Thank you for your kind words. I truly do love football and I always tried to act tough. Truth be told, brother, most of the time I was just scared shitless one of those gigantic linemen was gonna rip my head right outta my shoulder pads. When I was launching myself in front of defenders, I was very often just trying to save my ass.

I appreciate your belief in me, and what I do on the field. I respect the money you pay at the gate or to DirecTV to watch boys in men’s bodies play a game. I know you mean well, Nate, but you do not understand the addiction I—and many of other poor, deluded souls, you mentioned—have had to cope with during a Hall-of-Fame NFL career.

And stop pretending you know how to get the shit-throwin’ monkey on my back to stop torturing me. Believe me, I’ve tried. He doesn’t listen to reason.

You gotta understand, the withdrawal symptoms are awful, Nate.

You will never know what it is like to receive special treatment, even playing Pop Warner. I was barely eight years old and can still remember the other kids’ fathers tell my Dad how great I was. As I grew up and realized I was stronger than most kids were, I knew I could pick on the scrawny little shit heads and never get in trouble. In fact, one time, some little punk’s father came over to our house and thanked me for kicking his son’s ass.

Talk about a great childhood…

It started to feel too good, like the time I got addicted to painkillers. By the way, thank you for not mentioning that. (See what I mean about special treatment?) In fact, it felt so great; I started to believe the bullshit stories about how tough I was, you know, the stories the media would recycle after every great game I played. John Madden tells the most famous one: where a rookie marveled at how I “dove over four linemen to get the first punch in on some college kids” during a bar fight.

Lemme clue you in on something, Nate, if I had to dive over four figure-skating dwarves to throw a punch at Kimbo Slice that would have been brave. Diving over five 300-pound linemen to throw a punch is not tough. It’s like following hose-wielding firemen into a burning house and taking credit for putting out the fire by emptying your squirt gun.

It’s so easy for you to sit and write about how you hope I just up and chuck away the worship of total strangers, offers of unsolicited oral sex from cover girls, the free use of a decked out Dodge Ram 4×4s, and all the Gatorade I can drink?

You worry about your addictions; I’LL HANDLE MINE!

I’m sorry Nate. I’m sorry… But you don’t know how damn strong the monkey’s grip can be. Sometimes life is a sad process of simply changing the monkey on your back.

We can only hope they don’t evolve into apes and crush us.

I went shopping with Deanna the other day and only two kids and three adults begged me to sign a jersey or a hat. Hell, last year in New York, a Vatican Cardinal made me sign his collar. Ain’t nothin’ compared to the young, hot women who often corner me privately and beg me to sign their breasts. Many of the little darlin’s insist I hold each knocker as I sign it, so as not to smudge the tender little nipple.

Talk about pressure. When the fate of the worlds’ finest breasts are literally, in your hands, a man’s character is revealed. Certainly, you will never be entrusted with such a burden, but take it from me—it wears you down.

Truth is, Nate, none of my certain HOF career concerned my teammates, my family, my profession, or my legacy. My entire life as a professional —my ill-advised passes, late over the middle, my NFL interception and touchdown records, my self-created retirement soap operas—has been about one thing—ME.

More accurately, feeding the insatiable beast planted firmly on my back.

That gorilla’s appetite for approval, worship, and celebrity has made the past 17 years a magnificent, unbearable, joyous, pathetic, hell.

Honestly, the reason for my endless whiffwaffling is very simple: I am terribly frightened how empty my existence will be when it ends, when the soulless, starved, penny-eyed simian falls to the floor and I have nothing to remember but the shit he threw on my wall.

I just don’t know if I can take it.

Sincerely,

Brett Favre

• May 7, 2009 -- Open Letter to Brett Favre (2)
• November 25, 2008 -- EnEfElquality (0)
• January 29, 2009 -- Chicken Little Wears Purple (5)
• January 12, 2009 -- Divisional Round Dish (0)
• December 14, 2008 -- Playoff Picture Still Murky (0)

I have been a huge fan of yours for years. Your love of football and unparalleled toughness in the quarterback position have always the been twin pinaccles of character to which I wish all other players aspired. There was nothing I enjoyed watching more than when, after completing a pass, you would run down field and deliver a crushing block to a linebacker to open up a hole for your reciever.

photo credit: Chris Garrison

But with that great respect for your attitude and playing ability in mind, I beg of you, please do not come out of retirement again.

Your place in Canton is assured; there is nothing left for you to prove. Even if you don’t tarnish your legacy on the field of play, you will surely tarnish your legacy as a person. Regardless of the sport, there are far too many players already who do not know when to call it quits. A second comeback would sadly lump you in with those poor, deluded souls. Not in terms of diminishing skills–you proved yourself still capable last season with the Jets, if no longer at your peak–but in terms of mindset.

Although I would have preferred to have seen you finish your career with the Packers, I understood you desire to continue to play last year and accepted your tenure with the Jets as the only resort you had. I know that I’ll never know the truth for sure, but I at least was willing to believe that you were pressured to retire, that Green Bay wanted to move on, that one final season in New York provided you the opportunity to complete your career on your own terms. But to return twice? You have no such excuse this time around.

By all accounts, Minnesota contacted you. Although that does relieve you of some of the onus of whifwhaffling, I beg of you, take the high road. Turn the Vikings down if they offer you a position as their quarterback.

If instead, as I secretly hope, any discussions are in regards to entering the coaching ranks, go ahead. You’ll probably make a great coach. But please hang up the cleats for good. You have very little to gain and a heck of a lot to lose.

Sincerely,

Nate Barlow

• May 9, 2009 -- Reply to “Open Letter to Brett Favre” (1)
• November 25, 2008 -- EnEfElquality (0)
• January 29, 2009 -- Chicken Little Wears Purple (5)
• January 12, 2009 -- Divisional Round Dish (0)
• December 14, 2008 -- Playoff Picture Still Murky (0)

To put this is historical perspective, the Red Sox played the Yankees in the very first game at the old Yankee Stadium on April 18, 1923, which the Bombers won 4-1. For 80 years afterwards, Boston had a very rough time facing New York on their arch-rivals’ home turf.

Much has been made of the construction worker who buried a David Ortiz jersey in the cement of New Yankee Stadium to curse the Yanks for years to come. How seriously does baseball take it curses and superstitions? The Yankees actually spent the time and money to dig out the jersey. (Considering which, I’m amazed that a Red Sox fan even made it onto the construction crew; I think the Steinbrenners would have demanded a pre-screening process.)

So far that expense does not seem to be well spent. New Yankee Stadium has not been particularly friendly to the Bombers, and not just when playing the Red Sox. The Indians 22-4 smack down of the Yankees will live in infamy. Perhaps the Ortiz jersey curse set with the cement, and no amount of digging can save them.

Or, more likely, the transformation of the Pride of the Yankees into the Greed of the Yankees is netting its just deserts. There were six thousand unsold seats for last night’s game. Six thousand unsold seats! For a Red Sox-Yankees game!  Most of them, of course, in the ridiculously overpriced luxury seating behind home plate and around the dugouts.  Talk about taking the energy out of the home crowd.  I’m not sure if the Steinbrenners are releasing those tickets on a game-by-game basis or are refusing to sell them except to non-existent season-ticket holders, but you would think they would see the importance of putting butts in those seats when the Sox are in town if nobody else.  The new “incentive” program still doesn’t cut it on a game-by-game basis.

But if they Yanks can’t sell those seats, how do they ever expect to continue to offer such oh-so-productive contracts as those they handed out last off-season to CC Sabathia, A.J. Burnett and Mark Teixeira?

• April 29, 2009 -- The Hate List: 4/29/09 – My Top Two Most Hated Sports Teams (11)
• February 7, 2009 -- A-Fraud (2)
• December 10, 2008 -- ¢¢ $abathia (0)
• April 8, 2009 -- Panic in the Bronx (or, The Soap Opera Continues) (2)
• February 10, 2009 -- Poor Economy Doing It to Manny and the Mets (1)

FULL DISCLOSURE: I spent eight years as a student of Our Lady of Fatima Elementary School and Home for Sexually Frustrated Women in Penguin Costumes. My mission while I was there was to torture nuns. Their mission was to beat me. Neither party failed to meet their objective.

The reason for this disclosure makes a modicum of sense when you learn the runner-up on my personal Hate List is…

THE NOTRE DAME FIGHTING IRISH 

   

Where do I begin?

Every year, it’s the same ol’ story: Notre Dame has one of the top ten recruiting classes, then they gag in a big game or three and end up sucking. They often lose one or two blue-chippers a year because the recruits cannot hack the “stringent academic standards Notre Dame demands of its students.”

What’s the word I’m looking for? Sheep__?… No… Alpaca__?… No…

BULLS#$@!

Given the advantages the Irish enjoy—NBC contract, weekly television, football conference independence—they should win a national championship every year. When Notre Dame manages to win 6–7 games a year they are awarded a second tier bowl game, thereby, often screwing a much more deserving, smaller conference team out of a big payday. There was a time Fighting Irish refused to go to a second-rate bowl game

Watching Notre Dame lose is about as spiritually uplifting as sports allows a heathen like me to be.

You might be asking, “…but Gairzo, why would a nice Catholic boy like you be a hater of the most revered Catholic institution in America?”   The answer—besides the fact this topic provides me the perfect passive aggressive way to avenge the Evil Sister Euphemia’s sadistic tendencies—is, in a word…

HYPOCRISY

In 2001, the Fighting Irish hired George O’Leary as the Domer’s head football coach. He had very recently turned around the Georgia Tech program. O’Leary resigned five days later because, as a young guy, he padded his resume. Okay, I can understand the need to maintain the illusion of integrity. But, I would have also fired the AD for not vetting his candidates more closely.

Then, Notre Dame shocks the world and hires Tyrone Willingham who had made Stanford football, yes, Stanford, respectable. They give TW, an African-American, a five-year contract. The “shock” comes from Mr. Willingham’s race; given the fact the school had never even interviewed a black individual for the head coaching position. His hiring was supposed to demonstrate Notre Dame had evolved from a lily-white institution into a progressive bastion of diversity—even though the deepest rumblings of dissent came from the school’s nation-wide and predominantly white legion of fans.

After winning ten games in his first campaign, Willingham was fired after two mediocre campaigns; his record was 21-15.

First year hires get five years to fail—at most universities. Makes sense, because college football coaches can’t field a team of “their kids” until after they recruit four years. Willingham got three. Even if we give the Notre Dame brass the benefit of the doubt, and not blame the Willingham debacle on racism, the facts say Willingham is the only ND football coach since Hugh Devore in 1945 not to be given at least 5 years at the helm. Willingham was the first African-American to coach any Notre Dame sports team—and the only one to this day.

For an in depth statistical analysis of ND’s hypocrisy regarding Mr. Willingham, read this commentary from Jon Wilner:

http://blogs.mercurynews.com/collegesports/2008/12/03/charlie-weis-return-makes-it-official-the-irish-are-hypocrites/

But, wait, my dearies, there is so much more…

THE CATHOLIC THING

Sorry, but you can’t boast about being a great Catholic University when altar boys are getting fondled under tabernacles across America. In fact, you might want to come out and support the victims of systemic pedophilia in some kind of public way.

You want the status of higher education pre-eminence in the Catholic universe? Donate a home game’s receipts to help kids whom your clergymen have scarred for life.

FIGHTING IRISH

I had the distinct pleasure of seeing my Irish neighbor, Tommy McLean’s, naturally red-faced head almost implode when I asked, “Hey Tommy, would you still root for Notre Dame if they were called the Passive Bulgarians?”

Seriously, the name “Fighting Irish” comes from the stereotypes of drunken Irish fighting while drinking. Even if you buy competing theories of the name being based on the famous Civil War brigade, perception does count. Calling a team the Fighting Irish is still the equivalent of say… The Baltimore Dumb Pollacks, The LaJolla Shining Wet Backs, or the California Bad Driving Asians.

Of course, one very possible side-effect of calling your team “The Fighting Irish”—the moniker could potentially embolden Irish Catholics who like to drink—and haven’t been to church in decades—to well, fight, at the drop of a penalty flag.

TOUCHDOWN JESUS

As opposed to a term like “The Immaculate Reception”, which cleverly describes a football play that seemed to have come about as a result of divine intervention, Touchdown Jesus is a mural of the Risen Savior looming above Notre Dame’s football stadium.

A few years back, I went to the annual ND spring game with my neighbor—he almost came to tears when he referenced Touchdown Jesus. I am not kidding; the man was about to weep.

Like many Irish fans, Tommy insists Jesus is signaling a touchdown.

I’m kind of thinking that’s not what the artist was going for.

BLUE JERSEYS

Talk about annoying. Please, if you nickname your football team with a negative ethnic stereotype have the decency to get the friggin’ color scheme right! I know the Irish have, on occasion, worn green jerseys, but the official team colors are blue and gold. And, no, I don’t care what those colors symbolize in Catholic mythology; if you call yourselves the Fighting Irish you are required to wear green—Kelly green.

Imagine the Red Sox wearing gold leggings… the Duke Blue Devils in orange shorts… The Raidas in pink jerseys…

WHAT THE F%#K!!?

The only other sports team that boils my plasma more than the Notre Dame Fighting Irish, the team destined to always be number one with a hollow point bullet on my Hate List is…

THE NEW YORK YANKEES 

   

This sports franchise represents all that is, has been, and forever will be wrong in American professional sports. Their corporate greed is the perfect American example of capitalism’s limitations as an economic structure.

GREED IS NOT GOOD

Before you assault my editor with vicious e-mails, and, please, feel free to do so, I do not begrudge great players—those who consistently average .300, smack 40 homers and/or 175 hits a year–the top money in their sport.

However, the Steinbrenners have single-handedly ruined baseball for a significant number of fans of less financially gifted franchises.

They are paying A.J. Burnett 13.2 million. By any measure of modern day statistical standards Burnett is barely a spider’s eyelash above average: 88-76 with a career ERA of 3.81. He also, conveniently, puts up his bigger numbers only when a new contract is at stake.

Hideki Matsui, 35 year-old designated hitter. Doesn’t even play the field: 13,000,000.00. Johnny Damon—terrible fielder, slightly above average hitter: 13,000,000.00.

And that ain’t all…

Forget the Stanks pay over the hill players obscene money. They even overpay the great players of the game. A-Roid—admitted, tiny-balled, steroids user—27,000,000.00. Let me write that out because I didn’t believe it when I verified the figure: twenty-seven million dollars!!!!

No athlete who has ever lived can justify earning that money.

However, if by yanking that kind of money from the Steinbrenners, A-Roid and his ilk hasten the team’s financial demise, then I hope Hank and the Boys suffocate between their own deep pockets

For all you Yankee fans out there, I know you are cursing. It ain’t my money, I’m from Pittsburgh, and that alone means I know nothing about winning baseball. No arguments here. The Pirates have sucked for so long Linda Lovelace has a lawsuit pending against them for copyright infringement. I also admit to a certain jealousy of nearly always seeing the Wankees making the post-season—but it’s way beyond petty jealousy.

Just like Neuter Dame, the Skanks have enjoyed certain advantages since the light bulb flashed over Abner Doubleday’s head.

The concentration of population in the New York Metro area gave the team once called the Highlanders the same economic advantages today’s Yankees enjoy. New York has always been able to pay the most to the best players just as they can today.

So, every time I hear Billy Crystal or some other smarmy Yankee fans drone on about how flies flutter like ballerinas around their hot dogs excuse me if I roll my eyes.

Don’t blame me if syrupy memories of the day Joe DiMaggio screwed Marilyn in centerfield, or the bonding a little boy enjoyed with his dad and a hooker on a steamy July afternoon makes me want to chug some ipecac syrup and give their remembrance a good taste of reality.

You know what, Billy? Nobody gives a damn. Not everybody thinks the Yankees have been fair to the game or to other teams in baseball. People in Kansas City and Minnesota, and Milwaukee have memories, too.

And, yes, Yankee lovers, I know. I could blame the four or five other teams who, along with the Yankees, relegate the rest of MLB to the ranks of a farm system—the Mets, Red Sox, Dodgers, and Cubs, but what fun would that be?

Besides, the Mets have no choice, as they are cross-town rivals in New York. Red Sox fans hate the Yanks worse than I ever can, the Dodgers high-tailed it out of New York, and the Cubbies are named after cute little baby bears. All legit reasons to like them and direct all my pent-up hate at the truly, and only, evil New York team.

Admittedly, there are smaller market teams that have found success in recent years but their long-term performances cannot and never will equal that of the Hankees. And, I am not blaming the Pinstripers for the utter failures of perennially poorly managed clubs like the Pirates and Royals.

I hate the Yankees because when they pay mediocre players huge money, the market skews unfairly and inexorably to them and the handful of teams who can, at least initially compete with the Steinbrenners.

To hell with the Yankees!

So tell us, who do you hate?

I am shocked that no Steeler haters have yet written in to excoriate your humble columnist and to disrespectfully refer to the only six—let me repeat—only six-time Super Bowl Champions as the Pittsburgh Squealers.

Where’s the Hate?

Next month: The Lighter Side of Hate…

• February 10, 2009 -- Poor Economy Doing It to Manny and the Mets (1)
• April 8, 2009 -- Panic in the Bronx (or, The Soap Opera Continues) (2)
• February 7, 2009 -- A-Fraud (2)
• October 30, 2008 -- Baseball’s New World Order (0)
• May 5, 2009 -- Red Sox 1, New Yankee Stadium 0 (0)

New York Yankees

Before we shed too many tears for the free-spending and the not-quite deserving, let’s remember that this is a 162-game season and everybody (even Monday’s Yankee-beater, the hapless & poorly-operated franchise that wears the jerseys of the once-proud Orioles) still have hope. Heck, even the Rays could surprise (oh wait, that’s already happened).

I have to understand how extremely valuable TV airtime, radio spectrum, Internet bandwidth, and ‘media pipe’ can be used to scream ‘The Sky is Falling’ after only the first game of a 162 game-season. Is this simply because the mega-paid (some would say ‘over paid’) players didn’t live up to the hype & salary? It was inevitable.

CC Sabathia is a good pitcher, and in the skewed economics of Major League Baseball, he’s worth $17MM+ per season. Unfortunately for the MLB, it usually takes a pitcher anywhere between 4-6 good seasons of starting (and maybe a season of spot relief, unless he happens to be Mark Prior) before he scores his payday. This also happens to be when he’s logged 750+ innings and his body starts to lose some of its recuperative abilities (especially since they now TEST for certain things). What this means is that the big checks sometimes don’t arrive when the big performances do. The proof of this, to some extent, is Johan Santana (who also happens to have stepped up to the deep, wide trough of money that flows, or at least used to flow, out of New York teams).

We here on the Frozen Tundra loved watching our hot young pitcher win 2 Cy Young awards, dominate with an unhittable change-up, and help bring us from the brink of contraction back to contention. Santana began his tenure in Minnesota as a spot reliever, and, partly based on need, was pressed into the starter’s role. He benefitted from two things: playing with retired Twin pitcher Brad Radke, who was not an overpowering pitcher but in his best years had command of a very good change-up; and playing for Tom Kelly (TK), who had the luxury of being the only manager to bring a World Series title to Minnesota, thus having plenty of rope to develop players with no fear of ever being fired (TK’s record from 1994 through 2000, in any other city, would have earned him an exit).

It wasn’t until Johan received the big money out East that he started to experience physical issues. Not coincidental–this is what happens after throwing 200+ regular season (and playoff) innings per season. And now Sabathia is in the very same boat, floating out in the Hudson, no less.

So the teams who have bottomless revenue streams (namely those based in NYC) can continue to spend big money for pitching talent. The Red Sox just might have done it smarter more recently by going after younger top guns like (former Marlin and Yankee-killer) Josh Beckett and Daisuke Matsuzaka, which probably has something to do with their two recent World Series titles. But then New York, in regards to baseball and so many other things, sees the rest of the country as its ‘talent pool’ and feels the right (economic or whatever) to cherry-pick from it. When things come by way of purchase (rather than by hard work or through development), they just are not appreciated as much.

Hence the panic.

• April 29, 2009 -- The Hate List: 4/29/09 – My Top Two Most Hated Sports Teams (11)
• February 10, 2009 -- Poor Economy Doing It to Manny and the Mets (1)
• February 7, 2009 -- A-Fraud (2)
• October 30, 2008 -- Baseball’s New World Order (0)
• May 5, 2009 -- Red Sox 1, New Yankee Stadium 0 (0)

He was bombastic and acid-tongued. Merely speaking with him was an exercise in endurance. You didn’t so much listen to him as weather the storm that would undoubtedly be set off by asking the stupid question with which you were wasting his time. To challenge him was sheer lunacy. To show weakness or fear in front of him was disastrous.

I often wonder what makes coaches think that becoming an autocratic martinet is the best way to motivate players. Didn’t they have to play for guys like this when they were kids? Do they not remember how miserable it was?

But then I remember how hard I played because I was so afraid of the ridicule and the disappointment of my peers and I realized something: they’re right. It can work. Fear and loathing of an authority figure is a great motivator in the short term. That’s why it works with kids and college students. They’re only going to have to deal with it for four years at most.

Some of the greatest teams in history had nothing in common save a unifying hatred of their coach. Herb Brooks was despised by his players, and for many of them it’s taken the erosion of time and Brooks’ unfortunate passing to wear away at that veneer of anger. Brooks brilliantly engineered all of this because he had such a short time to bring that team together.

And within that nugget lies the problem. This particular Roman candle it has a very short fuse. Once lit, it lasts for a short while and more often than not, usually ends as a dud. This is a different era. With the short lifespan of coaches in the NHL and other professional leagues, players often have seniority on their coaches. The screaming act wears thin in a very short while.

I’ll always remember the collapse of another fire-and-brimstone coach as the quintessential example of why this philosophy will ultimately fail at the pro level. Ray Rhodes won the Coach of the Year Award in his first season with the Eagles. But within two years he was out of a job. He would often whip his players into a frenzy with exhortations of “They’re coming into your house to rape your wives and kill your children,” with regard to the opposing team.

As you might imagine, it’s hard to top that one. I mean, after the first week that your house fails to get raided by the Vandals, Visigoths, and Vikings (hah!) it’s hard to remain vigilant.

John Tortorella won a Cup in Tampa, but his act eventually wore thin. There’s only so much you can threaten a player with before trading him or cutting him becomes something he no longer fears. He started a very public feud with Vinny Prospal that eventually blew up in his face. Shortly after engineering a trade that sent Prospal to Philadelphia, Torts was gone and Prospal re-signed in Tampa at the end of the season.

In the short term, I think he will make the Rangers a much better team. Tortorella’s screaming, yelling, and posturing on the bench will motivate players beyond what Tom Renney’s impotent line-juggling could ever hope to do.

However, the second Glen Sather offered Torts the job, the clock started ticking. In the background, like an infinite number of 24 promos played simultaneously, the clock on Tortorella began counting down–whether or not he wins a Cup before that timer elapses is the question.

• May 26, 2009 -- Championship Matchup Redux (2)
• February 19, 2009 -- Hockey Renaissance? (2)
• December 3, 2008 -- Test Passed (1)
• October 14, 2009 -- Hello, Hockey! (0)
• June 10, 2009 -- Cup Runneth Over (7)

1. The Hater must have a logical basis for his or her hate.

As per reader dissatisfaction with the original criteria, team colors or any similar reason does justify hating an individual team. However, we prefer deeper, more disturbing reasons to hate.

2.  The Hater must prove undying loyalty and love for one particular team or city.

No compromise here. Without true love, there can be no visceral, eternal loathing. I don’t know if it’s just me, but I’ve noticed people from Boston really hate–I mean, “put cyanide in Johnny Damon’s Gatorade” hate–the Yankees. That’s what we’re talkin’ about.

3.  The Hater cannot be a Yankees or Notre Dame fan.

If you are so much of a loser to root for teams with built in advantages for winning, you cannot legitimately hate those of us who root for teams that struggle for years or decades in between seasons of success.

Some readers insist that this is not fair, and we reluctantly agree. However, those of us who know better than to root for ultra-advantaged teams, have the inalienable right, to ridicule you for your lunacy.

4.  The Hater cannot love a natural or otherwise determined rival of his or her beloved team.

There is no fence-sitting in Hate Ball.

*  *  *

This post is the second of a monthly “journal” like entry detailing the people and teams I most love to hate…

Not much movement on the team list (see the post for next month), but the individual list is starting to swell like an infected hangnail.

First, the Long Timers who have earned their spot in my hall of hate…

PETE ROSE

I always respected his approach to the game; always secretly wished he were a Pirate. Some years later, when I coached my kids in Little League, I would yell, “C’mon play like Charlie Hustle.” It was a testament to his place in the game that some of those youngsters actually knew who I was talking about. Even after he became a manager and was outed for his obsession with records–and having a mutantly huge ego–I still admired Rose greatly for what he brought to the diamond.

Then I learned there was other, more sinister justification for the nickname Charlie Hustle.

When he got busted for gambling, I expected him to say, “You damn right I bet on my team. Any ballplayer who wouldn’t bet on his own team, doesn’t deserve to be in a locker room. And while I was at it, I put money on some other teams, but never against my team.”

That would have been a Pete Rose I could have continued to respect–and he would no doubt be in Cooperstown today.

But, he denied the obvious–I hate when people do that.

The delicious irony is that Rose’s motivation for his absurd denials was his believing that any such admission would jeopardize his Hall of Fame induction.

How’s that workin’ for ya’, Charlie?

In any event, I do not like being hustled.

O.J. SIMPSON

I hate the Juice for his criminal behavior, of course, but, beyond that, his ingratitude and his lack of self-respect relegate him to the hell-like rungs on my hate ladder.

First, his utter disregard for his children, using them as tools to reshape his image–which I suppose pales in comparison to the fact HE MURDERED THEIR MOTHER!

Second, after Simpson’s Twelve Idiot Apostles let him off the hook for double murder, you would have thought he might have an epiphany of rudimentary Karmic awareness, to seek solitude and Divine forgiveness somewhere in Borneo, or say, an uninhabitable Arctic outpost.

Instead, the Juicemeister tries to release a project called “If I Did It.”

What a jag-off…

He cut quite a figure in that prison jumpsuit, all hackled together, weeping like a grandma, didn’t he? Reminded me of the first time I saw Brando as Stanley Kowalski, or heard Hendrix’s “Hey Joe”…  I said to myself, “That individual is exactly where God wants him to be.” Loved it.

Who is on your all time hate list?

Next month: The Team List–The Cryboys, Notre Dame, The Yankees

April: Modern Day Athletes–Sergio Garcia, Terrell Owens, NASCAR Drivers, and Fat Golfers

May: Hatin’ the Non Playas–Referees who work out too much, Sports anchors who make themselves a highlight, Color Commentators, Sideline Reporters

• April 29, 2009 -- The Hate List: 4/29/09 – My Top Two Most Hated Sports Teams (11)
• December 21, 2008 -- The Hate List (9)
• May 5, 2009 -- Red Sox 1, New Yankee Stadium 0 (0)
• April 8, 2009 -- Panic in the Bronx (or, The Soap Opera Continues) (2)
• February 10, 2009 -- Poor Economy Doing It to Manny and the Mets (1)

This is not without some residual insanity from other recent deals, perpetrated by overly aggressive sports agents. Case in point is Manny Ramirez and his recent rejection of a one year $25 million offer to stay with the Dodgers. At 36 years of age this could very well be Manny’s final contract. This money is going to have to last him and his family (and apparently his agent) for the next few decades. $25 million is not enough (on top of the many tens of millions he’s already pulled in). Have these people heard the news or picked up a newspaper lately? There’s no question he’s one of the best right handed hitters in the history of baseball and still an impact player, but his attitude doesn’t help his cause and his age is working against him. He might have two seasons left as an everyday player or three to four seasons left as a designated hitter. If he thinks he’s an everyday player, the most he’s going to get is $50 million for two years. If he’s being shopped as a DH, he can expect no more than four years and $70 million, and there’s probably one team from NY that can give it to him. And it certainly isn’t the Mets.

They’ve got their own problems since their large corporate sponsor happens to be the recipient of billions in Federal bailout money. Taxpayers, and especially the politicians they elect, have no tolerance for the excessive spending that took place before last autumn’s market meltdown. While both sides are insisting that they’re going to honor their legal obligations, things can have a way of unwinding, especially where it concerns taxpayers and the politicians they elect. Faced with a potential loss of hundreds of millions of dollars, the economic advantage of running a baseball team backed by deep-pocketed sponsors inevitably change when the money dries up. And the corporate financial markets are like the Mojave Desert. Take out their one high profile signing (Francisco Rodriguez and his three year $37 million deal) and the Mets are spending like a small market club. And other teams who’ve spent freely over last few years are sitting on their wallets. This doesn’t bode well for other players on the free agent last (Oliver Perez, Ben Sheets, Orlando Hudson, Adam Dunn, etc.). Only the Yankees (with their own personal ATM called the YES Network) are spending.

As the economy takes a reality check, perhaps major league baseball will also take a reality check. Teams like the Rays & the Marlins have proven that it’s not necessary to spend their way to the World Series (although the Steinbrenners are still trying).

• April 29, 2009 -- The Hate List: 4/29/09 – My Top Two Most Hated Sports Teams (11)
• April 8, 2009 -- Panic in the Bronx (or, The Soap Opera Continues) (2)
• February 7, 2009 -- A-Fraud (2)
• November 7, 2008 -- Are NFL Payrolls Inversely Proportional to On-Field Success? (0)
• January 2, 2009 -- Hello, 2009 – Bye Bye Best Of 2008 (0)

But this, this is too good. A-Fraud tested positive for anabolic steroids in 2003, thus truly earning the nickname so frequently applied to him by his detractors and, apparently, his Yankees teammates (thank you, Joe Torre!) even though there’s no evidence–yet–that he was still on the juice once he arrived in New York.

Time to wipe that smug, whiney “Who me?” expression off your face, Alex.

Maybe he’s not so talented after all. Stopping use of the ‘roids after the 2003 season (when it became illegal to take them) might explain his postseason failures as a Yankee, overrated MVP seasons be damned. Without the juice, perhaps A-Rod just petered out at the end of the year.

If baseball’s greatest rivalry wasn’t enough already, I now cannot wait for the Yanks to play at Fenway this season even more. Rodriguez will absolutely, and well-deservedly, be crucified. Barry Bonds will wipe his brow and actually think the Sox fans let him off easy in comparison.

I’m going to love every second of it.

• February 22, 2009 -- VideoDeep: A-Roid No Surprise (0)
• February 11, 2009 -- Cinderella Story (7)
• April 29, 2009 -- The Hate List: 4/29/09 – My Top Two Most Hated Sports Teams (11)
• April 8, 2009 -- Panic in the Bronx (or, The Soap Opera Continues) (2)
• February 10, 2009 -- Poor Economy Doing It to Manny and the Mets (1)

The Good:

Baltimore Ravens: Live by big plays, die by big plays. Sooner or later takeaways will fail to bail Baltimore out, but once again the Ravens proved the adage that the team that wins the turnover battle wins the game.

Arizona Cardinals: Kurt Warner knows how to party like it’s 1999. I’d love to have been the person who placed bets on the Cards hosting the NFC Championship game.

Philadelphia Eagles: First the Phillies catch the Mets, now the Iggles upend the Giants. The City of Brotherly Love has shown no warmth to the neighbors, err rivals, to the north this year.

Pittsburgh Steelers: Late points and final score aside, the Steel Curtain lives.

The Bad:

Tennessee Titans: The blown play-clock call stinks, but all the blame for losing the game falls on turning over the ball. The Titans had more than enough chance to put this game out of reach.

New York Giants: Who else thinks the MVP of Super Bowl XLII should have been Plaxico Burress? Eli is still the same quarterback he’s always been.

San Diego Chargers: I like Darren Sproles a lot, but Pittsburgh completely shut him down. Could the Bolts have possibly missed LaDainian Tomlinson any more?

The Ugly:

Carolina Panthers: Ouch. Seriously, what else is there to say?

• December 14, 2008 -- Playoff Picture Still Murky (0)
• January 24, 2009 -- U Kan Koach in the NFL (.com)! (3)
• January 16, 2009 -- NFL Playoff Picking (3)
• November 25, 2008 -- EnEfElquality (0)
• February 1, 2009 -- The Big Question (0)