Ordinarily Extraordinary``x19thhole``x

Going into this week, the smart money would have been on Tiger Woods to win the 89th PGA Championship at Southern Hills. This was the case given Woods’ historic career, 12 major wins, and having come off of his 58th PGA Tour win at Firestone by simply embarrassing the field.

Then the cynics and writers (wait, I’m both of those) weighed in on their picks for the week (I didn’t do that). In an effort to be the guy that called the fourth first time major winner this season, it seemed like a lot of experts were predicting that Luke Donald, Hunter Mahan, Justin Rose, or other assorted majorless players would win.

Many acknowledged that Woods would normally be the guy to beat, but since he had such a “poor record” at Southern Hills in his two majors there – 1996 and 2001 US Opens – it would be unlikely that the course would suit his eye this time. Jim Nantz, though, stood up for Woods in a press conference previewing CBS’ coverage of the tournament. He claimed that Woods was already four clear of the field before the action even began. Since Nantz was seemingly the only guy certain of a Tiger Woods victory, let’s just say that the field made up two shots over 72 holes in Woods’ route to his thirteenth major championship.

Woods stayed within the lines of the coloring book that is his major victories. The picture is one many golf fans have seen expertly filled in a baker’s dozen number of times. Woods has a modest first round that does not put him in the lead, but positions him well. The second round usually is where Woods makes his most significant move – vaulting from somewhere in the top quarter of the pack to somewhere in the top ten. Then, on Saturday, Woods shoots a round good enough to maintain or take a modest lead. Sunday then turns into a championship parade in which Woods simply has to fire a round of even par to win the title.

The script is never exactly the same, but for some reason, this one did not seem as thrilling as the other twelve. Yes, Ernie Els and Woody Austin made it interesting for a while. Tiger even made the outcome a little uncertain with a back nine bogey.

Even still, it never appeared as though Tiger ever lost control. As much as I hate to say it, I was a little bored on Sunday.

I know I should not have felt bored watching Woods’ performance on Sunday. I was on the edge of my seat for his 62.5 which vaulted him to the lead.

When the rout appeared to be on during the third round, I was interested to see how much Tiger would spank the field. Sunday, though, was just not all that fun for me. It had nothing to do with Tiger. He played spectacular, leader golf with standard iron play and a few eye opening drives. The problem is that I have seen it all before from Tiger.

After it was all over and I realized what I was feeling, I began to appreciate the results of a poll conducted a few years back by, if I recall correctly, Sports Illustrated. The standout question of the survey of PGA Tour players was who was most often identified as the Tour’s most underrated player. It was Tiger Woods. Most underrated. Even the people that are around Woods most often feel that he is not fully appreciated.

It is amazing that a guy with this once-in-our-lifetime talent can be underwhelming in winning golf tournaments. Watching him play is still as awe-inspiring as ever, but the final result can be a little dull sometimes. Maybe it is because I have grown so accustomed to how he wins that I am not as shocked now when he embarrasses a field just because, dominates an event from start to finish, or wins a major championship. No one else can seem to do any of those things with any kind of consistency, but Woods does is so often that it feels like a common occurrence.

The other three major winners this year managed to barely hang on to win their trophies. Woods had no problem coasting to his. Even with the historic significance of this win, I would still have preferred to watch a replay of the Open Championship. Golf tournaments are more interesting when the outcome is in doubt. With Woods, that is rarely the case.

The talent he possesses is so special that he can make an incredibly difficult feat appear mundane and boring. As it stands now, Woods is six major championship wins away from officially becoming the greatest golfer in history. It seems almost inevitable that he will get there with the mechanical way he won on Sunday. Out of the nearly thirty on course hours this week, Woods had to work especially hard for five of them to secure his championship. That is efficiency at its finest coming from a guy who is very well aware of how great he is.

Efficiency is amazing, but it is not necessarily exciting. These kinds of ho-hum major championship wins will not be fully appreciated until long after Woods wins number nineteen. After all, it is hard to place a value on something you have never seen before and will never see again.

``xEElZpkEVluCkibOjHr``x1187028784``xBills_News``x``x

"Here's the guy who has Barry's back."

I was walking through the newsroom when one of my favorite water cooler sports buddies attempted to out me as a Barry Bonds sympathizer. It was less than 48 hours after Bonds sent home run No. 756 into the right-field stands, which in turn sent sports media and fans scurrying to play another exciting edition of everyone's favorite game: "What does it all mean?"

As I said to Office Sports Buddy, I think Bonds is - with or without the juice - the greatest left fielder in baseball history, and had earned consideration for immortality before his performance enhancement, if not a plaque in Cooperstown itself. I also think he's a loathsome individual fueled by a surly arrogance who spoiled his charmed baseball life by searching out a chemical cure for his inferiority complex. That all of these traits can inhabit the same human form is extraordinary, and perhaps an even more understandable diagnosis than steroids as for why Bonds's head is the size of Maui.

I think claiming I've had "Barry's back" during the last several scandalous years is a little exaggerated, but understandable. It's not so much that I've defended the man; more that I've taken a realistic stance on the entire issue of steroids in baseball and their effect on the record book.

For example, I've been a staunch opponent of the asterisk on controversial records; the "*" was No. 12 in my book "Glow Pucks & 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History." I think it's nonsense that an asterisk should be used when dealing with records tainted by performance-enhancing drugs but not with, say, ones set using artificial turf, which has had a much more significant impact on offensive stats (outside of the home run) than any little pill. Every record-setting era in baseball is so alien to the others that the record book would look like a blizzard by the time all the properly considered asterisks were placed. That's why these puerile purists who think Bonds's record deserves an asterisk are, to put it in terms they can understand, a bunch of d*ckhe*ds.

After Bonds broke the record, I looked back at what I had written about his exploits, the Congressional steroid testimony and baseball's performance-enhancing drug scandals over the last several years. My first manifesto on the issues was published in SportsFan Magazine back in Fall 2001: a column titled "Let Them Juice." My feelings today echo my thoughts six years ago:

Chemical enhancing by pro athletes is no different from advancements in weight training or equipment. Steroids, andro - they're all just part of a large assortment of factors that create an atmosphere in which today's inferior players can be mentioned in the same breath as the legends of the game. Hitters' ballparks, watered-down pitching, steroids - they have all irrevocably changed the game.

So let them juice.

Let every player on every team go 30-30 every season. Fans are still going to treat Aaron's 755 home runs and 2,297 RBI and Cobb's .367 batting average as all-time records of biblical proportions - and no amount of pills will challenge a 56-game hitting streak.

In other words, Aaron's record still stands in the hearts and minds of fans; not only because the man who broke it needed what is now a banned substance to surpass Aaron, but because Aaron achieved that mark in an era without digital slow-motion video used by hitting instructors or arthroscopic surgery or pitching that's diluted to the point of embarrassment or a stadium in Denver. Steroids are part of a seismic shift in baseball that created a nearly unprecedented era of offensive output; Bonds is just that era's most prominent beneficiary.

Should he be crucified for juicing? Yes, as should anyone else with the damning evidence and guilt by association Bonds carries with him. (I've often felt those who give Bonds some benefit of the doubt because he's never formally tested positive were also waiting for a bloody Ginzu to fall out of O.J.'s pant leg during the trial.) What I'm not willing to do is acknowledge him as the fall guy for the players association's disgusting cronyism and big media's hypocritical approach to the steroid issue. If (if...who are we kidding?) Bonds cheated, he did so because scores of his peers and his watchmen were content to count the money generated by this culture of corruption than fight for the alleged "integrity" of their game.

I think I said everything I'll ever need to say about that "integrity" in a 'JQ' from back in March 2005:

I don't see the steroid debate as a microcosm of the ongoing debates over societal evils and moral indignation. I see it as a bunch of people who hold baseball to some sort of pious standard treating "the integrity of the game" as if it actually still means something.

Baseball lost its way years before Barry Bonds began his formal assault on Hank Aaron's record. He's a symptom of that degradation of character, but far from its cause.

-SFM-

Published on the web and www.SportsFanMagazine.com since 1997, "The Jester's Quart" is a weekly satirical look at sports, pop culture and why NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman is a jackass. Columnist Greg Wyshynski is the Senior Editor for SportsFan Magazine in Washington DC, and the Senior Sports Editor for The Connection Newspapers of Northern Virginia. His book "Glow Pucks and 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History" can be ordered now. Email Wyshynski at jestersquart@hotmail.com.

``xEElZpkEEykNzBeOqZJ``x1187028362``xbaseball_news``x``x

I was walking through the newsroom when one of my favorite water cooler sports buddies attempted to out me as a Barry Bonds sympathizer. It was less than 48 hours after Bonds sent home run No. 756 into the right-field stands, which in turn sent sports media and fans scurrying to play another exciting edition of everyone's favorite game: "What does it all mean?" As I said to Office Sports Buddy, I think Bonds is - with or without the juice - the greatest left fielder in baseball history, and had earned consideration for immortality before his performance enhancement, if not a plaque in Cooperstown itself. I also think he's a loathsome individual fueled by a surly arrogance who spoiled his charmed baseball life by searching out a chemical cure for his inferiority complex. That all of these traits can inhabit the same human form is extraordinary, and perhaps an even more understandable diagnosis than steroids as for why Bonds's head is the size of Maui.

``x From Lombardi Trophy To Oscar Winner?``xjester``x

On the indispensable Internet Movie Database, Vince McMahon is listed as a producer for eight different films; from the mind-numbingly awful "No Holds Barred" and the remake of "Rollerball," to the actually quite good "The Rundown," to something called "Jornada del Muerto," a film in production that is scheduled to be directed by John "Red Dawn" Milius and starring Triple H in what's billed as "a modern-day Western where gangs, drug trafficking and broken codes of honor rule."

(Hmmm..."broken codes of honor." For Triple H's sake, I hope they don't mean "man laws.")

Perhaps Roger Goodell has "Vince envy," and not just because Michael Vick's dog-fighting quagmire has lived through more media cycles than Chris Benoit's domestic slaughter. This week, the NFL followed in the footsteps of the WWE and announced it's getting into the motion picture business.

NFL spokesman Brian McCarthy told the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel that the league will co-produce a bio-pic about Vince Lombardi - the first in what could be a series of NFL movies that detail moments in its storied history.

Right from the start, the not-so-subtle difference between the Hollywood NFL and Hollywood WWE is that the former appears dedicated to quality filmmaking while the latter made "The Condemned," a "Battle Royale" rip-off that replaced a gaggle of homicidal Japanese school children with "Stone Cold" Steve Austin.

In fact, the producer on the Lombardi picture is Andrew Hauptman. He produced the brilliant little Danny Boyle movie "Millions," and is producing "Lions for Lambs," a political pot-boiler starring Tom Cruise, Robert Redford and Meryl Streep - none of whom, I believe, appeared in the remake of "Rollerball."

The prospect of NFL-produced films is exciting on several fronts. The league's participation means these films will not have teams named the Miami Sharks ("Any Given Sunday") or the Washington Sentinels ("The Replacements") because it'll all be officially licensed. This is good news for anybody who enjoyed the authenticity of "Jerry Maguire" thanks to NFL participation, or that was worried that this first league-produced film would be about Coach Victor Lombardo of the Green Lake Placards.

There's also an endless collection of stories that can be dramatized with full NFL participation, from games like Super Bowl III to individuals like Lombardi. Would you pay to see a John Riggins movie? What about one featuring the Pittsburgh Steelers of the 1970s?

But the inescapable question about the NFL-as-filmmakers is whether we'll get "No Fun League: The Movie." Can the most image-conscious organization in professional sports loosen up and tell unfiltered stories about its history? Is the NFL that censured "Playmakers" with the same zeal it dampens end zone celebrations capable of anything more cinematically adventurous than some Disney-esque piffle about teams overcoming long odds and triumphing in the end because they believe in themselves and each other?

I mean, somewhere out there is a professional screenwriter/big-time football fan that's been ready to write a Lawrence Taylor movie ever since he heard about L.T. sending hookers to opponents' hotel rooms and beating drug tests with his teammates' urine. But will we ever see an NFL-produced L.T. bio-pic, or are we destined to see one in which he's playing for a generic team called "New York" whose colors are slightly-off-enough-to-avoid-copyright-infringement?

I hope the NFL is in this to produce some real, substantial art and not just to add another branding opportunity to its media empire. Take this Lombardi picture: There is the real potential for greatness here, with the title role being one that ranges from intense determination to unintentional humor to heartache, as cancer conquered him. Get the right actor in there, and this thing is elevated into something that's worthy of attention during awards season.

And I have just the guy in mind.

Here's Vince:

And here's the guy who should play him:

Lombardi was born in Brooklyn; De Niro grew up in Little Italy. Lombardi started coaching at 26; De Niro's first role for director Brian De Palma hit screens when he was 26. Biographical coincidences aside, can anyone else gather the gravitas and meet the physical dimensions better than De Niro, who has proven he'll do anything to transform his body to fit a role?

I'm tellin' ya: Bobby D. for Vinny L. If nothing else, maybe it'll delay the inevitable next installment of the "Focker" films; a.k.a. cinematic evidence of the law of diminishing returns.

Just make sure the quality of the material meets the quality of the actor. Or else you might as well cast Triple H as Lombardi.

He can just tuck that hair under the hat, right?

Published on the web and www.SportsFanMagazine.com since 1997, "The Jester's Quart" is a weekly satirical look at sports, pop culture and why NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman is a jackass. Columnist Greg Wyshynski is the Senior Editor for SportsFan Magazine in Washington DC, and the Senior Sports Editor for The Connection Newspapers of Northern Virginia. His book "Glow Pucks and 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History" can be ordered now. Email Wyshynski at jestersquart@hotmail.com.

``xEElyFklFVlhaaCnlFP``x1186335558``xfootball_news``x``x

COOPERSTOWN, NY – The hot sun shining over the record crowd was a welcome relief for the Hall of Fame, which worried about heavy rains that hit south.

But it was only one of many things that went right in front of 75,000 as the 2007 class was inducted without a hitch.

“It was a beautiful day,” Tony Gwynn said afterwards, as he was asked about Barry Bonds record. “75,000 people; couldn’t have been a better day for baseball.”

As the sea of fans went all the way back to the trees at the Clark Sports Center, no steroids controversies, no tainted records, and no dark clouds hovered over the field. The Hall, though, did switch up the ceremony to let Gwynn and Cal Ripken go first before Kansas City Royals’ announcer Denny Matthews and St. Louis Post-Dispatch reporter Rick Hummel, in case the storm happened to hit the hamlet.

Gwynn, maybe baseball’s most prolific hitter since Ted Williams, spoke first. In a speech lasting almost a half hour, he reminisced about his life in baseball and spoke about a life changing event in 1992, when he met the “Splendid Splinter.”

“I'll always remember meeting Ted Williams at the 1992 All-Star Game,” Gwynn thought. “He was my idol and I'd read his book 'The Art of Hitting' as a kid. I had a bat in my hand and he took it from me and started to pick his teeth with it! He made me think about the art of hitting.”

The .338 lifetime batter’s speech mimicked his career, smooth and made you smile. He also thanked everyone from his life from his wife Alicia to former San Diego Padres manager Jack McKeon.

Then came Ripken, the person most of the crowd wanted to see. With the close proximity to Baltimore, many Oriole backers arrived to cheer baseball’s Ironman as he took the stage.

“I know some fans have looked at ‘The Streak’ as a special accomplishment, and while I appreciate that, I always looked at it as just showing up for work every day,” said Ripken, who broke Lou Gehrig’s consecutive game streak in 1995. “As I look out on this audience, I see thousands of people who do the same: Teachers, police officers, mothers, fathers, business people and many others. You all may not receive the accolades that I have throughout my career, so I’d like to take the time out to salute all of you for showing up, working hard and making the world a better place.”

Humble and poignant, Ripken spoke for 16 minutes and offered his wife Kelly a rose, which he put in his jacket pocket, only to have his son Ryan take out another one, from his blazer, to give to his mother.

“I wish I thought of that,” joked Gwynn afterwards.

Their speeches echoed their careers - great, but with the everyman point of view. In fact, Ripen led off with a little parable that proved it.

“Recently I was teaching hitting to a 10-year old boy," one of the few men to have over 3000 hits and over 400 home runs said, "and after the boy started having some success, he said to me: 'So did you play baseball?' I told him I did and he asked: 'What team?' I said the Orioles and he asked: 'What position?' I said shortstop with a little third base at the end and he asked: 'So should I know you?' That put it all in perspective."

On the day storms hit south of Cooperstown and an attempt at one of baseball’s great records was being controversially taken in San Francisco, there was nothing tainted about this glorious baseball afternoon.

``xEElVlkukZFhTcNDVoS``x1185831473``xbaseball_news``x``x

COOPERSTOWN, NY – Today, the capital of baseball has become Cooperstown, NY.

But in all actuality, it has become the capital of the state of Maryland as well.

Tens of thousands of Baltimore Oriole fans crowded the upstate New York hamlet in anticipation of favorite son Cal Ripken, Jr's induction into the Hall of Fame.

“I think the best way to count is to see how many people are left in Baltimore and subtract,” quipped Mets great Tom Seaver.

But what is expected to be a record crowd for the induction tomorrow is well deserved. Ripken, baseball's ironman, who played in 2,632 consecutive games, will be entering the Hall of Fame along with National League batting champion Tony Gwynn, who has less fans in attendance from far away San Diego, but is just as beloved. The two players were overwhelming inductees, getting over 98% of the votes from the BBWAA.

Ripken, who had over 3000 hits and 400 home runs, only generated eight ballots without his name.

“People respected him for not how he did it but who he is,” said Carlton Fisk who played against Ripken as a member of the Red Sox and White Sox. “Playing that many games in a row, you have to be on the list as one of the wonders of the world. I don't know if any of you guys have gone to work 2000 days in a row, it's not easy.”

Added Dave Winfield: “I played against him for many years. Not only was baseball in his blood, he respected the game. He and Eddie Murray, back to back, you couldn't get rid of those guys. Good defensive player. He was clutch. The thing I use with Cal, he made so many adjustments, he played at a high level year after year.

“He was a big old shortstop that redefined the position.”

Just as impressive is Gwynn's resume. Ranking 17^th on the all-time hit list, the former San Diego Padre led the National League in batting eight times and finished with a career .338 batting average.

“He was the National League counterpart of what I did in the American League,” said five-time AL batting champ Wade Boggs. “He revolutionized the game and that was our game. Getting on base. Hitting .365 or .370. That was the part of our game that made us successful. We were able to set the table for the big guys.”

After playing golf this morning, both inductees held a press conference in the afternoon, and then sat for an exclusive dinner reserved for just other Hall of Famers. Afterward, it's on to tomorrow where they will be at the Induction Ceremony in the afternoon. It's expected that more than 50,000 people will cram the lawn at the Clark Sports Center on the outskirts of the town.

“The response has been overwhelming and I don't know if we can figure out the reason why, but I am thankful that it's happening,” Ripken said. “This is a wonderful celebration of baseball and it's not about us...I love the fact baseball is celebrated.”

And tomorrow afternoon, both Ripken and Gwynn will feel the passion of the fans as well.

``xEElVZkuFpVODPMidIn``x1185731505``xbaseball_news``x``x

COOPERSTOWN, NY – Today, the capital of baseball has become Cooperstown, NY. But in all actuality, it has become the capital of the state of Maryland as well. Tens of thousands of Baltimore Oriole fans crowded the upstate New York hamlet in anticipation of favorite son Cal Ripken, Jr's induction into the Hall of Fame. “I think the best way to count is to see how many people are left in Baltimore and subtract,” quipped Mets great Tom Seaver.

``x The Jester's Quart: NBA Refs Crooked? You Bet!``xjester``x

Tim Donaghy has made many an enemy over the last several days. I imagine two of them are named Justin Wolfers and Joseph Price.

Those names may not jog any memories, but their work will: They are the authors of a study, from a sample of NBA box scores taken between 1991 and 2004, which claimed white referees called fouls against black players more than they did against white players.

Fire up the paper-shredder, because that debate is over: NBA referees aren't racist...they're just point-shaving crooks.

Donaghy resigned after 13 years as an NBA official after being targeted by the FBI for allegedly betting on games; both ones he officiated and ones in which he did not work. It's the nightmare scenario for any professional sports organization: That moment in which the ticket-buying public realizes there is a very good chance that the outcomes of the games they are attending have been predetermined.

As soon as I heard about the Donaghy scandal, my first reaction turned out to be exactly what the NBA decided to plead: "Isolated case." (You can take the boy out of PR, but you can't take the PR out of the boy I suppose.) David Stern referred to his former employee as a "rogue, isolated criminal," which made me wonder if he (or his speechwriter) has been watching too many episodes of "24" on DVD lately.

I watched half of Stern's press conference, and listened to the rest on the radio. The entire time I felt like I was watching my high-school principal - those authoritative models of morality - talking to TV reporters about the kid who got picked up by the cops for bringing a gun to class. There was this weary, "how the **** did I get here?" quality to his performance that spoke volumes about the damage Donaghy has done to the NBA and to the commissioner personally.

Aside from what this all means for Stern's legacy, the most prominent question being asked at this point is what the Donaghy deception means for fans. Can we still trust the officials? Can we still trust the league?

You mean we were supposed to trust them in the first place?

Isn't it assumed, at least by cynical bastards like me, that the refs are biased, the players are competing for their own motivations and that the games are made-for-TV infomercials for sneakers and mesh shorts?

I have to laugh when I hear pundits openly wonder about the fate of the Association if more than just one referee was shaving points, adding points, called phantom fouls or other chicanery; as if the notion of a referee calling his own game is somehow a deal-breaker between the league and the paying public.

Seriously, take gambling out of the equation with Donaghy, and what are you left with? A referee calling the game based on what he wants to see happen.

STOP THE PRESSES!

You mean there are officials in the NBA that will call a foul because he felt he missed one before? There are referees that might try and lend a helping hand to a team on the ropes with a friendly call? There are guardians of the rule of law that maybe - just maybe - would call a personal or technical foul on a player just because they don't like the guy?

I'm not trying to make light of the blatant criminality of Donaghy's transgressions, or their injurious affect on the league. But stripped of their scandalous distinctiveness, this is a referee doing what most fans believe officials in their respective sports do anyway: following their own internal script for what should happen. Donaghy's script allegedly called for two teams to combine for a certain number of points or for one team to win by a certain margin. Another official's script might call for two hated rivals to go to overtime in a tight game, or for a superstar to play on despite earning his fifth foul at the end of the third quarter. Different motivations, same result: The natural progression of the game is derailed by subjective human emotion or illogic.

If David Stern and the NBA learn anything from this, it's that the media and fans really do enjoy the notion that every call from every ref is available for review by the league. And that we won't be heartbroken if the NBA comes out and claims some of its most stalwart employees are actually quite biased when it comes to patterns of officiating - especially if that means some of them receive their walking papers. It doesn't mean they're on the take or they have money on the game; it simply means they aren't rising to the level of impartiality and consistency their job, and the NBA's paying customers, demand. It starts with basketball -- hockey, football and baseball fans could only be so lucky to see it continue in their respective leagues.

After reading the racial bias study for NBA referees, Mark Cuban told the NY Times, "We're all human. We all have our own prejudice."

Tim Donaghy might be an "isolated criminal," but his desire to call the game according to how he'd like to see it play out is far from an isolated behavior in the NBA or any other professional league.

Published on the web and www.SportsFanMagazine.com since 1997, "The Jester's Quart" is a weekly satirical look at sports, pop culture and why NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman is a jackass. Columnist Greg Wyshynski is the Senior Editor for SportsFan Magazine in Washington DC, and the Senior Sports Editor for The Connection Newspapers of Northern Virginia. His book "Glow Pucks and 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History" can be ordered now. Email Wyshynski at jestersquart@hotmail.com.

``xEElVypEEVpwOYONHCs``x1185608350``xbasketball_news``x``x

You may read the headline on this column and then double-check what site you're reading it on. At first, it may seem hypocritical to torch the media for covering a pro wrestling tragedy on its sports pages, and then write about that issue in my own sports column. But it's not the first time professional wrestling has graced this space, and it's not the last time either.

I'm a casual fan who has written about "sports entertainment" dozens of times in the 10 years of this column, and not just if the feces hits the oscillator. When Chris Benoit goes nutso and kills himself and his family, I'm not a Johnny-come-lately sportswriter jumping on top of the pile.

Bu haven't there been a few of those in the past week, since this horrific story broke? Every major sports news outlet has assigned a columnist to opine about Benoit, the murders, the steroids and, of course, the long sad history of tragedy in professional wrestling. It's like everyone who ever aspired to grow up to be Frank Deford decided to become Phil Mushnick for a day.

In an ever-tightening world of journalism, where newsworthy events like the NHL Draft are ignored out of cost or a perceived issue with relevance, why is Chris Benoit a sports story? Do we hear "steroid testing" and immediately file the story next to Jason Giambi's? If so, would a similar story about overly-muscled extras from the movie "300" fit in the same space? Because, you know, just like wrestling, it's scripted fiction.

Is it because wrestling takes place in a boxing ring, inside sports arenas? Is it because the word "wrestling" indicates some similarity to a sport, despite the fact that neither the Greeks nor the Romans probably ever envisioned anything like Doink the Clown and The Honky Tonk Man?

Is it because the WWE uses the term "sports entertainment"; if so, did I miss the sports coverage of the "Major League" and "Mighty Ducks" films?

Is it because children watch wrestling, which means each and every one of our impressionable young boys and girls will now want to get drugged up and kill their families; because, you know, they saw it on "Law and Order" the other night?

To quote Bill Maher, "new rule": If a columnist wants to write about professional wrestling in the same space he or she uses to bash the NFL pension plan or Kobe Bryant's attitude, they must write at least one column a year that covers its soap opera storylines. That means when Jemele Hill of ESPN.com decides from her throne that a scripted television program shouldn't kill off a character because there is already an "appalling number of real wrestling deaths," she'll quickly understand the subtle differences between fiction and reality - because she'll have previously written about Papa Shango making the Ultimate Warrior sweat green goo with a voodoo curse.

You know, because that happens in every other "sport"...

The screed above comes from a place of utter frustration with the sports media echo chamber and the things it loathes. Wrestling deaths equals hockey violence equals no scoring in soccer equals women can't play basketball. It's the same damn tunes sung by the same damn people whenever there's something to sing about. They have no fresh take on the matter, and they sure as hell don't dare take their valuable time away from the Tank Johnson affair to gain some context by exploring the subject.

To read someone like Hill - whose writing usually comes from an informed, off-the-radar place that I appreciate - suggest that Congress grill the WWE for steroids like it has Major League Baseball is laughable. Comparing a professional sports organization whose buildings are constructed with public money and which has a government anti-trust exemption to what amounts to a traveling circus? Please.

Should we get Cirque du Soleil in front of the House and Senate for a stricter policy on mixing amphetamines and light fabrics next? (Not that they're using amphetamines...but are they even testing for them? What about the kids!)

Do wrestlers take steroids? Of course. Does the WWE test for them? Yes, but so does Major League Baseball and...well, we can still both do the math on that.

The most important question: Why do so many wrestlers die tragically? I think it's because there are two types of people attracted to the profession of sports entertainment: physical freaks and off-kilter, mentally unstable stunt men who are willing to pay an amazing physical price for fame.

Sometimes the physical freaks die young: Andre the Giant and Big John Studd went at 46, Bam Bam Bigelow at 45, Earthquake at 42 and Yokozuna at 34; none were models of health, and all of them lived the grueling life on the circuit for years.

But so many other deaths fall into that latter category. Brian Pillman died at 35 because he was addicted to prescription drugs for years before a heart condition claimed his life. "Crash Holly" OD'd on painkillers at 32. Eddie Guerrero died at 38 due to past excesses of drugs and alcohol. For every Davey Boy Smith - the British Bulldog whose death was linked to steroid abuse - there are a dozen other wrestlers whose lives ended the same way so many young actors' or musicians' lives ended: having lived a reckless life of excess.

The horrible, criminal end of Chris Benoit's life has been used by many writers as just another piece of evidence in the case against professional wrestling and, more to the point, Vince McMahon. The problem, as usual, being that they have no use for context. I'm sorry to continue picking on Hill, because she's not the only one to use this analogy, but can there be any link established at all between a deranged Chris Benoit snuffing out his family and Owen Hart's harness malfunctioning in the rafters of the Kemper Arena in 1999, sending him to his death 78 feet below in the ring? Besides the company they both from which they both collected a check?

What are sportswriters trying to say about professional wrestling when the murder-suicides are lumped in with the drug abusers, the cognitive heart failures, the car accidents and the fat guys who died because they were fat? That wrestling's full of tragic ends? Gee, when's the column about the "Poltergeist" trilogy?

Perhaps these columnists should just stick to sports, and leave the scripted television to the entertainment writers.

Published on the web and www.SportsFanMagazine.com since 1997, "The Jester's Quart" is a weekly satirical look at sports, pop culture and why NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman is a jackass. Columnist Greg Wyshynski is the Senior Editor for SportsFan Magazine in Washington DC, and the Senior Sports Editor for The Connection Newspapers of Northern Virginia. His book "Glow Pucks and 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History" can be ordered now. Email Wyshynski at jestersquart@hotmail.com.

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For all the various verbiage that's spewed forth by a sportswriter, there are two genres of articles that are, by far, the most insipid and lazy.

The first is the "crystal ball" satire, in which the author will predict the next season or year for a particular sport or franchise; the insights are shallow, the jokes either forced, repetitious or omitted. You could fill the same space with WNBA preseason box scores and it would be a better use of real estate.

The second is the "mock draft," especially ones that exhibit an elementary level of reporting that trades accuracy for piss-poor prognostication. Mel Kiper gets to have a mock draft because he spends every waking moment studying everyone from the top pick to Mr. Irrelevant. The beat writer for the local football team shouldn't write a mock draft because he hasn't.

At least those publications that traffic in amateur prospects have some base knowledge and context when they unleash a mock draft. Take the "Red Line Report" in hockey, billed as a scouting newsletter. Its 2007 NHL Entry Draft predictions were published recently on USAToday.com, and offered a glimpse at this weekend's two-day affair in Columbus. (An event that I will be attending on behalf of The Fourth Period Radio Show and NHL FanHouse on AOL Sports.) It's solid, save for two pet peeves; the most prominent being that the author predicted a draft-day trade involving the No. 1 pick. That's like calling the winner of the Super Bowl based on whether or not you think it might rain.

The other pet peeve is found within the summary of the No. 2 pick:

2. Philadelphia Flyers - James vanRiemsdyk. Makes perfect sense from a marketing standpoint as he's from just up the road in New Jersey. Plus he fits what the Flyers are looking for better than anyone as a big, rugged power forward.

First of all, do the Flyers really need a local hook to generate interest in the team? Last season Philadelphia was - as the kids say - "teh suck," yet they drew to a 98.9% capacity. The Flyers could send out alumni from the 1985 Philadelphia 76ers on skates and would still draw over 19,000 a game.

Beyond that: Does this guy own an atlas? VanRiemsdyk is from Middletown, NJ - a.k.a. two towns over from where I grew up. It's roughly 25 minutes away from the Outerbridge Crossing into New York...and about two hours away from Philly. Saying vanRiemsdyk would have an impact as a "local boy makes good" is like saying the Dallas Stars would get a boost at the gate from someone born in Tulsa.

Forgetting about this geographic blunder, let's focus on the real question here: Can a locally-born athlete really make an impact on a team's popularity?

No, sir, I don't believe he can.

How many tickets did Jim Dowd sell as the first New Jersey-born member of the Devils? How many tickets did Jeff Halpern sell for the Washington Capitals because he was from suburban Potomac, Maryland? To be honest, in the conversations I've had with Caps fans, he might have sold more because he was Jewish.

How many people come to Shea because Damion Easley of the Mets was born in New York City? How many new fans came to the Dodgers because Mike Lieberthal is from Glendale? I know a lot was made about Stephon Marbury becoming a New York Knick because he was born in Brooklyn; besides his immediate family and homeboys, did MSG pack a single extra fan in the joint because of that fact?

Or did they come because he was Stephon Marbury? The "local hero" angle is more important for someone like Marbury than it is for the Knicks. He grew up cheering for the team, and I imagine it's a thrill for him to wear the uniform and play in the Garden.

The only place where the "local hero" thing is a factor is in a city like Montreal. Every season, there's a rumor about Vinny Lecavalier of the Tampa Bay Lightning "going home" and playing for the Canadiens one day, and it would be a big deal for Habs fans - not only because he's an all-star, but because of his heritage. Please recall the riotous outrage when the Habs selected Doug Wickenheiser instead of Denis Savard in the 1980 NHL Draft...

I don't think, in professional sports, where an athlete was born matters all that much. If there's a palpable impact from anything in a player's background, it's where he played his college ball. The Detroit Lions drafting a University of Michigan player is a big deal. The Charlotte Bobcats grabbing a Tar Heel could help at the gate. Down here in D.C., several University of Maryland players have eventually hooked up with the Washington Wizards, and each time it seemed like the acquisition was based more on marketing than on the player's impact on the court. It could happen again with D.J. Strawberry this year.

Collegiate allegiance can make a difference at the gate. The impact of "local heroes," however, is limited to an occasional piece of trivia traded between fans, an annual feature story in the community weekly or a reason why he gives the home team a discount when he becomes a free agent.

Any perceived significance beyond that is, for the most part, mythology.

In the case of James vanRiemsdyk, it shouldn't mean anything to the Flyers that he's from Central New Jersey, just like it shouldn't mean anything to James vanRiemsdyk if he becomes a Flyer...

...after all, he grew up rooting for the Rangers.

Published on the web and www.SportsFanMagazine.com since 1997, "The Jester's Quart" is a weekly satirical look at sports, pop culture and why NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman is a jackass. Columnist Greg Wyshynski is the Senior Editor for SportsFan Magazine in Washington DC, and the Senior Sports Editor for The Connection Newspapers of Northern Virginia. His book "Glow Pucks and 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History" can be ordered now. Email Wyshynski at jestersquart@hotmail.com.
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Calling me a NASCAR fan would be an insult to anyone that's ever hauled his camper to the parking lot of a speedway and chugged a 30 pack of Bud while waiting for the gentlemen to start their engines.

At best, I'm a racing detester that's come around to begrudging admiration; a blue-state heathen who needed some contemplation before taking NASCAR off of his "not a sport" list, leaving golf all by its lonesome.

I dig the competition, especially the way it's presented on television. As a hockey fan, I'm insanely jealous of the ways in which televised racing conveys the sport's velocity and danger, while at the same time providing detailed information - concise and understandable, even for the newbies - about every facet of the event. No other sport has utilized digital technology better than NASCAR, from the graphics that identify drivers around the track to the dozen audio feeds that enable fans to witness conversations between the cars and their crews. It's extraordinary stuff, to the point where a guy who hears "lap 100" and thinks "c'mon, already" actually is drawn into the action.

Here's what I don't dig about NASCAR: nearly everything that doesn't happen on the track.

I was reminded of that during this Dale Earnhardt, Jr. soap opera that has infiltrated the mainstream sports media over the last two weeks. Evidently, racing is a team sport and Dale Jr. was the biggest "free agent" in the history of NASCAR. I'm sure someone a bit more schooled in the ways of auto racing can name 10,000 reasons why his joining Hendrick Motorsports is important for his career from a competitive aspect. I've no doubt this move means a different caliber of car or crew or spark plugs.

Yet most of the attention surrounding this titanic shift of power within the racing community has been placed on the ancillary melodrama. At first, I was interested in the Freudian tension when Dale Jr. left Dale Earnhardt Inc. and his own stepmother in his rearview mirror; but that storyline has degenerated into endless speculation about the most mundane of racing topics: colors, sponsors and numbers.

Will Dale be able to buy back his No. 8? Will Dale still have a relationship with the King of Beers? God, who cares? OK, millions of NASCAR fans do. But an extraordinarily casual fan like myself is just repulsed by it.

Can you imagine if the headlines about every free agent signing in the NBA centered around what it meant for NIKE or Adidas? Or if every big-time trade in the NFL was eclipsed by endless speculation on whether a stud running back would stay with Gatorade or move over to Powerade? When a superstar player in baseball comes to a new city, the drama over his uniform number lasts about two sentences in a spring training notebook; entire articles have been dedicated to Dale Jr.'s numerical dilemma.

It gets worse: What about these stories that predict whether or not Dale Jr.'s "rebel attitude" will blend with the clean-cut Hendrick image? Ooooh, he drinks Budweiser, sleeps late, wears T-shirts, doesn't shave and curses in public...but Hendrick likes dress slacks! How ever will they cope?

What manufactured nonsense. Suddenly, Shaq v. Kobe looks like a mature debate about the Palestinian conflict by comparison.

Not to pigeonhole a fan base here, but all of this off-the-track stuff fits right into both the country music and pro wrestling aesthetic. Dale Jr.'s about as rebellious as Big and Rich -- only he doesn't have a black cowboy rapping in the passenger's seat -- and knows how to use that image to his advantage. This "can the All-American champion co-exist with the villainous superstar?" routine was played out after Hogan and Macho Man pulled it off in 1987. (Memo to Jeff Gordon: Please don't make it seem like you're interested in Miss Elizabeth, or Dale will drop a top-rope elbow on your ass.)

I know these alleged personality conflicts, sponsorship quandaries and fashion follies are as much a part of NASCAR as spectacular crashes and awful-looking hats. I know they're the reason why car flags and those stickers with the little boy taking a piss on a Chevy logo exist. I know they're the fuel that drives sales of merchandise with specific colors, numbers and logos associated with a certain movement, as millions of fans strut around like redneck Crips. Playing up these rivalries and indulging in the melodramas of the racing is good and vital for business.

But speaking as an ultra-casual, still-being-wooed fan - so casual that I have trouble changing my own flat tire, let alone understanding the intricacies of the pit - it's a part of the sport that does nothing for me. The attention it receives makes me wonder whether the races themselves have been eclipsed by the drivers competing in them.

Ask an NBA fan whether that's a good thing or not...

Published on the web and www.SportsFanMagazine.com since 1997, "The Jester's Quart" is a weekly satirical look at sports, pop culture and why NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman is a jackass. Columnist Greg Wyshynski is the Senior Editor for SportsFan Magazine in Washington DC, and the Senior Sports Editor for The Connection Newspapers of Northern Virginia. His book "Glow Pucks and 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History" can be ordered now. Email Wyshynski at jestersquart@hotmail.com.

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Remember when McDonald's came out with a "big kids" meal? It was a combo deal that was marketed to those young (and likely obese) customers who felt they had grown out of the Happy Meal phase of their lives; which pretty much meant they were ready for double cheeseburgers and toys that could potentially be swallowed by toddlers.

Growing up, I always felt Saturday morning television had this same progression of maturation. You started with the cartoons with the cutesy characters and the bright colors and the underlying commercialization: The Smurfs, the Snorks, anything from Disney. But as you got older, you began to sleep later, snoozing past those programs in favor of some "big kids" television that came on later that morning. Back when I was a kid that meant an array of live-action "sports" on several different syndicated stations.

There was "WWF Superstars," a wrestling show that featured big-name wrestlers beating the living hell out of some no-names with love handles - wrestlers commonly referred to as "Jobbers to the Stars." There was "Roller Games," a roller derby reboot that incorporated a few Vince McMahonian storylines into actual competition. I seem to remember there being a crocodile somewhere inside the track; maybe I was just on a morning cereal sugar high. There was also "G.L.O.W.," as in "the gorgeous ladies of wrestling," but at that point in my life I was pretty sure that all girls had cooties, so I wasn't going to waste my time with that (especially without the protection of a circle-circle-dot-dot "cootie shot").

But the greatest piece of Saturday morning "big kids" entertainment was without question "American Gladiators." A weekly battle of wills and wits, strength and stamina. A chance for someone who looks like your next door neighbor - if your next door neighbor used to start on his college football team or is a personal trainer at her gym - battling what seemed to be athletic gods and goddesses that were dressed like they just came from a Fourth of July parade in Provincetown.

"American Gladiators" came on the air in 1989 and survived various revamps of cast and format until it ended production in 1996. It's been resurrected by that wonderful time capsule ESPN Classic, which has been playing episodes daily and, naturally, on weekend mornings.

Looking back at this show, it's easy to see how I was hooked as a kid. You had these outlandish personalities with freaky bodies and goofy names, just like professional wrestling. Zap! Nitro! Gemini! Laser! Of course, as the show progressed, the names started to get a little lazy: Dallas, Rebel, Jazz. I'm happy it got cancelled before we were reduced to having Gladiators named Bruce and Jennifer.

You had an awesome Bill "Rocky" Conti theme song. You had elements from other sports - football, most prominently - that added an athletic familiarity. And every single week you had what is the most important factor in a compelling sports competition: an underdog, in the form of that week's victim...ahem, "contestant."

But in the end, "American Gladiators" worked because of its wide-ranging collection of athletic competitions. It was like watching "The Price is Right": You'd stay tuned just to see if your favorite game was going to be featured that week. And just like I'd sit through that boring pricing game with the yodeling mountain climber to see if Bob Barker would announce that Plinko was next, I would sit through several pedestrian "Gladiator" events just to see a guy shooting Nerf missiles at a giant target while cannon-fired tennis balls are flying at his face.

With that in mind, here are the three greatest and the single worst "American Gladiator" competitions, starting with the best:

3. JOUST: Otherwise known as "adults hitting each other with giant Q-Tips." This was the game where the Gladiator and the challenger would stand on two shaky pedestals and whack each other with padded sticks. Wouldn't most political shows on MSNBC benefit from this format?

2. ATLASPHERE: I'd love to know what chemical enhancement the creator of this challenge was partaking in. The contestants and a few Gladiators are placed inside these giant metal spheres, and they run inside of them like hamsters. The challengers try to roll them onto these "scoring pods," pushing down a button and activating this special effect smoke machine to signify a score. The Gladiators, meanwhile, and going all demolition derby out there, trying to prevent the contestants from scoring. It was the kind of awesomeness you might expect to have seen in "The Running Man," only without the live chainsaws or Richard Dawson

1. ASSAULT: Simply the greatest and yet the most frustrating game on the show. Contestants had 60 seconds to fire several weapons fitted with Nerf-like projectiles - a crossbow, a rocket launcher, a cannon, a pistol and several "grenades" - at a target above the Gladiator, who is launching tennis balls from an air cannon at them. Simply the most exciting thing on the show, with one qualification: The Gladiators had this giant Plexiglass shield in front of them. To protect them from Nerf rockets. While they're shooting tennis balls from an air cannon. Wussies...

As for the worst event in "American Gladiators" history?

HUMAN CANNONBALL: God, what a stupid competition. The Gladiator is on a pedestal. The contender jumps off of a platform on a rope and swings into the Gladiator. Rinse and repeat. Back in the early days of the show, contenders could do anything to knock down the Gladiator; later, they had to remain in a tucked "cannonball" position, eliminating nearly any spontaneity from the event. It would have been more exciting to watch the contestants read and sign their injury waivers before the taping.

Thus ends our look back at "American Gladiators." I'll leave you with this bit of trivia: Deron McBee, who was the Gladiator "Malibu" in the first season of the show, went on to portray the wrestler "Thor" in a memorable episode of HBO's "Curb Your Enthusiasm."

Just keep that in mind if you ever have to establish a link between Larry David and either Zap or Nitro in the Kevin Bacon Game...

ONE FINAL NOTE FOR THE PUCKHEADS

For the few, the proud, the hockey freaks reading this column, please note that I've been hired on as a blogger for NHL FanHouse on AOL Sports. Seriously, it's a must-read for puckheads; the talent writing on that site makes me honored to be a part of it. And remember to check out my columns on the ever-awesome The Fourth Period, which is in full hot-stove league mode as far as the rumors go right now.

Oh, and in case you were wondering: Ducks in 7.

I think Washington Nationals President Stan Kasten hates his fans.

He's one of the suits who's turned Major League Baseball's gift to the Nation's Capital into a pathetic place-holder of a franchise: A bottom-feeder that will twist in the wind until it's time to move into a pretty new waterfront stadium.

Yet as Kasten and the Nationals' management pinch their pennies while a cheap knock-off of a professional baseball team is eliminated from the pennant race by the end of May, have those season-ticket prices dropped as dramatically as the Nationals have in the standings? Of course not. Washington's baseball fans are paying big-league prices to watch expansion-level pitching.

Like I said, I think Kasten hates his fans; but I didn't think he'd be apathetic as to whether they live or die.

How else can one rationalize the hypocrisy of the Nationals banning alcoholic beverages from their RFK Stadium clubhouses, yet selling them to fans every few feet on every level of the stadium?

Washington banned the booze on Tuesday as an (over)reaction to the drinking-and-driving death of St. Louis Cardinals pitcher Josh Hancock last month. Said Kasten to The Washington Post, "I don't think it's a good place for us to be providing alcohol to people right before they get into cars and drive away."

What a double-standard. I mean, this is a franchise that offers something called "The Miller Lite Beer Pen" for fans to rent for parties. If this decision was truly born out of concern for drinking and driving after the ballgame, then just ban it all, from the clubhouse to the upper deck.

Booze is everywhere in these stadiums, from the readily available hooch around the ballpark to the alcoholic advertisements found around the stadium. The difference, of course, is that sales to fans and ads in the stadium generate more money than a shortstop taking a longneck out of a fridge. Perhaps if the players were paying for their own beverages at stadium-level prices, the financial hit would have been too great for this decision to be made.

It's true that the Nationals and other MLB teams have restrictions on fans purchasing alcohol at the game. Like, for example, the two-at-a-time rule for beer purchases, or the limits placed on how many beverages can be purchased throughout the game by the same fan - as if Aramark employees have some kind of face recognition capability, like a Terminator robot.

There are also restrictions on how late into the game alcoholic beverages can be sold. But if the concern is that people will drink "right before they get into cars," it doesn't matter if you stop selling beer after the seventh inning; if your team stinks as badly as the Nats do, chances are fans are leaving before the cut-off anyway.

Then there are those arenas and stadiums that offer their high-rollers with the chance to purchase top-shelf liquor in special "Winner's Clubs" or "Champion's Lounges" after the game. I guess the assumption is that if you own season tickets to a professional sport and have access to these clubs, you must also employ your own designated driver.

Look, I'm no teetotaler; in fact, I'm a booze-hound, attempting to hold up the great traditions of sportswriters through the ages. I wrote "Glow Pucks & 10-Cent Beer" with years of research, a rapier wit and about two dozen bottles of Irish whiskey. I believe fans should have as much a right to have a beer at the game as a professional athlete has to drink one after the game. In both cases, any prohibition of these libations is just going to force us to the nearest local watering hole, where we will drink and be merry "right before we get into cars."

That is, according to Nationals reliever Ray King in The Washington Post, what happened to Hancock: He left the clubhouse, went to a bar and then tragically died on the road.

For every fan or player that can drink responsibly, there is going to be one that can't. Accidents will happen. People will die.

I respect the right of Kasten or any MLB official to not want blood on their hands; as the Nationals president told the Post, "We haven't had any incidents, and we think everyone will continue to act responsibly. Nevertheless, I didn't feel comfortable being the one providing the alcohol in those situations."

But it's a slippery slope, Stan. You're not the one providing alcohol to players anymore. But who's providing it to the thousands of fans paying to see them? The concessionaires? Their employees? How does one reconcile such politically correct concern for his players while allowing and encouraging that same behavior amongst the paying customers?

I think Major League Baseball has just opened Pandora's Cooler.

-SFM-

Published on the web and www.SportsFanMagazine.com since 1997, "The Jester's Quart" is a weekly satirical look at sports, pop culture and why NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman is a jackass. Columnist Greg Wyshynski is the Senior Editor for SportsFan Magazine in Washington DC, and the Senior Sports Editor for The Connection Newspapers of Northern Virginia. His book "Glow Pucks and 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History" can be ordered now. Email Wyshynski at jestersquart@hotmail.com.

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EAST RUTHERFORD, NJ - What seemed like a series slipping away is now firmly in the Devils grasp.

Martin Brodeur notched his 22nd career playoff shutout, stopping 31 Lightning shots as the Devils took a 3-2 series lead defeating the Tampa Bay Lightning, 3-0, in front of 18,096 fans at the Continental Airlines Arena.

"Brodeur is the great goaltender he is because of games like this," said Devils coach Lou Lamoriello. "He finds a way to riase himself to a level that is needed to win. This was the best game that he was called upon to win."

Brodeur has faced some criticsm for not playing his best hockey as of late, giving up three goals in the first four games of the series. "I know that I feel what is coming to me every day, the success and non-success," said Brodeur. "I know I'm going to hear it one way or the other. It's a great position for me to be in because I know you're always watching and I want to do well."

"Some nights it's not going to happen though so I can't get down because I got some people that are going to talk about the way I play. It's a big team effort though and today there's no better example. Guys are blocking shots and doing everything in front of me to play the price and win the hockey game."

The game was a classic case of Devils hockey - once the Devs had the lead, Tampa Bay had major difficulty establishing many scoring chances. Devils defenseman Andy Greene agreed with the assessment, "Going into the third period with a lead is something you wanna keep throughout the game. We played pretty good defensive hockey and clogged up the middle."

Greene scored first for the Devils for his first career playoff goal in the first period. Greene one-timed a Michael Rupp pass from the blue-line and shot the puck through a maze of bodies past Tampa goaltender Johan Holmqvist.

Brian Gionta doubled the Devils lead halfway into the second period, continuing his strong play in the postseason for his third goal of the playoffs. Gionta scored on a two-on-one rush and let a wrist shot fly that found its way through Holmqvist's left arm, trickling across the goal line.

"I kinda missed it a little. I tried to get it under the bar, but it hit the bottom of his arm and trickled through," said Gionta on his goal. "I knew he didn't have it full though."

Scott Gomez added his third point of the night with an empty net goal with just under two minutes remaining in the third period.

Things got heated in the final minute of the game as Tampa coach John Tortorella sent out some of his tough guys in an attempt to make a statement heading into Game 6. It didn't seem to bother Devils captain Patrick Elias though, "It's playoffs. They're obviously down by a couple of goals and they tried to get something going. It's an emotional game."

Tampa's potent offensive duo of Vincent Lecavalier and Martin St. Louis were held scoreless for the first time this series and had their scoring chances limited, said Devils winger Jay Pandolfo, "Those two play so many minutes, they're going to spring free once in a while. It's just a matter of staying close to them and not letting them have too many quality chances."

The series heads back to Tampa as the Devils try to clinch the series and advance to the conference semi-finals on Sunday. Faceoff time at the St. Pete Times Forum is 1:00pm.

Notes: Three Stars of the Game: 1.) Martin Brodeur, NJD; 2. ) Andy Greene, NJD; 3.) Brian Gionta, NJD. Powerplay Opportunities: TB: 0-3 (6 shots); NJD: 0-5 (3 shots). Brodeur's shutout now puts him tied with Grant Fuhr and one behind Patrick Roy alltime. New Jersey's 14 shots on goal sets a franchise playoff record for fewest shots at home. The previous record was 17 shots (4/9/88 vs. Islanders, and 4/13/78 (Colorado Rockies) vs. Philadelphia).

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I realize this is a difficult thing to rationalize, considering the amount of blood spilled and dreams ended and lives forever altered this week.

But Virginia Tech should consider itself quite lucky.

Having lived in the D.C. area for well over a decade, there isn't a more vibrant, dedicated or prideful collegiate community than that of Virginia Tech University. They crowd Hokie-friendly bars on football Sundays, mingling with old friends as they watch their team battle geographic rivals. They have more bumper stickers in circulation than the Obama campaign. On more than one home here in Northern Virginia - roughly a four-hour drive to the Blacksburg campus - I've witnessed displays of flags and logos that go beyond admiration and into absolute devotion; hell, I've even seen an entire barn wall painted with the maroon-and-orange "VT" logo.

Virginia Tech is lucky to have this support system in place at its darkest hour. Had a massacre like this happened on the campus of my alma mater, the University of Maryland, that alumni community would have come together quickly in a show of Terrapin pride. But the Hokies didn't have to come together - they already had these bonds established.

Other schools have alumni; Va. Tech has, with no exaggeration, an extended family.

Leslie Sherman was a member of that family. Sherman was a sophomore at Virginia Tech who lost her life when Cho Seung-Hui turned his twisted attention to her classroom inside Norris Hall.

She had turned 20 this week, two years removed from the halls of West Springfield High School in Springfield, Va. Sherman ran cross-country at West Springfield when I was a sports reporter covering the high-school beat. I wish I could say I recalled watching her run or speaking to her after a race, but the focus was always on the more successful male Spartan runners. Having covered that track program, I know it shares many of the attributes of the Virginia Tech community - tight-knit, supportive and generational. That many of her teammates are now compassionately commenting on her tragic death is no surprise.

I also wouldn't be surprised to see coverage of Leslie Sherman's life in the pages of local sports sections, because that's how I would have handled it, too. Her life as an athlete is part of her life, which makes it a sports story.

I mention this example because, since Monday, I've been treated to yet another week of the sports media desperately trying to shoehorn coverage of a national tragedy into what amounts to entertainment news. It reminds me of the time when, in the hours after the attacks of 9/11, ESPN managed to get the manager of the Philadelphia Phillies on a cell phone and was able to confirm that, indeed, the Phillies were safe on their team bus while New York crumbled. Or like now, in the hours after the massacre at Virginia Tech (cue the slow piano music all those pathetic cable news networks pipe in when those words are mentioned), when a local sports anchor here in D.C. asked two Georgetown Hoya players that are headed to the NBA Draft what they thought of the tragedy. Why? Because they attend a city college that looks nothing like Virginia Tech? Because a friend-of-a-friend went there? Or because the sports media is so desperate to transcend its diversionary place in our culture that it will play any angle it can as it seeks validation from the other side of the newsroom?

There's a right way and a wrong way to bring sports into the conversation in the moments following a national tragedy. Both 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina had immediate and immense implications for its local sports franchises and for the national sports organizations of which they were members. There will always be human-interest angles to play, like remembering the fallen through discussions with old teammates and coaches. The Virginia Tech shooting has some immediate sports news (the cancellation of events) and long-range angles (how the tragedy could affect recruiting, how the Hokies sports community will undoubtedly contribute to the school's healing process). But some of the coverage rang artificial. Talking to Hokies football coach Frank Beamer about the safety of his athletes on Monday afternoon is one thing; talking to him as the de facto spokesman of the university hours after the killings was ill-conceived, considering the breaking nature of the story. ESPN did both on Monday.

Sometimes sports coverage of a tragedy can seem a little forced - you don't see the weatherman on the local news suddenly begin giving the dew point for wherever the latest catastrophe occurred - but it has its place, especially in the Virginia Tech tragedy. That Beamer is the public face for a university that has produced so much more than a few NFL-quality players troubles me, but the fact is that the Hokies faithful wouldn't have it any other way.

Their athletic programs don't define them, but they do bind them; in those bars filled with orange and maroon during fall weekends, in those bleachers filled with old friends at home games. The value of sports for this amazing community was never more evident than inside Cassell Coliseum on Tuesday afternoon, at the end of a heart-breaking yet inspiring campus convocation. Three words rang through the rafters, shouted by students and faculty and alumni and honored guests. Three words, used to inspire countless athletes in countless games, now chanted in order to encourage the most formidable rally in the school's history.

Three words: "Let's Go Hokies."

-SFM-

Published on the web and www.SportsFanMagazine.com since 1997, "The Jester's Quart" is a weekly satirical look at sports, pop culture and why NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman is a jackass. Columnist Greg Wyshynski is the Senior Editor for SportsFan Magazine in Washington DC, and the Senior Sports Editor for The Connection Newspapers of Northern Virginia. His book "Glow Pucks and 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History" can be ordered now. Email Wyshynski at jestersquart@hotmail.com.

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Devils fans can breathe a little bit.

Scott Gomez scored the game winning goal at 12:54 of overtime and Zach Parise added his fifth and sixth of the playoffs as the Devils retook home-ice advantage and evened the series at two games apiece in front of a sold out crowd at the St. Pete Times Forum in Tampa Bay.

'It's a big momentum shifter for us. You lose that, you're down 3-1. Now it's 2-2; it's a new ballgame,'' Devils goalie Martin Brodeur said to reporters in Tampa Bay. ''We've got home-ice advantage now, so we're definitely happy about the situation we're in.''

Gomez helped lead a 2-on-1 rush with Brian Gionta after blocking a Cory Sarich shot and fired a perfect top-corner wristshot over Tampa Bay goaltender Johan Holmqvist's right shoulder for the victory.

''That's playoff hockey. You've got to have luck. You've got to get a bounce go your way,'' Gomez told repoerters after the game. ''It just hit my foot in the right spot.

''If it goes by the boards, who knows what happens. We got lucky on it.''

Parise's first of the game came on a pretty tic-tac-toe sequence executed by Travis Zajac. Zajac fed Paul Martin on a 2-on-1 break, to which Martin quickly passed to Parise. Tampa Bay goaltender Johan Holmqvist had no chance of catching Parise's shot, which put the Devils up 2-1 late in the first period.

He then followed it up halfway through the second period, deflecting an Andy Greene slapshot for his sixth goal of the playoffs, doubling the Devils lead. Parise originally kept the play moving along by keeping the puck along the blueline after falling down on what looked like an apparent turnover.

The duo of Martin St. Louis and Vincent Lecavalier were at it again following Parise's second goal. St. Louis tipped a Filip Kuba point-shot just past Brodeur for his third goal and seventh point of the playoffs cutting the Devils lead in half.

St. Louis would add to his point total just four minutes later by out-hustling Devils defenseman Richard Matvichuk to nullify an icing call. St. Louis touch-passed it over to linemate Vaclav Prospal, who then fed Lecavalier a cross-ice pass that was one-timed past Brodeur to tie the game at three.

Gionta put the Devs on the scoreboard first with his second goal of the playoffs. The Devils capitalized on a Brad Richards turnover when Brian Rafalski kept a Richards clearing attempt in the zone. Rafalski fed the puck to Johnny Oduya who blasted a slapshot from the blueline. Holmqvist left a healthy rebound right onto the stick of Gionta who put it home for the 1-0 lead.

Tampa answered Gionta's goal just six minutes later when Eric Perrin scored an unassisted tally, floating a soft wrister past Brodeur. Perrin's first of the playoffs came about due to an aggressive Tampa Bay forecheck which forced the Devils off the puck.

The series will now head back to the Continental Airlines Arena for a pivotal Game 5 in New Jersey. Faceoff time is 7:00pm.

Notes: Three Stars of the Game: 1.) Scott Gomez, NJD; 2. ) Martin St. Louis, TB; 3.) Johan Holmqvist, TB. Powerplay Opportunities: NJD: 1-7; TB: 0-3. Zach Parise now leads the NHL in playoff goals with his sixth tally last night.

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Vincent Lecavalier and Martin St. Louis are going to give Martin Brodeur nightmares, if not already.

Lecavalier (goal, assist) or St. Louis (three assists) played a factor on all three Lightning goals last night as the Bolts defeated the Devils 3-2 in front of a sold out 20,219 fans at the St. Pete Times Forum in Tampa Bay. Tampa's dynamic duo have now taken part in eight out of the nine Tampa goals in he series so far.

Tampa Bay got on the scoreboard first on the powerplay thanks to the Rocket Richard Trophy winner, Lecavalier, for his fourth goal of the playoffs. Lecavalier's goal mirrored his linemate St. Louis's goal from the previous game as it came on a slapshot from the goalline to the left of Martin Brodeur and finding the smallest of holes between the Devils' netminder's pads.

But it was the duo's other linemate, Vaclav Propspal, that got the game-winner for the Bolts, coming on another fluky bounce past Brodeur. It all happened when St. Louis threw the puck towards the Devils net and Prospal, setting up shop in front of Brodeur, got his stick on the shot and slowed it down to the point where Brodeur couldn't react in time to stop it from entering the net.

"They threw pucks at the net, hoping something was going to happen," Brodeur told reporters in Tampa.

"The first one, he hits the side of the net and it hits me and goes in. Another fluke one, the last one, was almost a copy of (Lecavalier's winner in Game 2) the other night. The puck is not bouncing (our way), but our bounce is due."

Brad Richards filled out Tampa's scoring on another fluky play early in the third period. Martin St. Louis, as usual, was involved on the play and fed Richards a centering pass to which Richards one timed past Brodeur. The play may not seem fluky at first, but the fact that Richards flubbed the shot and floated the puck past an unsuspecting Brodeur made the Devils netminder even more nightmarish.

Tampa have been capitalizing on their chances, as Jamie Langenbrunner expressed after the game, "we had our opportunities," Langenbrunner told reporters in Tampa. "It seems like every time they get a break, they find the net. It's definitely disappointing, but it's a long ways from over."

The Devils got their share of fluky goals as well, and it came to their leading scorer, Zach Parise just 4:46 into the third. Parise got his fourth goal of the playoffs when he was trying to pass the puck over to Langenbrunner on a two-on-one rush. Parise's pass deflected off of Lightning defenseman Dan Boyle and somehow found itself in the back of the net as Tampa goaltender Johan Holmqvist was left helpless to watch the redirected shot.

John Madden contributed the other Devils goal of the night for his first of the playoffs at the 17:27 mark of the second period. Madden threw what seemed like a harmless backhand shot to the net that floated its way over Holmqvist's right pad inside the post.

The series will continue in Tampa on Wednesday night as the Devils look to tie the series at two. Faceoff time at the St. Pete Times Forum is 7:00pm.

Notes: Three Stars of the Game: 1.) Vaclav Prospal, TB; 2. ) Vincent Lecavalier, TB; 3.) Brad Richards, TB. Powerplay Opportunities: NJD: 0-4; TB: 1-5. Zach Parise led all players with seven shots on goal.

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EAST RUTHERFORD, NJ - Martin St. Louis and Vincent Lecavalier did it again.

St. Louis and Lecavalier each score a goal apiece and Johan Holmqvist notched 34 saves as the Tampa Bay Lightning defeated the New Jersey Devils 3-2 in front of 18,321 fans at the Continental Airlines Arena to even the best of seven playoff series at one.

Tampa's dynamic duo is proving to be a thorn in the Devils side, as they have scored a combined five out of Tampa's six goals in this series, all which can seemingly come from anywhere on the ice. Devils winger Jay Pandolfo is aware of their limitless talent, "Those two guys are great offensive players. They do not need many chances to score goals as you can see. The couple of chances they had they went in the net."

Lecavalier's early third period goal proved to be the deciding tally for the Bolts to send the series back to Tampa Bay. Lecavalier tipped a Paul Ranger slap shot from the point in front of Martin Brodeur for his third of the playoffs at the 1:42 mark.

"I saw Ranger there and the puck was going to our defense and I just wanted to go in front of the net," said Lecavalier on his game-winning goal. "The shot came towards me and I kinda got lucky and tipped it. Obviously I was pretty happy that went in and get the lead."

The series now moves back to Tampa Bay as the Lightning now have home-ice advantage in their favor, something that Devils captain Patrick Elias isn't worried about, "They may feel good about the way they play at home, but at the same time we feel about the way we play on the road."

"It's going to be exciting games. We just have to be smart and do a good job on matchups again, which is going to be tougher for us, but it's the playoff atmosphere and you got to enjoy it."

Special teams were the name of the game for the Bolts and Devs early on.

For a change, someone else other than St. Louis and Lecavalier helped the Lightning get on the board first, as Filip Kuba notched his first of the playoffs on a shorthanded goal. Brad Richards led a 3-on-2 rush into the Devils zone made a nifty feed to Eric Perrin. Perrin avoided a Martin Brodeur pokecheck and slid it Kuba who lifted it over a sprawling Brodeur for the 1-0 lead.

Zach Parise continued his hot playoff play on the powerplay at the 18:11 mark for his third goal of the playoffs. Parise took advantage of a healthy Brian Raflaski rebound that Holmqvist kicked right onto his stick and potted it into the open net.

New Jersey would then take the lead 16:13 into the second period on a 5-on-3 powerplay with Jamie Langenbrunner's first of the playoffs when he one-timed a Brian Gionta pass in the far corner past Holmqvist.

The lead would not last long as St. Louis scored his second of the playoffs from the goal line with just 48.7 seconds left. Brand Richards was in on the fun again by dishing the pass to St. Louis who fired a one-timer past Brodeur from a seemingly impossible angle.

The Devils will travel to Tampa Bay for Game 3 on Monday night against the Lightning. Face-off time at the St. Pete Times Forum is 7:00pm.

Notes: Three Stars of the Game: 1.) Vincent Lecavalier, TB; 2.) Johan Holmqvist, TB; 3.) Zach Parise, NJD. Parise led all players with seven shots on goal. Brad Lukowich took a high stick to the face late in third period from Martin St. Louis and immediately left the ice but no call was made. Lukowich would not comment after the game about the missed call.

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I'm watching MSNBC on Friday morning. The menu on my screen still reads "Imus in the Morning," but obviously that's going to have to change.

Bye man, I-man.

I'm watching MSNBC on Friday morning and listening to news personality David Gregory lead a "new debate," as the graphic called it, about racism in America. He's speaking with Tom Brokaw, who is saying all of the sage-like things that need to be said for a network that's now in a 72-hour cycle of contrition.

When these racial firecrackers explode, the reactions from the parties involved and their corporate masters go one of two ways, but MSNBC and Imus have done a little bit of both. They might go with the "if you could only see into my heart" routine, in which they claim to be a good person who made a bad mistake and begin trotting out every single minority friend or co-worker they've ever known to defend them publicly. (Michael Richards must have been seriously ticked off that "Seinfeld" was so lilywhite; that show made "Friends" look like "Sanford and Son.") Or their corporate masters will pull the "if we had only seen the signs earlier" card, which is what Brokaw was doing on Friday morning. If only we had understood what it was that Don Imus was saying and doing and mocking; if only Imus had understood it as well.

Of course, Imus never understood it. Unlike rival Howard Stern - whose radio show this week was a non-stop, frequently brilliant critique of the whole affair - Imus never really differentiated between parody and cruelty. Stern was the vile clown; Imus was the nasty curmudgeon, and he played that role well. But curmudgeons, by their nature, are loathsome individuals (both in what they say and, frequently, who they are). Imus, or his radio show proxies, had attacked individuals and groups with comedic malice for years - I know, because I used to listen growing up in Jersey, before his radio show became as creaky as a 100-year-old house.

This time, one of those targets decided to fire back.

I'm watching MSNBC on Friday morning, and the female anchorwoman is presenting a story about "what's OK to say," wondering if these racial comments would have been ignored "had they come from someone other than Don Imus."

Well, of course they would have. This firestorm is a perfect storm: Imus worked for the most prominent and influential sports radio station in New York, WFAN; Rutgers's women's basketball team, the target of his slur, plays well within the scope of that influence and range of its signal. Combine those two ingredients, add a post-Kramer-tirade culture of punished speech and endless apology, and you've got one unemployed fake cowboy.

Had these comments not come from a nationally known but New York-based radio personality, who had crafted himself into some sort of quasi-Russert by virtue of his political guests, they would have passed into memory like 10,000 Don Rickles one-liners that were 10,000 times worse than what Imus said.

Then again, it's not what he said, but who he said it about: A predominantly black women's basketball team - and a Cinderella one at that - comprised of mostly college underclassmen. Had Imus called the New York Knicks "nappy-headed," he'd still be croaking his way through interviews with John McCain.

Michael Richards, Jimmy The Greek...those guys were the racists; Imus is a bully who picked on a bunch of girls who didn't deserve his indignation.

That's why Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton commenting on this affair are laughable on so many fronts, because this really isn't their fight. They hear "nappy-headed" and sound the racial alarm; I hear "ho's" and believe this to be one of the most despicable things ever uttered about a group of female athletes by a mainstream media personality.

Imus, to me, was more misogynist than racist.

To Rutgers coach C. Vivian Stringer's credit, I think her focus has been in the right place. "What woman reads this and cannot be personally touched?" she asked Oprah Winfrey in an interview this week. One of her players claimed on the same show that Imus stole their moment from them, and she's right: Women's team sports have not grown to the point where finishing second in the NCAA national championship tournament can trump one old codger's unfunny quip.

I've turned off MSNBC, and I'm watching ESPN on Friday morning. Stephen A. Smith is on SportsCenter, talking about the Imus firing by CBS. His advice is that we need to love one another, and understand that "racially insensitive" comments have no place in our society.

I only listened for a few moments, but didn't hear anything about Imus having attacked women who are black rather than "black women." Didn't hear anything about how the NCAA, for all of its progress, can still have the accomplishments of an entire team of female athletes overshadowed by a bad joke by a man who looks like the Crypt Keeper. Didn't hear how the media needs to be more aware, understanding and sensitive to the rights of outstanding young women not to be labeled as promiscuous and sullied in a public forum. Didn't hear what this means for female athletes of other colors who suffer similar smears about their appearance or sexuality.

Maybe it just never came up.

-SFM-

Published on the web and www.SportsFanMagazine.com since 1997, "The Jester's Quart" is a weekly satirical look at sports, pop culture and why NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman is a jackass. Columnist Greg Wyshynski is the Senior Editor for SportsFan Magazine in Washington DC, and the Senior Sports Editor for The Connection Newspapers of Northern Virginia. His book "Glow Pucks and 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History" can be ordered now. Email Wyshynski at jestersquart@hotmail.com.

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EAST RUTHERFORD, NJ - Martin St. Louis and Vincent Lecavalier weren't enough to stop Zach Parise and the New Jersey Devils last night.

Parise scored twice - including the game winner - and Scott Gomez contributed three assists as the New Jersey Devils defeated the Tampa Bay Lightning 5-3 in front of 14,495 fans as the Continental Airlines Arena to take a 1-0 series lead.

"He's got the flair for the big time and he keeps getting better," said Gomez of his teammate, Zach Parise. "He's always soaking in information at practices and one of the hardest workers. He's a special one."

Parise's goal came at an important time for the New Jersey Devils as the Lightning were riding the momentum of Vincent Lecavalier's second goal of the game just 2:51 into the third period to tie it at three. Devils goaltender Martin Brodeur thought his team responded well to Lecavalier's goal, "That was important. They made a pretty good play on their goal. They then turned the puck over at our blue line and we capitalized on it. It's the playoffs, every time they give you an inch, you have to take it."

Parise also thought that his team showed much compsure after the Lecavalier goal, a quality trait that has helped the Devils to three Stanley Cups, "There was no panic on the bench, that's for sure. That shows the experience that we have on the bench and on the dressing room that guys have been in situations like this.

Just a under a minute later, Parise and Jamie Langenbrunner completed a give-and-go play as the young Devils' winger streaked down the right side and fired a wrist shot off of Tampa Bay goaltender Johan Holmqvist's shoulder to take the 4-3 lead.

"Jamie made a great play in our zone and made a great soft pass to Zach," said Devils coach Lou Lamoriello about the winning goal. "He's (Parise) a very skilled player to come up on the off side and take the corner. He's done it all year long."

As expected the duo of Martin St. Louis and Lecavalier dominated the scoresheet for the Lightning by scoring all three goals. It's something that Scott Gomez has been getting used to when playing against the former Stanley Cup Champs, "I think that's just a preview of what the series is going to be like. You're talking about two world class players. These guys are going to get the opportunities. It's been like that for years with this team."

New Jersey made the first, but important dent on the scoreboard 7:43 into the first period with Parise's first goal of the playoffs. Parise fired a hard slap shot from the top of the right faceoff circle that eventually trickled its way through Holmqvist's legs and across the goal line.

The Devils quickly made it 2-0 a little under five minutes later on the powerplay. With Vincent Prospal in the box for tripping Brad Lukowich, Patrick Elias took a Scott Gomez pass at the point and shot a very hard one timer over Holmqvist's glove hand for his first of the playoffs.

Martin St. Louis cut the Devils lead in half before the first intermission, scoring on a 5-on-3 powerplay and firing a one-timer from the point past Brodeur.

Brian Rafalski helped New Jersey regain the two goal lead just 3:36 into the second period with a powerplay goal. Raflaski let a slap shot from the blueline fly through a maze of bodies in front of Holmqvist.

Just eight minutes after Rafalski scored his first of the palyoffs, the Devils defensemen actually helped Lecavalier score his first of the playoffs. Lecavalier attempted to wrap the puck around Brodeur, but the puck rolled up on Rafalski's stick and rose above the New Jersey netminder's shoulder.

Brian Gionta finished out the Devils scoring late in the third period as the Devils capitalized on a Holmqvist turnover to put away the Lightning for the 5-3 lead.

The Devils continue their quest for the Stanley Cup on Saturday night for Game 2 against the Lightning. Face-off time at the continental Airlines Arena is 7:00pm.

Notes: Three Stars of the Game: 1.) Zach Parise, NJD; 2.) Vincent Lecavalier, TAM; 3.) Brian Rafalski, NJD.

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Sometimes, sports make me cry.

(Go watch a Lifetime movie and a Massengill commercial with a pint of Ben and Jerry's, you twinkle-toes-skirt-wearing-metrosexual-romantic-comedy-watching-she-male.)

C'mon, that's not fair. Sports make me angry, too. Throwing things across the room and scaring the pets kind of angry. Pounding the couch with my fists like I was a Klitschko on a speed bag kind of angry. Swearing with the verbal dexterity and volume of a 24-hour Chris Rock concert marathon kind of angry.

I've gotten plenty pissed watching sports during the last 30 years (emotionally and intoxicationally), but the last time a game made me sob like a sullen toddler was back in 1994, when the New Jersey Devils lost Game 7 of the Eastern Conference Finals in overtime to the hated New York Rangers. It was a combination of the Devils having already blown Game 6 at home, the Devils having teased me with a game-tying goal late in the third period of Game 7 and the fact that I knew my suburban New Jersey high school would be crawling with Rangers fans eager to taunt, trash and torment me in my darkest hour the next time I walked the halls.

But the slings and arrows I faced from "enemies" growing up - Yankees fans, Giants fans, Rangers fans and Knicks fans, primarily - only intensified my fanaticism for the Mets, Jets, Devils and Nets. When you're a kid, and car payments and vacation requests and tax returns are just things your parents grumble under their breath about, sports take on epic qualities. Every game, be it a hockey night in April or a baseball game in June, takes on a life-or-death importance. Gradually, at least in my case, the intensity of those emotions subsides; you're still agitated after a loss the next day, but those real rushes of frustration and fury are reserved for a defeat against a hated rival or the definitive fate-sealing loss of the season, whenever that arrives.

The point is that people who matured emotionally while sports were a vital part of their lives - either rooting for or playing on a team - generally continue to be emotionally invested in them when they're older.

Even as priorities change into adulthood, the psychological (as well as monetary) commitment to the teams we choose to follow remains ingrained and, in many cases, seemingly genetic.

With that in mind, I was eager to read Washington Post Magazine deputy editor Sydney Trent's article titled "The Experiment," published last weekend. In it, she chronicles her attempted transition from being a middle-aged woman who "knows nothing about baseball and could not care less" to becoming a Washington Nationals fan. What immediately struck me was that Trent's upbringing was in such stark contrast to mine: I grew up in a Central Jersey house where there were as many pieces of sports memorabilia on the walls as there were family photos, while Trent was from the South and a home where "sports was not on the conversational table."

The next 330,000 words (or so it felt) were dedicated to what amounted to a superficial stunt. She was taught the basics of baseball through her husband, attending games and reading the morning paper's box scores. She found an entry point to sports through the most cliché of means for a female fan: Admiration of the players' looks or personas or the poetry in their motions. She found "something endearing about" pitcher Livan Hernandez's "pudgy waistline." Rent-a-star Alfonso Soriano "has the charisma that makes Denzel Washington stand out on the big screen," and she reveled in his "wide stance at the plate" and the way he "juts out his slender hips as he restlessly twirls the bat."

Yikes...does someone need some alone-time?

But at no point did you get the sense that Trent was all-in. I never recalled her heading to the local sporting goods store, loading up on gear and then flaunting her fanaticism like it was a badge of honor. (I live in D.C.; it's not like there aren't 25 variations of Nationals hats and car magnets for sale in every retail outlet.) I never read about her spending hours on Internet message boards arguing with complete strangers about where Nick Johnson should hit in the batting order. Her emotional investment in the team seemed focused on the players instead of on the uniform. At the end of the piece, she admits that she doesn't know if she'll ever "collapse in despair if the Nationals lose a close game."

As pathetic as it might be in the grand scheme of life, isn't that what a true sports fan does? At least once in a while?

Like any rookie, I'm not going to judge Trent based on a single season. But her article made me wonder: Can someone in his or her 30s or 40s become a fan with the kind of emotional devotion that someone who's been on the bandwagon "all their life" has developed?

Throughout the years, friends recruit friends and husbands recruit wives (and vice versa) into their respective sports obsessions. But in those situations, there's always going to be an imbalance: one's dedication had been previously established, and the other's devotion partially feeds off of that. As with any fan culture - sports, bands, movies, video games - those ahead of the curve are always going to feel more plugged-in than the newbies, and the newbies are always going to feel a twinge of inferiority as soon as the conversation turns to nostalgia that predates their allegiance.

But beyond that, I truly believe that growing up with sports instills an inherent loyalty and kinship between an individual and his or her team of choice. The tribulations of losing and the emotional highs of winning are part of one's emotional maturation, just like your first kiss or passing your driver's test or spelling ammeba...$#@%#$...."a-m-e-e-b-a"...grrrrrr... "a-m-o-e-b-a" incorrectly to lose the school spelling bee. (Not that it ever happened to this writter...$#@%#$..."w-r-i-t-e-r.")

Honestly, Sydney Trent, or anyone else who jumps on the bandwagon later in life, should consider themselves lucky. Because they're not going to cry after losing a Game 7. They're not going to get on their hands and knees searching for the AAA batteries that flew out of the remote when it was hurled across the room in frustration. Their children aren't going to learn their first curse words because daddy's quarterback threw an interception against the Dolphins. They're going to save an incredible amount of money on playoff tickets, they're going to gain an incredible amount of sleep that would otherwise be wasted on overtime losses, and they're going to conserve an incredible amount of hair that would otherwise be pulled out when their closer walks the bases loaded on a muggy August evening.

They'll be fans.

The rest of us, for better or for worse, will continue to be fanatics.

-SFM-

Published on the web and www.SportsFanMagazine.com since 1997, "The Jester's Quart" is a weekly satirical look at sports, pop culture and why NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman is a jackass. Columnist Greg Wyshynski is the Senior Editor for SportsFan Magazine in Washington DC, and the Senior Sports Editor for The Connection Newspapers of Northern Virginia. His book "Glow Pucks and 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History" can be ordered now. Email Wyshynski at jestersquart@hotmail.com.

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Sometimes, sports make me cry. (Go watch a Lifetime movie and a Massengill commercial with a pint of Ben and Jerry's, you twinkle-toes-skirt-wearing-metrosexual-romantic-comedy-watching-she-male.) C'mon, that's not fair. Sports make me angry, too. Throwing things across the room and scaring the pets kind of angry. Pounding the couch with my fists like I was a Klitschko on a speed bag kind of angry. Swearing with the verbal dexterity and volume of a 24-hour Chris Rock concert marathon kind of angry.

I've gotten plenty pissed watching sports during the last 30 years (emotionally and intoxicationally), but the last time a game made me sob like a sullen toddler was back in 1994, when the New Jersey Devils lost Game 7 of the Eastern Conference Finals in overtime to the hated New York Rangers. It was a combination of the Devils having already blown Game 6 at home, the Devils having teased me with a game-tying goal late in the third period of Game 7 and the fact that I knew my suburban New Jersey high school would be crawling with Rangers fans eager to taunt, trash and torment me in my darkest hour the next time I walked the halls.

``x Florida Wins Again``xmofosports``x