hall of Famer, was hoping to be the New York Mets' fifth starter this season. He'll be 38 years old in the fall and, after a shoulder injury, pitched just 137 innings in the last two years. A free agent, he appeared to be reasonably healthy in the recent World Baseball Classic, giving up only one hit in six innings for the Dominican Republic

But he was said to be demanding an AIG-sized bonus - $5 million for one year. Certainly not the kind of $1 million offer that was rumored for him. He said he'd rather retire to his fishing boat. "I'm not going to let anybody disrespect my abilities or the way I am," he told the New York Daily News. "I wouldn't say I would want to pitch that bad."

The Mets, like the rest of us in this dog of an economy, weren't looking to go lavish. So on Monday, manager Jerry Manual announced that Livan Hernandez was starter No. 5.

It's business. I'm not mad at the Mets. It's too bad, however. Martinez, like a few others, deserves a grander exit. He deserves it because the Mets may not be perennial World Series contenders today had he not signed the four-year, $53 million deal that brought him to the Mets in 2005.

In fact, behind Tom Seaver, Pedro Martinez may be the second most vital Met ever.

He was the magnet that drew a swarm of Latin talent, and brought the kind of buzz back to Shea that, in part, allowed the new edifice known as Citi Field to be constructed.

He should be able to pitch there. Instead, looks like he's going fishing.

Adios, Pedro.

Getty Images photo

What Roger Goodell wants, Roger Goodell gets. Or more appropriately, what Goodell says he wants is what the owners really want.

With the NFL commissioner's publicly expressed desire to lengthen the 16-game regular season to 17 or 18 contests, you can bet it's pretty much a done deal. And I'm all for it.

Yes, there are negatives, most particularly the additional damages to the bodies of athletes whose careers on average already last less than the lifespan of a guinea pig.

That's why I hope the expanded season finally rids us of one of the most inane strategies, traditions, beliefs (whatever you may want to call it) in sports: that quarterbacks should never be pulled from a game unless they're a) injured or b) really suck.

Why is it that players at every other position on the field can be taken out for a sub – for whatever reason – then later return without it being a "controversy"?

What if other sports held to such a practice – then Kobe Bryant, LeBron James and other NBA stars would play 48 minutes; NHL stars like Sidney Crosby and Jerome Iginla would never leave the ice. Sounds stupid, doesn't it? Those sports don't adhere to such insanity because their stars would never last a month, let alone an entire season.

An NFL QB's season is already about attrition. Coaches, owners, teammates and fans cringe each time one is sacked or tackled after a run. Yet most starting quarterbacks are surprisingly durable. Among the 18 quarterbacks who threw for more than 3,000 yards last season, only Matt Schaub (5 missed games) and Tony Romo (3) failed to play all 16 games last season.

And yet, the loss of a QB, even for a few games, can flush an entire season (see: Dallas). With up to an additional two games destined for 2010 or 2011, the survival of the QB will be atop every coach's list of concerns.

The solution: a true two-quarterback system. Backups should play every game, sometimes for a series, maybe an entire quarter. They could be used to simply give the starter a breather, without creating a buzz in the press box.

Better yet, the No. 2 QB should become a key strategic weapon, not merely an EMS worker with a helmet. They can be used to change the pace of play, to give the defense "another look" at a critical juncture, maybe during the final two minutes of the half.

Teams would actually have to prepare for two QBs rather than one, just as teams would have to prepare two QBs to play each week.

With the two-QB system, we might have actually known who Matt Cassell was before Tom Brady got injured; Vince Young (pictured) would not have become Casper last season; and the Jets might acutally have a clue whether Kellen Clemens, their default '09 starter so far who's been in the league for three years (!), can play.

Andy Reid could have "benched" Donovan McNabb last season without "benching" him in the traditional sense, i.e. public humiliation. Playing the backup more could have been positioned as more strategic than punitive.

Maybe the Cowboys would not have folded when Romo went down with an injury. (On second thought, scratch that.)

Most fans probably don't even know who's their team's backup. Partly due to denial, hoping they never have to know. With the two-QB system, fans won't have to go into apoplectic convulsions when the starter gets hit.

Bring on more games. But also, bring on the backups. Let them play. Let them play. Let them play …

Photos by Baltimore Sun, Getty

My calendar's all outta sync. Yeah, I know it's March, and I'm well aware that it's Spring (although Winter's still got a death-grip on things here in the Northeast).

But growing up in Oklahoma (Tulsa), there were only two true seasons - football and spring football. Otherwise, we all hibernated.

Now I'm watching the highlights last night and there's Bob Stoops, the Sooner football coach, sitting courtside at an Oklahoma City Thunder game, not too far from former OU quarterback J.C. Watts (he spent a bit of time in Congress, too, but we don't care about that). Both guys looked kinda out of place, but they were there.

A couple of weeks ago, budding-star golfer Anthony Kim, who teed it up at Norman, sat courside at a Sooner basketball game, cheering a team that is threatening to alter OU status as a pure-bred don't-talk-to-me-'bout-no-hoops football school.

What in the name of Bud Wilkinson....

The Sooners were actually a concussion away from being the No. 1 team in the nation this season. Star/stud Blake Griffin went down early against Texas in late February, and the Sooners lost only their second game of the season, 73-68.

Still, they're one of the strongest teams still standing in the NCAA tournament (yes, I have them going to the Final Four) and yet they still seem like they're crashing a party.

Then there's the women's team, which stands as one of the few squads with a chance to collar UConn and possesses its own legit star in center Courtney Paris. She magnanimously promised to pay back her scholarship if the Sooners don't win the national title.

Not a single other school whose team finished the season in the top 20 has a football team that played in a BCS Bowl this past season (OU lost to Florida in the BCS title game; Gator basketball this season was a no-show). And certianly none of them would ever dare call themselves a football school.

Among the men's Sweet 16, several schools have had decent football teams, but none live and breathe the sport like we do.

This isn't OU's first foray into the hoops near-elite. In the 80s, Wayman Tisdale once gave us a reason to don our red. And though it might be hard to recall given recent events, Kelvin Sampson stoked the first fires for Sooner hoops, guiding team to eight consecutive 20-win seasons, 10 NCAA tournaments and a trip to the Final Four (2002) from the mid-90s into just a few seasons ago.

But under vibrant new leadership (head coach Jeff Capel, and his counterpart, women's coach Sherri Coale), and with Griffin and Paris showcasing Norman as a viable place for the region's best talent, this team might actually succeed where their predecessors could not - stir Sooner nation for another season.

And I'm sure Bud Wilkinson wouldn't mind a bit.

AP Photos

I couldn't quite put my finger on it. This has been an entertaining NBA season, led by a cavalcade of stars at the peak of their skills. LeBron and Dwight Howard crashed the MVP suite, where Kobe and KG (and even Old Man Shaq) held their ground.

There was the revival, like a Phoenix, of D-Wade (another viable MVP); and the continued brilliance of young guards like Tony Parker, Chris Paul, Deron Williams and Brandon Roy.

And every 90 seconds a coach was fired.

There was plenty of drama, a great setup for the playoffs. But something was missing. There were plenty of stories, but something hasn't been quite right all season, and I just couldn't put my finger on it. Until...Hibachi!

There was no Gilbert Arenas. I missed him.

I missed Agent Zero, the three-time All-Star guard who is the only member of the league's All-Character team. I missed him because he (trash) talked it, blogged it, even texted it - and walked it, too.

And of course he shot it. Shot it with the best of them. In fact Arenas and Kobe may be the best big shot makers in the league.

When Arenas is healthy, which hasn't been in awhile.

Gilbert hasn't played since April 27, last season, in a playoff loss against LeBron and Cleveland. He's had three operations on his left knee in the last 18 months, and while teammates said he looked great in practice on Tuesday (a day after sending a text message to a Comcast reporter announcing his return this Saturday), we still don't know yet whether he's fully healed from the last surgery, in September.

More important, the Wizards don't know. Which may be the very reason he's playing at this inconsequential juncture of the season.

Without Arenas (and almost every other starter Washington has lost for good chunks this season), the Wizards have the NBA's second-worst record. For the next nine games, they're playing for Blake Griffin, the presumptive No. 1 pick should the Oklahoma stud/forward leave school.

Arenas' return will let the Wizards know what they have in their six-year, $111-million investment.

I'm not sure if I'd want to know.

But I'll surely watch. Arenas is a love-him-or-hate-him guy. His bravado. His cravings for attention. His boundless ego put off many who favor humility and by-the-book sportsmanship (read: guys who played hard and stopped only when spoken to).

But love him or hate him, you watched.

You watched because you couldn't believe someone would actually yell, "Hibachi!" in the midst of a shooting streak (because he was hot).

You watched because whether he made the shot or not, you knew he was going to take the shot, no matter who was guarding him.

You watched because you also knew Arenas earned his shots. A noted workout freak and perfectionist, Arenas was legendary for his offseason regiment, in the gym and on the court. (He'd take hundreds of shots, even after achieving bona fide all-everything status.)

The season wasn't the same without him. But at least we'll get a little taste of what we missed.

And perhaps we'll know whether we'll ever hear Hibachi! again.

AP photo

I'm not sure whether to be thankful for the dress code, or happy no one's had to yell, "Code Blue!" At least not yet.

Though the way the '09 NBA season is flowing, no telling.

We're still a month before the start of the playoffs - already the most grueling postseason in sports - and it's clear that whichever team wins the title this season may not be the best team but the healthiest.

Hardly a night has gone by when one or more of the contenders hasn't had one or more of their top players on the bench in street clothes (or in the training room) rather than on the floor.

The Lakers' Andrew Bynum (21 games missed and counting); Utah's Deron Williams (14) and Carlos Boozer (45); Tracy McGrady of Houston (35, out for the season); San Antonio's Manu Ginobilli (29 games); Boston's Kevin Garnett (16); Jameer Nelson of Orlando (26 games, out for season) are among the all-ER team.

On Wednesday, they were joined on the bench by Miami's Dwyane Wade, Boston's Ray Allen and Cleveland's Wally Szczerbiak. One night earlier, the Spurs sat Tim Duncan to let him rest his sore knees.

The bug was not confined to top contenders, either. Elton Brand was already struggling to fit in with the Philadelphia 76ers before his season ended with a shoulder injury. Portland center Greg Oden returned Wednesday, but the Trail Blazers can never be sure how long their young center will stay in the lineup. And the loss of Amare Stoudemire is just one of many tales of the Phoenix Suns' lost season.

At least they've all looked good. Sartorially resplendent, today's young ballers may have been initially irked by David Stern's edict requiring jackets on the bench. But they've since embraced it, making varying fashion statements reflecting a broader cultural shift, one where your personal fashion statement doesn't have to be falling off your behind.

No one's thus far called for a trend or extra hazard-duty pay. But you have to wonder whether the last team standing this year will actually be standing at all.

AP Photo

Derek Jeter. Chris Paul. Tiger Woods. Danica Patrick.

To most of us, the people mentioned represent elite athletes at (or near) the top of their respective sports. Even more, they're quality people who represent their teams, their sport and their families with class.

To Lenny Dykstra, they're apparently "three darkies and a bitch." Jeter, Paul and Woods, all black men, are also "spearchuckers."

That's based on a conversation - rapt, is more like it - the former Mets centerfielder, car wash mogul, financial guru and failed entrepreneur had with Kevin Coughlin, a former employee at Dykstra's doomed Players Club magazine, who dishes like Maytag about his ex-boss from hell in this month's GQ.

Yes, Coughlin was fired by Dystra, which gives him more than ample incentive to lay out his former boss the way Dykstra crushed catchers at home plate.

Here's the exact excerpt:

...On another occasion, I field a call from Lenny about potential cover subjects while I'm at home; Lenny's on speaker when he proudly states, for both my wife and me, that "nobody can all me a racist -- I put three darkies and a bitch on my first four covers."

The first four Players Club covers featured Derek Jeter, Chris Paul, Tiger Woods and Danica Patrick.

"What was that Lenny?" I ask.

"I said I put three spearchuckers on the cover!" he replies.

To say Dykstra is a racist is like calling Bernie Madoff a thief -- the term just doesn't seem to do justice.

Frankly, though, I wasn't all that shocked when I read those terms allegedly spewed from Dykstra chaw-stained lips. Maybe because I'm of a certain generation just young enough to remember segregation, just young enough to recall a time when every white person you passed on the street saw N----- first and a human being second, I'm just not all that surprised when someone spews this kind of filth.

It's actually more surprising that he was able to keep it inside while still trying to leverage them for his own gain. In some circles, that's called "pimping."

I am surprised he spewed it so freely, and that he said it to someone who was not wearing a hood.

It reminded me of an adage widely held among many African Americans -- both pre and since the miracle of last November -- that no matter how successful, not matter how rich, not matter how much respect and acclaim a black person earns, to some he'll always be just a N-----.

To Dykstra, Jeter, Paul, Woods and Patrick were good enough to sell magazines. But to him they were still just three darkies and a bitch.

If Dykstra holds these views, you have to wonder what he thought of some of the men who helped him in the 1986 World Series with the Mets. What did he think of George Foster, Darryl Strawberry, Kevin Mitchell, Dwight Gooden and Mookie Wilson, the African Americans on that team? What was he thinking as he traveled and showered when them day after day. As he hugged them with joy on the night they won the Series?

And what must the '86 Mets of Latin descent -- Keith Hernandez, Jesse Orosco, Rafael Santana, Bobby Ojeda,Sid Fernandez and Rick Aguilera -- have thought when they read those words attributed to their former teammate?

Chances are, they weren't surprised, either.

Not surprisingly, Dykstra spewed back at Coughlin, calling the story "all lies."

"I lived with [Darryl] Strawberry and [Dwight] Gooden," he told the Philadelphia Inquirer.

Photo: Newsday

The big dogs will still bark. Many of college basketball's best teams, the ones that will surely crowd into everyone's Final Four, are still my favorites despite losing in their conference tournaments, some of the early in the week. In fact, they might even be better off than teams that survived the annual pre-postseason gauntlets.

Of course, that view makes me irrelevant and, well, stupid, according to ESPN analyst Jay Bilas. In an article in Sunday's New York Times, Bilas, who holds the contrary view on the value of winning conference tournaments, dismissed anyone who disagreed with him on this as if they were not worthy of breathing the same air.

“The people who say these things are not important,” he said, “and that losing early is a good thing are idiots.”

Well, there you have it. Agree with me or whither away, scum.

C'mon, Jay. As your ESPN colleague Mark Jackson would certainly say: You're better than that.

Or you should be.

Right now, it seems Bilas has stepped square into the void left by the departure of Billy Packer, the opinionated, ascerbic and dismissive analyst who resorts to putdowns in debates rather than reasoned arguments.

Saying someone is "not important" or an "idiot" just because they disagree with you, especially over something as subjective as the value of conference tournaments,  smacks of desperation, the type of language used when you don't have anything smart to say.

And Jay Bilas is a very smart guy.

The reason few mourned Packer's departure is that he'd worn on us. His constant putdown of mid-majors found less and less support with each "upset" that came to mark March Madness. By the time he was replaced by Greg Anthony, who's more reasoned and analytical (now there's a radical approach for an analyst), Packer was about the only college hoops fan in the nation who didn't appreciate the Little Programs That Could (and Often Did).

Now here comes Bilas on blast. Or Packer, the Remix? Billy Deux?

Bilas can offer asute perspectives, but only if we hear them. When they're not overwhelmed by bombast and bravado, which can happen when any of us covers the same sport, breathes the same air, season after season.

In the same article, Bilas said: “I’m not sure that aside from North Carolina we have a super great team this year.”

In a season when there was a different No. 1 at every commercial break, was there really any "super great team?"

On Sunday's post-selection show, Bilas pummelled Dick Vitale as if he was Larry Holmes and Dickie V was an aging Ali. You'd have thought they were debating the AIG bonus plan, not whether Arizona deserved a spot in the Dance.

Bilas said they did; Vitale said they did not.

By the way, the Wildcats didn't deserve a bid. Of course, my idiot opinion is just not important.

Photos: ESPN/New York Daily News

As a player, Zina Garrison was known for her speed. She was pigeon-toed, not at all imposing. But when she was on the other side of the net, there seemed to be four Zinas, one for every corner of the court.

In her own way, she was a pioneer among African-American female tennis players, sandwiched between Althea Gibson, whom she befriended in the last years of the legend's life, and the Williams sisters. In fact, she was a bit of a prequel to Venus and Serena Williams, emerging from Houston's inner-city public courts to become a junior national champion who rose to as high as No. 4 in the world.

Unlike the Williamses, Garrison never won a Grand Slam singles title. Yet she won 14 singles and 20 doubles titles, finishing with a solid 587-270 singles record. Her personal highlight reel features a 1989 triumph over Chris Evert in the quarterfinals of the U.S. Open, a win that sent Evert into retirement. Then there was Garrison's run through Wimbledon the following year. She eliminated French Open champion Monica Seles in the quarters and the world No. 1 Steffi Graf in the semis before losing to friend and mentor Martina Navratilova in the final.

Now comes the flipside – an ugly lawsuit against the USTA alleging racial discrimination in the organization's treatment of Garrison in her five-year tenure as Fed Cup caption.

Captain Garrison was 5-5 in Fed Cup matches and never reached a final. But there were highlights there, too. Just maybe not enough for the USTA, which chose not to bring her back at the end of 2007. They let her coach one more year, giving her a No. 2 "coach," Mary Joe Fernandez, who was also publicly announced as her successor. Last year, in essence, Garrison wasn't even a lame duck. She had no legs.

Race suits are never pretty, even when they are clear, easy and incontrovertible – which this one isn't. Most often they disintegrate into he said/she said affairs, where both sides are ultimately bruised. Or they're settled and only the lawyers win.

This isn't the USTA's only brush with alleged racial discrimination. It is also being sued by former administrator Marvin Dent in the U.S. District Court for the Eastern District of New York. Dent, who is black, alleges he was bypassed for the position of director of tennis at the National Tennis Center in favor of Whitney Kraft, who is white. Dent also alleges a pattern of discrimination at the USTA, which it has denied.

Three years ago, the USTA entered into a consent decree with New York's attorney general that forced it to create an open process for hiring chair umpires. That followed a suit by two black umpires, alleging the USTA allowed racist comments directed toward African-American umpires. The decree lasted two years.

Garrison alleges unequal treatment relative to her counterpart, U.S. Davis Cup captain Patrick McEnroe – specifically unequal pay and unequal resources. She also argues that while she was never given more than one-year deals, Fernandez, with as much coaching experience as me, was signed for three years out of the box – and at a salary higher than Garrison's, the lawsuit alleges.

Garrison claims that the USTA may seek to justify Fernadez's deal by saying she is required to take on additional public duties.

But perhaps more disturbing are the alleged comments attributed to Sara Fornaciari, the Fed Cup chair. If true, they embody the underlying thread of racism that still must be eliminated.

Garrison alleges in the suit that Fornaciari "routinely referred to Garrison as the 'Black Ghost,' to impugn Garrison's reliability."

At a Fed Cup semifinal in Stowe, Vt., in July 2007, Fornaciari allegedly told Garrison after a media interview: "That was the most intelligent media comment I have ever heard you give."

Garrison took it to imply that she was "generally inarticulate and stupid," according to the suit.

In August that same year, Garrison alleges that Fornaciari told her to go to a tent at a USTA sectional event because she might "get a lot of minority business." Garrison says in the suit she was "troubled by the implication that she could network only with other minorities."

Some of the allegations may seem benign, but they tugged at Garrison, who writes that she later called Fornaciari to say she was unhappy with the tone of her comments.

"In response," says the suit, "Fornaciari launched into a vitriolic attack against Garrison and other African-Americans, including the Williams sisters. She told Garrison she was trying to 'help' her, stating, 'Let's face it. You can't talk. Nobody ever knows what you are saying.' "

Garrison challenged the tone of Fornaciari's remarks, but Fornaciari, according to the suit, "became irate and announced in a loud and angry tone, 'I will never speak to another black person again.' "

The USTA would not make Fornaciari available but had a statement:

"The USTA takes all allegations of discrimination seriously and takes pride in its numerous diversity initiatives and achievements," USTA spokesman Chris Widmaier said.

"The USTA elected not to renew Ms. Garrison's Fed Cup captaincy based on her performance, and strongly denies any allegation of discrimination asserted by Ms. Garrison.

"During Ms. Garrison's five-year tenure as captain, the United States Fed Cup team did not advance to the Fed Cup final, its longest drought in the competition's 45-year history."

The suit also alleges that Garrison was also blamed for not being able to regularly recruit the Williams sisters, the two top American players, to play the Fed Cup (more than once, one or both of them would commit to playing, only to be sidelined by injury, which the suit alleges the USTA viewed with suspicion); and that in replacing Garrison the USTA wanted a "public face" and concluded she did not have "the look" it wanted for the team.

Like some other sports, and numerous corporations, the USTA likes to tout its "diversity initiatives," whatever they may be. That's all well and good, but when the words from the men and women charged with leading these initiatives and their enterprises represent the antithesis of what those initiatives aim to achieve, it tells me we still have a very long way to go.

And some places are not getting there fast enough.

Licensed photos

The madness has already begun. Unfortunately. Specifically, the insipid debate over which teams will secure No. 1 seeds for the 2009 NCAA tournament.

My umbrage is not over who gets the seeds. Not at all. After a season in which the overall top ranking was treated like a potato just out of the microwave, five teams, maybe six, can lay claim to being one of the top four teams in the nation and deserving of a No. 1 seed: Pittsburgh, North Carolina, Connecticut, Oklahoma and Memphis. Even Louisville, having beaten Pitt in their only meeting, can make a why-not-us? claim (though the Pitt win should be trumped by last month's loss to underachieving Notre Dame, which probably won't qualify for the 65-team field)

No, I'm annoyed because the debate over who gets the top seeds is the most nonsensical debate in sports. In truth, it's irrelevant whether a team gets and No. 1, 2 or 3 seed.

It's irrelevant because it doesn't give the top seeds much more than the right to say they're a No. 1 seed ("It's a badge of honor," says one college administrator). Well, combined with a buck, the top seeding won't get you much more than a share of Citibank stock.

Generally, the selection committee tries to minimize travel for all teams, with priority given to higher-seeded teams. Yet no team is allowed to play on a "home court," which means any arena where the team has played four times during the regular season.

Thus, should Pitt land the East's top seed, it'll play the opening two rounds at the Wachovia Center in Philadelphia, offering Panther fans a simple journey to the site. Same for Tar Heel fans should UNC be dubbed No. 1 in the South region, with its first games at Greensboro.

But, heck, Pitt and UNC should beat whomever they play in those opening rounds - teams seeded 16th and, at best, 9th - even if they had to play them in the other teams' jock dorms.

That's one reason the tournament is known for its stirring upsets. The lack of a home-court edge buoys teams that look overmatched and underwhelming on paper. 

Thus, the madness.

Once teams reach the regionals, then any geographic edge is all but a non-factor. And in Detroit, site of the Final Four, none of the potential top teams has an edge.

In others sports "seedings" are typically earned (based on record) and meaningful because it awards a team the home court/field edge, which can be the difference-maker in a deciding game.

In the NCAA tournament, the verbal sparring over the top seeds is little more than simply maddening.

Leadership is invaluable, so they say. It can be the difference-maker, an intangible element than can catapult a good team toward greatness, a great team toward a championship.

So they say.

And yet, Ray Lewis couldn't get a sniff. The quintessential leader in all of sports, a man coming off a Pro Bowl season (his 10th), a man who works as hard as any player in any sport, couldn't find a team that would look past his 33-year-old body and value his ability to transform a mere defense into a near-impenetrable force. Instead, the market for his talents is as null as the Dow.

This is not a sympathy play. At least not for Lewis, the Ravens' heart/soul/beast/linebacker. He re-signed with Baltimore for three years and a reported $22 million. He will finish his Hall of Fame NFL career with the same team that drafted him in 1996 out of Miami (back when the 'Canes were kick-ass). Lewis sounded humbled at the announcement of his signing, knowing that in an age of free agency and chase-the-check roster movements, he is a true anomaly.

"From beginning to end as a Raven," he said before pausing. "Wow."

Lewis deserved his deal. The Ravens were one of the surprise teams last season, largely because of their second-in-the-league defense, led by the Ragin' Raven, Lewis.

Statistically, he had 117 tackles and 3 1/2 sacks. Real numbers. Yet there were others who had better numbers. Others who were younger and had more tackles, more sacks, more "upside." So they said.

So when the NFL's free-agent season opened, Lewis was "money-balled," NFL-style. Teams signed linebackers with better numbers but guys you wouldn't know from me if they stood next to you at the mall.

This is a sympathy play for the death of leadership.

Ray Lewis is among the last of a breed. A defensive howitzer in the mold of Ray Nitschke, Dick Butkus, Mike Singletary and Deion Sanders. He is smart, academically prepared for games. And he's the guy offenses watch, even at 33. Where is Ray Lewis? What's he thinking?

Would not the T.O.-less Cowboys have been better with Lewis as their "face"? You think he might have been able to light a torch under Tony Romo rather than try to torch him?

Would not the Jets and a few other teams that were on the market for a linebacker have been better with Lewis?

Yes, they would have.

They would have had a leader who inspires by example, who sets the bar high and who plays with a presence.

But they passed.

Maybe they passed because leadership is hard to quantitfy. It's hard to put a price tag on passion.

So they say.

Photo by AFP/Getty Images/File/Streeter Lecka)

I had to chuckle when I read New York Giants GM Jerry Reese's comments on wide receiver/knucklehead Plaxico Burress. For those sports fans who do not read the police blotter, Burress is in a heap of trouble. He shot himself in the leg at a New York nightclub last fall and is facing 3 1/2 years in jail on an illegal weapons charge.

Burress is still tied to the Giants, though he essentially has blown the five-year, $35 million deal he signed last September. But conventional wisdom – in the zero-tolerance Michael Vick world – would say the franchise should be done with Plax. Like the Atlanta Falcons were done with Vick. Done

But no. Reese says the Giants would welcome back their wayward brother if he were to lean up his legalities and profess to a life of cleanliness (presumably without illegal handguns).

"If things work out and he's on board with what we want coming back, we'd love to have him back," general manager Jerry Reese says.

Let me break down the code:

If things work out … That means should Plax extricate himself from the U.S. legal system and endure the wrath of Goodell. NFL commissioner Roger Goodell must get his pound of flesh.

...and he's on board with what we want coming back. Lord knows what that means. That's GM-speak for "if he decides to stop being stupid." Uh, sure, he'll tell you anything. But ... I'm just sayin'. It ain't easy to stop stupid.

So while most folks focused on the fact that Reese said the Giants would welcome Plax back, here's a reality pill:

For starters, the Giants had no choice. Without Plax, their only true deep threat, they are predictable and, more importantly, stoppable. Teams packed the line of scrimmage and dared Eli Manning to beat them deep. He could not and the Giants went from first to fallible last season. With nothing different in sight.

Secondly, Reese must know in his gut that the chance Plax will pass his two criteria is none to none. Plax will be lucky to plea bargain his way out of jail before the start of the regular season. Then he'd have to endure at least a four-game suspension for violating the league's personal conduct policy.

I wouldn't be surprised if the penalty were eight games, half a season.

All that said, Reese would look like a benevolent big brother were he to allow Plax to return after he'd cleared those two hurdles.

And he'd be welcoming back the team's "difference maker," the guy who could lead them back to the Super Bowl.

By then, even Michael Vick might be back in the NFL.

No-brainer. No choice. Plax will be back. Duh.

Photo by AP

It's getting ugly out there.

NFL commissioner Roger Goodell says he'll slash his pay package by as much as 25 percent in order to save a few jobs. However, he can't save them all. Anonymous team employees thoughout sports are being sliced with the same sickle that has eliminated millions of jobs across America since last fall. NBA owners are divvying up $200 million in loans to cover millions in shortfalls due to diminishing ticket buyers and vanishing sponsors.

Every sport, maybe for the first time ever, is feeling the same economic pinch as the fans.

Pretty soon, NASCAR teams may consider carpooling.

And yet: Albert Haynesworth gets $100 million from Washington Redskins owner Dan Snyder, Manny Ramirez snubs $45 million like it's s stick insult and Jim Calhoun (pictured) just doesn't get it.

Ugly.

The relationship between sports and fans has long been tenuous – not coincidentally, as salaries have risen to Wall Street CEOesque levels. That's especially true among fans of a generation when their own paychecks carried pretty much the same digits as the men (and, yes, they were mostly men then, too) they cheered. Superstars always made superstar money, but there was a time when the working-stiff jock actually made near working-stiff wages.

So did most coaches – guys who chose the profession for the love of their sport more than the love of money.

Not anymore. Sports has created a new, young class of fast-twitch millionaires: guys who won the gene pool lottery and, in most instances, applied diligence, discipline and plain old hard work to their physical gifts and reached the highest level of their sport. And on the sidelines, pro coaches can afford to live next door to their superstars. In college, many make more than all but their elite players ever will.

I don't begrudge any of them. I've always chuckled at the petty grumblings of folks who rail against them for one sin ("They're not as good as their predecessors.") or another ("They don't hustle.") when what they really mean is: They make too much damn money.

I typically chalk up their rants to ignorance and jealousy, and move on.

But now it could get uglier than a few rants. As more Americans are stripped of their livelihoods each day, sports is being given less of a pass.

Calhoun was asked at a postgame press conference to comment on his $1.6 million annual base salary at UConn, which makes him one of the highest-paid state employees at a time when Connecticut is facing a reported $944 million budget deficit that is projected to be $8 billion in two years.

His snippy response – "My advice to you is, shut up," followed by a rift on how much money the Huskies generate for the university – has been polarizing. Governor M. Jodi Rell called it "embarrassing," and the leaders of the state's General Assembly want Calhoun to be reprimanded by the university. Conversely, many have defended the coach's reaction, saying his success through the years more than justifies his compensation – even in these trying times.

Calhoun could have been more mature in his response, even if he has the data to back his argument. As it stands, he's come off as the newest poster boy for the excesses of sports and showed how out of touch he is with Joe Taxpayer.

And it's more than an isolated tempest. Attendance will likely be unaffected in Storrs, but loyal ticket-buyers elsewhere are deciding they can no longer afford to see their favorite team live or buy that $100 jersey; or they simply no longer have the desire to go see athletes and coaches who don't seem to feel their pain.

As they grow weary of the kind of "not-my-economic problem" attitude displayed by Calhoun, Ramirez and others, sports may lose its status as The Great Escape. More fans may no longer see sports as a respite from the woes of their lives.

If sports can no longer serve that purpose, then what's its purpose?

That's a question no one wants to answer.

Reuters photograph

The Boston Celtics had no choice, really.

     When I first heard in the wind awhile back that the reigning NBA champions were looking to sign the NBA’s reigning castaway, Stephan Marbury, I laughed out loud. I mean scared-my-kids out loud. Needed a tissue and a glass of water (or something) to catch my breath.

     The notion was absurd, I thought. Marbury was the game’s ultimate contradiction – a great talent void of any head for the “game” whatsoever. He could score, certainly. He can pass, no doubt. And there are nights when he made you forget about, well, all the other nights.

     So could J.R. Rider. So could myriad other talented players through the years.

     But there was one label Marbury could not shed: loser.

     It’s a harsh shingle, and one I do not hang on him lightly, nor without trepidation. Despite his tenuous relationship with many of us who cover the games, and his checkered public persona, Marbury is a polite, affable young man.

     He deserved every dollar owed to him by the Knicks and, frankly, I admire how he handled what could have been an even uglier mess as he was benched, then publicly flogged, then exiled by his hometown team.

     Yet throughout his 12 pro seasons, throughout stops in Minnesota, New Jersey, Phoenix and New York, in the midst of all the nights when Marbury showed us all that he could be (and has always been expected to be since his days as a young phenom from Brooklyn), his teams rarely made the playoffs.

     And even worse, his teammates seemed to grow weary of him, at best.

     At worst, they loathed him.

     And yet in spite of that dossier, Stephon Marbury is now a Celtic. He is a member of one of the four most venerable franchises in all of sports.

     Moreover he’s a member of a team that will make the playoffs and, indeed, may win a championship.

     Seems like all he can do, as his presence has done in the past, is bring them down. I don’t use the words “poison” or “cancer” very often to describe an athlete, and I’m not using them to describe Marbury, either. But every team he’s player for has gotten better upon his departure. And upon his arrival every team has gotten … no need to finish the thought.

     But the Celtics had no choice. Not if they are hoping to squeeze another championship out of their holy trinity – Kevin Garnett, Paul Pierce and Ray Allen.

     The three stars and all-but-certain Hall of Famers are 32, 31 and 33, respectively. Their title run last season was a true testament to what can happen when talent, teamwork and sacrifice decide to become loyal friends.

     This season, Garnett, Pierce and Allen have been no less great, proven by their  46-13 record before Marbury's debut on Friday against Indiana.

     Yet the Celtics’ mantra this season has been “lingering doubt.” An uneasiness fueled by a bench weakened by the departures of James Posey and P.J. Brown.

     In short, this Celtics team was simply not good enough – top to bottom – to repeat, and they knew it. From the locker room to the owners box, they knew it.

     The Celtics survived three seven-game series last spring to reach the NBA Finals last season. That wasn’t going to happen this season, not with that bench. And not with the improvement of the Cleveland Cavaliers and Orlando Magic, teams that are talented, young and ravenous.

     In short, like our nation ravaged by an economic tsunami, the Celtics were desperate. Desperate enough to reach for a stimulus packaged highlighted by Marbury.

     All that said, I think it will work. I’m not saying these Celtics will repeat because of Marbury (along with the Celtics’ other recent signee, Mikki Moore). Not that crazy.

     But I don’t think they’ll be dethroned because of him, either.

     It will work because Marbury is reunited with the one former teammate who’ll have him: Garnett. "I just told him," said Celtics coach Doc Rivers said, "to be free."

     It’ll work because the holy trinity has already laid down Celtic Law to Marbury. Stephon Marbury is a Celtic, not Stephon Star-bury. Fall in line. Be a good teammate. No, a great teammate. It’s not about you, Stephon, it’s about the ring. Now, welcome aboard.

     Desperate times. A desperate measure. But one that had to be made.

Photo by Reuters