Before you scoff at the number of less-than-mainstream sports that will make headlines during the Winter Olympics this month, remember this: Almost every athletic endeavor is harder when performed on snow or ice. (I’ll say this: hopping in a bobsled and managing to slide to the bottom of a mountain .0026 of a second faster than your competition is a lost art to me. Seems like gravity decides the gold in that arena.)

We spectators tend to judge a sport in part by measuring how we might handle the challenge: I could never hit Tim Lincecum’s curve ball, but I can shoot free throws better than some first-ballot Hall of Famers. When it comes to the Winter Games, I’d be a mess in every last competition (including that bobsled). I’ve been on skates and skis and stick-handled a hockey puck (on roller blades). And it gets ugly.

I love the way the Winter Games stand out in a fan’s memory. Whether it’s athletes skiing with rifles on their back, a speedskater sliding 50 feet — at 50 miles per hour — on his backside, or a hockey team making us believe in miracles, the Winter Olympics somehow do the memory equivalent of bookmarking our brains. (It may have something to do with February otherwise being among the slowest sports months on the calendar.) Even the settings for the Winter Games are more memorable than their summer counterparts. How often have you uttered the words Nagano or Torino, much less paid attention to the charms and history of these cities? Huge metropolitan centers draw the Summer Games every four years. But for the Winter Games, we all get to call a village our home for two weeks. (Okay, Vancouver’s a good-sized city. I paint with broad strokes.)

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• Katarina Witt

The first Winter Olympics I remember were those of Sarajevo in 1984. The ravaging of the war-torn city that ensued only makes the champions of ’84 seem that much more distant. Scott Hamilton was the figure-skating star of those games, with Bill Johnson playing the perfectly American role of underdog and winning the downhill, the most glamorous of all ski races, an event never won before by a Yank.

In 1988, I gawked with my college buddies at the beauty of Katarina Witt. Consider that: freshmen in college putting the books and beer down long enough to see who might be crowned Olympic ice princess. Witt was that gorgeous. This was also the year speedskater Dan Jansen — a favorite in two races — fell twice after losing his sister to cancer.

Kristi Yamaguchi stole the show in Albertville, France, in 1992, becoming the first American woman to win a gold medal in figure skating since Dorothy Hamill in 1976. Jansen returned, but was again denied a medal.

The Winter Games made a quick comeback in 1994, the new schedule now alternating the summer and winter Games every two years. And in his final race — the 1,000 meters — Jansen became an Olympic champion. Bonnie Blair won her fourth and fifth golds in Lillehammer, Norway, but Jansen is the skater who bookmarked my brain 16 years ago. Try waiting six years to honor a lost sibling. (As for the shenanigans between a pair of rival American skaters in ’94, I’ve officially placed that memory chapter in the blessedly tiny tabloid section of my noodle.)

Tara Lipinski made me feel old before my 30th birthday when she won figure-skating gold in Nagano in 1998 ... before her 16th birthday. Apolo Ohno emerged in 2002, along with a new sport — short-track speedskating — that brought some NASCAR (and the possibility of crashes around every turn) to the Winter Games. Then in 2006, in Torino, Italy (a city I called home for a magical year of my youth), Shaun White and his snowboarding rivals made the fabled Winter Olympics a modern extravaganza in every sense.

A new memory bookmark will be made later this month from the scenes in Vancouver. As unlikely as it is that I’ll be able to relate to the bookmark-worthy performance, it’s just as certain the event — and the new hero — will last a lifetime.

But my favorite is the father-son angle. It may be the most obvious, but from the view of one son (and father), the connection Archie and Peyton Manning will have this Sunday will be the element I remember, regardless of the outcome.

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• colts.com

My first football hero was Roger Staubach, the quarterback who played in four Super Bowls -- and won two -- with the Dallas Cowboys in the 1970s. He was a comic-book hero come to life, leading late-game comebacks against the evil Redskins and Giants, and with a star on his helmet, no less. But I heard for years -- from my dad -- that if circumstances had been different, and Archie Manning had been wearing that silver helmet for 11 years instead of the gold of his New Orleans Saints, it would be a Manning poster I had on my bedroom wall.

After achieving cult status as a college quarterback at Ole Miss, Archie spent 11 years leading a Saints franchise best known for the paper bags its fans would start wearing by early October, one season after the next. The best club he quarterbacked was the 1979 Saints, and they went 8-8. Remarkably, Archie reached two Pro Bowls as the quarterback of a team that went a combined 15-17. He remains the Saints’ alltime passing leader (21,734 yards), though his record as a starter for New Orleans was a turn-your-head-away 35-91-3.

Archie’s second son, Peyton, was born in March 1976, a blessed year for the elder Manning in more ways than one. (He had to sit out the season with an injury as the Saints went 4-10 behind Bobby Douglass.) By the time Peyton was old enough to care, Archie had been traded to Houston, and later Minnesota, though the Manning family continued to call the French Quarter in the Big Easy their home. For Archie’s kids, the Saints were always the home team.

Cut to the present, and Peyton is the Hall-of-Fame-bound, four-time MVP, leading his Indianapolis Colts to Miami. He’ll try to become the 11th quarterback to win two Super Bowls. To do so, he’ll have to beat, of course, the New Orleans Saints, everybody’s second-favorite team since Hurricane Katrina all but destroyed the city in 2005.

My dad didn’t live to see the Saints finally reach the Super Bowl. But he lived long enough to recognize that Peyton is a superior quarterback, one better than his father, and better than most men ever to have tossed the pigskin. Dad would love Archie’s view on things this week. As quoted in the February 1st issue of Sports Illustrated, Archie eliminated any doubts over where his heart would be come Super Sunday: “I’m rooting for my son.”

Which makes this angle so poignant. Imagine the millions of fathers (and sons, and daughters) who will be watching this Sunday, picking a team to cheer for, looking for the latest hero on football’s biggest stage. Some will don blue and white and hope for a second Colt championship over the last four years. Many others will find some black in their closet and scream “Who dat!” every time the Saints so much as gain a first down.

But every last father watching Super Bowl XLIV will have a moment when he imagines his own son -- and yes, even his own daughter -- playing in so grand an arena. And he’ll know how he’d be rooting. For one Sunday, at the end of one football season, every father will feel much like the great Archie Manning.

The National Football League took a step in the right direction with the Pro Bowl this season, moving it up two weeks, to the Sunday before the Super Bowl. This is historically a dead weekend for football fans who are frothing at the mouth for their favorite sport. In prior years, when the game was played a week after the Super Bowl — in Honolulu — most American sports fans had already turned their attention to the NBA All-Star Game or the Daytona 500. The venue won’t be as attractive (Sunday’s game will be played in Miami, site of the Super Bowl) and the game will miss players selected from the Colts and Saints (for obvious reasons). But it’s a step closer to making the NFL’s all-star game a legitimate highlight on the sports calendar.

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We’re not there yet, though.

To begin with, every year players opt out of the Pro Bowl for reasons that vary from twisted knees to twisted emotions. Two of the three AFC quarterbacks (Tom Brady and Philip Rivers) have said "Thanks, but no thanks" to this year's event. And the third (Peyton Manning) won't play since his Colts are AFC champs, with a pretty big game the following week. So the AFC will be down to its fourth-string quarterback. What began as a 43-man roster for the NFC has swollen closer to 50 with “injury replacements” for players unable (or unwilling) to suit up. You have to wonder about the value of a Pro Bowl nod, when players are so quick to avoid the game, and so easily make replacements (without any fan or coach voting to determine the newly decorated substitute).

You can hardly blame NFL stars (weary from five months of collisions and joint pain) for being reluctant to don helmet and pads for an exhibition game after their season has ended. The free trip to Hawaii was a nice hook, but with that now gone, why would an aging star like Brady risk exposing a knee or shoulder to one ill-fated tackle?

I’ve got a solution: flag football.

Instead of donning helmet and pads, why not have the NFL’s biggest stars play a game the way you and I would in our backyard or the nearest rec field? Each player could wear the T-shirt of the team he represents, with “uniform shorts” that would sell like hotcakes at nfl.com. (The flags they wear could be auctioned off for charity after the game. This is a concept, folks.)

Among the reasons the NBA has grown into the brand it has is how naked the players are. When Kevin Garnett lets out a post-dunk scream as though his right foot was amputated when he landed, every fan — and television viewer — sees it. This element could be brought to football for one afternoon. Sure, the players would be holding some terror back, would scale down the intimidation-meter. But wouldn’t it be fun to see the grimace Ryan Clady sports as he tries to keep DeMarcus Ware from Vince Young’s flag? Or what about the goofy facial contortions Chris Johnson displays as he weaves between “tacklers” on a 40-yard jaunt? For one afternoon, the NFL would look like the Kennedy home movies.

Baseball’s All-Star Game has meaning because of its history (and how peeved every National League player is that they can’t win the thing any more). The NBA was made for All-Star festivities, a personality-driven sport that thrives when it can remove the inconvenience of defense from its end-to-end formula for entertainment. And I, for one, love the NHL’s All-Star Game, when you can see more goals in three periods than you will in three weeks of following your favorite team.

But the NFL’s All-Star Game? It just seems contrived. Players will use multiple Pro Bowl selections in contract negotiations ... then not show up to play the game. So take the pads off, remember what it was like to play football when you were 10, and give America what it wants: Football stars unmasked.

The acquisitions of Holliday and Mark DeRosa last summer cost the Cardinals three of their top five prospects: third-baseman Brett Wallace and relief pitchers Chris Perez and Jess Todd. DeRosa is already gone, having signed a free-agent deal with the San Francisco Giants (making the losses of Perez and Todd especially painful when you factor in the struggles of Ryan Franklin and Kyle McClellan at the end of the 2009 season). Among the leading candidates to replace DeRosa at third for St. Louis will be David Freese, a key member of the Memphis Redbirds’ 2009 Pacific Coast League champions (and a midwinter distraction, having been arrested for driving under the influence in December).

The development of centerfielder Colby Rasmus (still just 23, Rasmus hit .251 with 16 homers as a rookie last summer) will be critical to supporting the Pujols/Holliday tandem in the middle of the Cardinal order. And then what? In Baseball America’s most recent ranking of farm systems, the Cardinals plummeted to 29th (ahead of only the Houston Astros), and that’s after being ranked eighth at the dawn of the 2009 season.

The Cardinals’ top prospects as of today:

1) Shelby Miller (RHP) — The 19th pick in last June’s draft, Miller likely won’t see Triple A until 2011 at the earliest.

2) Jaime Garcia (LHP) — Garcia returned from surgery late last season and was instrumental in the Redbirds’ undefeated push through the PCL playoffs (12 innings, no earned runs). He’ll be a candidate for the Cardinals’ starting rotation this spring.

3) Lance Lynn (RHP) — The big righty (6’5”, 250) was a Texas League All-Star last season, going 11-4 with a 2.92 ERA for Double-A Springfield. Like Garcia, he’ll be considered for any opening in the St. Louis rotation, but will likely be pitching every fifth day for Memphis.

4) Daryl Jones (OF) — Hit .279 in 80 games for Springfield last season. Hit .326 and stole 18 bases in Class A in 2008. Hard to envision him getting much playing time as a Cardinal with Holliday, Rasmus, and Ryan Ludwick on the roster.

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• Just when you think a professional athlete has established a new standard for thick-headedness — like, say, shooting himself in the leg in public — a story breaks like the one about Gilbert Arenas showing off guns in the Washington Wizards’ locker room. And then making light of it as a “joke” when the act is called into question. (Best part of all this? Arenas plays for a team that was known as the Washington Bullets until 1997, when owner Abe Pollin renamed the team in the wake of Israeli prime minister Yitzhak Rabin's assassination.)

NBA commissioner David Stern suspended Arenas indefinitely, a classic case of making an example out of a transgression, but one that needed to be made. The right to bear arms is sacred to millions of Americans, but where those arms are carried matters greatly. (See the ongoing debate over Tennessee’s new law allowing firearms in bars.) Seems like an NBA arena should be among the first places crossed off the list of “appropriate for handguns.”

In the NBA, “I got your back” is heard a lot more than “I’m sorry,” which makes the words spoken by Wizards captain Antawn Jamison to a crowd at the Verizon Center in Washington last Friday night rather astounding. Here they are:

"On behalf of my teammates, this coaching staff, we know it's been a trying week. One thing my teammates and I take very seriously is that being a positive role model ... something we don't take lightly. And there's been a picture that's been shown of us taking this event very lightly. This is a serious situation; it's something we take to heart. We never meant to make light of the situation. And we're going to do everything in our power, as long as I'm your captain and all these guys right here are my teammates, to make this one of the most respectable organizations in the league.

"In order to make that happen, we need you guys to continue to support us. This thing here is very embarrassing for my teammates and the coaching staff, but we're going to do everything possible to make this one of the toughest places to play in, to make this an exciting place, but most importantly, a place where you can bring your kids, your families, your buddy, to come and have a good time."

• A sponsor for the St. Jude Classic. No golf tournament this side of Augusta, Georgia, can survive without the financial foundation of a title sponsor. The good folks at Southwind executed last year’s event — the 52nd consecutive year of PGA golf in Memphis — without a hitch in the aftermath of Stanford Financial’s meltdown. But the tournament (as a business enterprise) will not be sustainable without a new partner. This is an uncomfortable transition period for the PGA Tour, with its dominant personality on the sidelines for an “indefinite leave.” But considering Tiger Woods has never played in Memphis, a potential sponsor would be dealing with — at worst — the status quo locally. Golf fans all over the Mid-South will exhale when a deal is done.

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• An All-Star berth for a Grizzly ... any Grizzly. Rudy Gay would be the easiest choice. O.J. Mayo has an All-Star Game in his future, too. And the way he’s played of late, Zach Randolph should earn consideration for a trip to Cowboys Stadium in February. Nine years of Memphis Grizzlies basketball and one All-Star (Pau Gasol in 2006). Let’s make it two.

• Big 10 ... Big Dozen. Here’s hoping the Big 10 adds a twelfth school, and soon. And let’s hope it’s a current member of the Big East (Rutgers?). Such a move would all but assure a Big East search for new blood. With former Big East commissioner Mike Tranghese consulting at the side of Memphis athletic director R.C. Johnson, introductions should be made smooth and easy. The U of M has to join a BCS conference. Let’s not allow this chance to disappear.

• Profitability at AutoZone Park. Rarely will you see a sports franchise turn over as quickly and dramatically as the Memphis Redbirds did during what would be a championship season in 2009. The general manager, the sales director, and the director of community relations were all ousted by the team’s board of directors in what amounts to a radical attempt at regaining solvency. Baseball at Third and Union is priceless ... but only until the Redbirds’ start measuring black and red ink. Here’s hoping the new management team fills the prescription for profits. Perhaps new ownership will follow.

• An NCAA berth for the Tigers. As I write, this is a long shot. The Tigers simply haven’t beaten a team that will catch the tournament-selectors’ eye. That can change, though, with a title run in Conference USA play. Unless Memphis upsets 5th-ranked Syracuse this week, Memphis can’t afford more than three losses in league play.

• Good health for Maria Sharapova (at least through February). The presence of Sharapova — among the planet’s most famous female athletes — would give The Racquet Club of Memphis a dose of international buzz unlike any it’s seen in over a decade. (Sharapova played here in 2004, but it was four months before she won her first Grand Slam title at Wimbledon.) A run to the finals of the Cellular South Cup by this Russian star would give a week of Memphis tennis a share of the worldwide spotlight.

• A ticket-seller for Larry Porter. The Tigers’ new football coach has his hands full in trying to fill the Liberty Bowl. A 2-10 team lost its top running back, top two receivers, and two of its top three quarterbacks. (I’m not convinced the brittle Tyler Bass — returning to compete for the quarterback job — can be The Guy.) Porter’s arrival will sell some tickets, but come October, the Tigers will need a difference-maker with the ball in his hands.

• A playoff spot for the Grizzlies. Why not? With a record of 16-16, Memphis has one more loss than Oklahoma City and Utah, the teams currently tied for the eighth and final postseason ticket in the Western Conference. And the Griz have two games left to play against both the Thunder and Jazz. Why not?

I attended more sporting events over the last 10 years than my father did in all 63 of his. That being the case, I was surprised at how easy it is to pick the five most memorable from here in Memphis. Hope you were there, too.

Pujols Homers for Championship (September 15, 2000) — Among the hundreds of sporting events I’ve witnessed live, this is my “grandchildren” game. (You know: “Someday, I’ll be able to tell my grandchildren I was there.”) Having been promoted from Class A(!) Potomac only two weeks earlier, Albert Pujols was given leftfield for the Memphis Redbirds when Ernie Young left the team to play in the Olympics. As I recall, he was introduced by the p.a. announcer as “Alberto” Pujols. The point is, no one knew who the guy wearing number 6 was. This team — the first to play in AutoZone Park — had reached the Pacific Coast League championship series behind the likes of Stubby Clapp, Mark Little, Larry Sutton, and Lou Lucca. All popular players . . . and all footnotes now.

With the Redbirds leading the best-of-five series with Salt Lake two games to one, and Game 4 tied at 3, Pujols stepped to the plate in the bottom of the 13th inning. (The game was tied only because a Buzz base-runner had earlier been tagged out having missed the plate.) Pujols drilled a line drive that looped just inside the rightfield foul pole, giving Memphis its first baseball championship since 1990. Still shy of his 21st birthday, Pujols was named MVP of the PCL playoffs. A year later, he was the National League’s Rookie of the Year and on his way to Cooperstown.

Memphis Goes Big League (November 1, 2001) — Thoughts of the ABA, the WFL, the USFL, the CBA, the CFL, and way too many lonely nights at Tim McCarver Stadium ran through my mind as I sat in The Pyramid — with two NBA teams on the floor below — listening to Isaac Hayes sing “God Bless America.” With the Memphis Grizzlies hosting the Detroit Pistons, the Bluff City finally had a team that would impact standings that people check from Seattle to New York. No gimmick, no exhibition, no temporary home. The Grizzlies started Jason Williams, Michael Dickerson, Shane Battier, Stromile Swift, and native Memphian Lorenzen Wright. The first points scored by the home team were on a trey by Dickerson, who would play a total of nine more games in a career shortened by injury. The final score — Detroit 90, Memphis 80 — didn’t matter all that much. But it was a score they checked in Seattle. And New York.

Tigers vs. Cardinals, in Shoulder Pads (November 4, 2004) — Despite the final score, this is among the most important games in Tiger history. Televised nationally on a Thursday night, the game featured remarkable performances by the U of M’s greatest player of alltime and its greatest quarterback, too. Better yet, it was a contest against the U of M’s historic basketball rival (ranked 14th in the country), making the intensity a bit higher than your average Conference USA tilt. Each team scored two touchdowns in the first quarter, and the scoring didn’t end until the Cardinals’ Eric Shelton scored the game-winning points with 37 seconds left in the game: Louisville 56, Memphis 49. DeAngelo Williams gained 200 yards on the ground for Memphis. Danny Wimprine passed for 361 yards and four touchdowns, slightly better than the performance of Louisville signal-caller Stefan LeFors, who passed for 321 yards and three TD’s. LeFors and Williams went on to share C-USA Offensive Player of the Year honors.

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Tears and Cheers for Darius (March 12, 2005) — The Memphis Tigers weren’t even supposed to reach the finals of the 2005 C-USA tournament. With 14 losses, coach John Calipari’s fifth Memphis team was already making plans to headline the NIT. Facing 6th-ranked Louisville in the Cardinals’ last game as a C-USA member, the Tigers were a nice hometown story, but little more than lamb for a lion.

The teams each drained a pair of treys — four total — in one sixty-second stretch near the end of the first half, which ended with the score deadlocked. Memphis was leading with but 30 seconds left in the game, only to see the game’s final three-pointer — by Louisville’s Larry O’Bannon — make the difference.

As time expired, Washington was fouled when he shot up a desperation three-pointer, the Tigers down two. Three converted free throws and Memphis would win its first tourney title in 18 years and be fitted for a glass slipper at the NCAA tournament. With no time left on the clock, no players lined up alongside the key, as they would for any other free throw. Washington — as alone on that court as Crusoe was on his island — drained his first shot and turned to wink at Calipari. His second attempt — to tie the game — fell to the side. His third . . . Memphis fans know and will never forget. An athlete collapsed because of injury is hard to watch. An athlete collapsed in tears and regret, though . . . that’s heartbreak. Still the finest college basketball game I’ve seen live.

#1 vs. #2 (February 23, 2008) — The Memphis Tigers had spent a month atop the national polls when they welcomed the Tennessee Vols — ranked second in both major polls — to FedExForum. Better yet, Memphis was 26-0, having recently surpassed the longest winning streak in the program’s rich history. Safe to say, this game belongs in the conversation for Greatest Sporting Event in Memphis History. (The Lennox Lewis-Mike Tyson heavyweight tilt of 2002 is its only real competition.)

The Tigers led by one at halftime in the nationally televised contest. Defense prevailed, as neither team shot 40 percent. UT star Chris Lofton was held to five points (2 of 11 from the field) while the Tigers’ Chris Douglas-Roberts scored but 14. A late put-back by the Vols’ Tyler Smith broke a tie and gave Tennessee a 66-62 win. The following week, UT ascended to the top spot in the national rankings for the first time in men’s basketball history.

A look back at the local sporting events I enjoyed most in 2009. (Couldn’t reduce the list to five this year.)

• Memphis 108, Lamar 75 (January 3) — Among the dozens of players I’ve seen in watching 19 years of Memphis Tiger basketball, Antonio Anderson is among my two or three favorites. And this was his night. (Appropriately for Anderson, it came against an opponent that didn’t bring any national coverage, and on a date when many hoop fans were still nursing hangovers.) In scoring 12 points, dishing out 13 assists, and grabbing 10 rebounds, Anderson became only the second Tiger in history to achieve a triple-double. (Each of the first two belonged to Penny Hardaway.) Anderson finished his Tiger career in March as the only player in the program’s history with 1,000 career points, 500 rebounds, and 500 assists. And he graduated in four years.

• Pistons 87, Grizzlies 79 (January 19) — This was a sporting event that was much more about the moment than it was the action on the floor (the home team’s sixth straight loss in what would be a 12-game losing streak). In hosting the seventh-annual Martin Luther King Game, Memphis put its best and most sensitive foot forward, even if it was wearing a sneaker. Before the game, Hall of Famers Dave Bing and Julius Erving were honored, bringing that much more dignity to the matinee. The biggest cheer was reserved, though, for a scoreboard presentation that honored the man who would — less than 24 hours later — become the first black president in United States history. Regardless of our NBA team’s fortunes, a new era was upon us all. Dr. King would have been proud.

• North Carolina 72, Oklahoma 60; NCAA South Regional championship (March 29) — Memphis has called itself a college-basketball town for generations. So how is it that this was the first time the city had ever hosted an NCAA tournament regional, with a Final Four berth on the line? The bracket gods apparently liked the overdue marriage, as the South Region’s top two seeds — North Carolina and Oklahoma — made it cleanly into the finals. Better yet, fans at FedExForum got to see the 2008 National Player of the Year (the Tar Heels’ Tyler Hansbrough) go up against the player who would take this year’s top honor (the Sooners’ Blake Griffin). The days of Alcindor-Hayes or Sampson-Ewing in college basketball are long gone. But this was close ... at least on paper. Griffin scored 23 points while Hansbrough was limited to 8. The eventual national champion Tar Heels played the part, pulling away in the first half on their way to the school’s 18th Final Four appearance.

• Redbirds 3, Round Rock 2 (July 4) — Independence Day, baseball, and fireworks. On a Saturday night that would please the most patriotic among us, the home team provided a comeback — and a necessary delay to the postgame pyro — for a crowd of more than 14,000 at AutoZone Park. With tough-luck pitcher Adam Ottavino on the hill — the Memphis starter entered the game with a record of 0-9 — the Redbirds fell behind 2-0 before shortstop Donovan Solano drove in a pair of funs in the bottom of the eighth inning to tie the game. With a pair of sharp innings from Jess Todd — named earlier that week to the Pacific Coast League’s All-Star team — Memphis extended the game into the 11th inning, when Nick Stavinoha drilled a game-winning single. The explosive show that followed seemed to merely fit the script on this night.

• Redbirds 1, Albuquerque 0 (September 11) — The Redbirds would still have the Pacific Coast League Championship Series and the made-for-TV Triple-A National Championship to play after this night, but this series-clinching victory in their first-round playoff sweep of the Isotopes was in many ways the peak of their season. A few thousand fans were actually in the stands (not the case during the two rainy night of the PCL finals the next week), bunting was on display, and the baseball was as crisp as the unseasonable late-summer air. Evan MacLane pitched seven shutout innings and David Freese’s second-inning home run held up for the 1-0 final score. Best of all, I enjoyed the game with a longtime friend on his first visit to AutoZone Park. He’ll be back.

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Grizzlies 111, Cavaliers 109 (December 8th) — Simply put, the most exciting NBA game I’ve seen in Memphis. The game’s reigning MVP (LeBron James) in town with his new sidekick (Shaquille O’Neal) ready to make mincemeat of the home team. Cleveland led by six after 12 minutes and by 11 at the half. An unusually large crowd for a Grizzlies home game — 16,325 — was seeing what many expected to see. But then the Grizzlies showed the kind of fight — and talent, it should be emphasized — rarely seen since Hubie Brown’s magical 2003-04 season. Zach Randolph scored 32 points and pulled down 14 rebounds. Rudy Gay (21 points), O.J. Mayo (28) and Mike Conley (game-winning layup in overtime) all hit clutch shots to turn back the Eastern Conference heavyweights. But perhaps the most memorable player from a game in which LeBron James scored 43 points was Grizzlies reserve center Hamed Haddadi. Called into duty (eight minutes) when Marc Gasol got in foul trouble, Haddadi dunked on Shaq and knocked King James on his backside with as violent a screen as you’ll see this season. May have been a foul, but it was the metaphorical centerpiece for this amazing night of NBA basketball in Memphis.

Next week: A look at the five most memorable Memphis events I witnessed this decade.

I’ve had The Wizard of Oz on my mind as the first month of basketball season gathers momentum. Remember how loyal and deferential all the winged monkeys and foot soldiers were to the Wicked Witch ... until Dorothy washed her away? Remember how they rejoiced at the removal of their “queen,” and actually broke into song? Both the Tigers and Grizzlies seem to have undergone a cultural shift along these lines. However successful the team was under John Calipari, the Tigers were a tense operation. It showed on the floor and you could hear it in the locker room with every post-game comment. Expectations were such that no player was allowed a mistake, let alone a slump. Now this, from junior guard Roburt Sallie as he emerged from a shooting slump last month: “I honestly can’t tell you where I’d be last year if I started out the first three games like this, shooting-wise. I probably wouldn’t have seen the floor for a month or two. But Coach [Josh] Pastner lets us play through mistakes. You know, he’s in his first year, and he makes mistakes, too. We let him know. That’s the kind of relationship we have. It’s a good one. I’m appreciative to be here.”

As for the Grizzlies, the story since Allen Iverson signed with the club late last summer was how and when Iverson would fit the franchise. Who would have to sacrifice minutes to make sure AI stayed happy and productive? Could "The Answer" be a leader off the bench? How would Iverson and a coach with no track record of success cooperate? Well, each of these story lines was washed away when Iverson packed his things and chose retirement — and eventually, his old club in Philly — over Beale Street Blue. While the Grizzlies may not be playoff caliber — yet — winning nine of 14 games and beating the likes of Portland, Dallas, and Cleveland is new to Rudy Gay, Mike Conley, and O.J. Mayo. Better yet, the team can learn from and build upon slices of success without the concern of pleasing one Hall-of-Fame-bound veteran.

So let’s sing together for both our basketball teams: Ding-dong, the tension’s dead!

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• I was thoroughly pleased to learn last week of Whitey Herzog’s election to the Baseball Hall of Fame by the museum’s Veterans Committee. If imposing a philosophy of the game is as important as merely winning championships, the White Rat should have been enshrined years ago. After leading Kansas City to three division titles in the Seventies, Herzog moved on to St. Louis in 1980, where he immediately began building a team that would thrive on the artificial turf in cavernous Busch Stadium. Having designed his club around speed (Lonnie Smith, Willie McGee, Vince Coleman) and defense (Ozzie Smith, Keith Hernandez, Terry Pendleton), Herzog led the Cardinals to three pennants and the 1982 world championship. Take this to the bank: no baseball team will ever again win a World Series with its leading home-run hitter having hit but 19 (as George Hendrick did 27 years ago).

With Herzog’s election, consider the remarkable stretch of history among Cardinal managers. Presuming Joe Torre (1990-95) and Tony LaRussa (1996 to the present) are elected shortly after they retire, and with Red Schoendienst (1965-76) already a member, St. Louis has had Hall of Fame credentials in its manager’s office for 42 of the last 45 seasons. (Vern Rapp managed the Cards in 1977, Ken Boyer the next two seasons.)

• You gotta hate the BCS. (Though bless the decision-makers who put Boise State and TCU in the Fiesta Bowl together. It will be the best game of the postseason.) There will be at least two undefeated teams after the bowl games are played; three if Cincinnati can upset Saint Tebow in the Sugar Bowl. What would be wrong with an additional week of college football, and one more game to decide a champion on the field? I chase this question in circles every year, convinced that the moneymakers behind each of the 34 bowl games will cling to the current system as though it’s the last piece of driftwood after the Great Flood. But wouldn’t a single winner-take-all, post-bowl-season Game of the Year make more money than any bowl game under the current structure? I can’t figure it out.

The greatest Memphis athlete of the 1970s was Larry Finch. In the Eighties, Keith Lee. The Nineties, Penny Hardaway. But the 2000s have been a Memphis sports decade unlike any before. And the days when Bluff City sports began and ended with Tiger basketball are over. The person who most embodies the spirit of the transition we fans have enjoyed is himself the latest Memphis Athlete of the Decade: former Tiger great — former Tiger football great — DeAngelo Williams.

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When I told Williams of his latest honor — late last summer — he reacted as you might expect had you witnessed any postgame interview with the easy-to-smile, humble native of Wynne, Arkansas. “Sweet,” he said. “I’m numero uno?” When I explained that the honor brought no trophy, and was selected by a committee of one, he was just as gracious. “That’s sweet, man. I really appreciate that.”

The only challenging debate in reflecting on more than 80 years of Tiger football is coming up with the second-greatest player to wear blue and gray. Williams was the kind of player who would have starred at USC, Alabama, Texas, or Florida State. But he chose to play at Memphis.

After a modest freshman season (by his later standards), Williams shattered the Tigers’ single-season rushing record by almost 400 yards, with a total of 1,430 in 2003. He also accumulated 384 yards through the air and scored a total of 13 touchdowns. A late-season knee injury kept Williams out of the New Orleans Bowl, the program’s first postseason game in 32 years.

As a junior in 2004, Williams introduced himself into the Heisman Trophy conversation. In piling up 1,948 yards and 23 touchdowns, Williams had no fewer than four 200-yard games, including 262 against Houston and a school record 263 against South Florida. Labeled a “compact” back by some, Williams was a workhorse. In the Tigers’ biggest win of the season — over Eli Manning and Ole Miss — Williams carried the ball 37 times. He ran for 120 yards in his first bowl game, a loss to Bowling Green in the GMAC Bowl.

Williams established a third-straight single-season rushing record for Memphis in 2005, with 1,964 yards (topped off by 238 in his college finale, a victory over Akron in the Motor City Bowl). His career total of 6,026 yards made Williams only the fourth running back at college football’s highest level to gain 6,000 yards. (The others: Tony Dorsett, Ricky Williams, and Ron Dayne.) For the third consecutive season, Williams was named Conference USA’s Offensive Player of the Year, and he earned second-team All-America recognition from the AP. His career totals of 34 100-yard games and 7,573 all-purpose yards were NCAA records.

Former Tiger coach Tommy West had the best view of Williams’ heroics, and sees the impact his star tailback made as being larger than the game of football. “He was the total package,” says West. “I’ve got my DeAngelo shrine. When he returned a kickoff against the Miami Dolphins, he gave me the ball for Christmas. He’s a special person. As special a player as I’ve ever had. I don’t know that I’ve ever had a player that I felt like I was friends with. He’d come bopping in my door and we’d talk like two grown-ups.”

And just how did such a player land in Memphis? He came here because he wanted to be the guy,” stresses West. “He wanted to be something special. If he’d gone to Arkansas, he would have been like someone else. Here, everybody else is always going to be compared with him.”

After rushing for a total of 1,218 yards his first two seasons with the NFL’s Carolina Panthers, Williams broke out in 2008 with 1,515 yards and a league-leading 20 touchdowns. Having already broken the Panthers’ franchise record for career yardage, Williams has gained 1,022 through Sunday, good for sixth in the NFL.

In a city where basketball tends to steer conversation, DeAngelo Williams made football front-page news. It’s doubtful we’ll see another like him.

This is a story of thanks. Meant for a week during which being thankful registers a little deeper. (Or at least we pay closer attention to those for whom we’re grateful.) It’s a story of six old teammates of mine: Gabby, Cheese, Frog, Tim, Mike, and Audie. Together as Northfield Marauders, we played for Vermont’s 1985 Division III state runner-up soccer team. And quite honestly, that’s where the sports connection ends. Three months of a unified goal. (A time in which each of us achieved a physical condition we can fantasize over today.) But just as we survived an ass-kicking in that championship game without much enduring pain, we’ve survived 24 years of comings, goings, discoveries, and disappointments, and find ourselves on the other side of 40 now. Friendships fully intact. And for that I’m grateful.

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• Frank Murtaugh, third from right, with old friends in Myrtle Beach.

Some background: Frog — we came up with nicknames that stuck — is the superintendent of one of the finest golf courses in New England. Cheese is a high-school teacher in Montpelier, and runs a painting business on the side. Tim owns and manages an auto-repair shop in our hometown of Northfield, Vermont. Mike is an airline pilot, and Audie is a major in the Air Force, based in Guam. Gabby calls himself a “lifestyle educator.” Best we can tell, he advises people with serious health concerns — obesity, high blood pressure, diabetes — on ways to achieve healthier lives before relying entirely on pharmaceuticals to change their bodies’ chemistry. A noble enterprise if you ask me.  

With Cheesey motivating and Frog making arrangements near his parents’ new home in Myrtle Beach, we put together — and actually executed — a plan to gather for a weekend in October to collectively celebrate turning 40 this year. No wives allowed, no children. And  no excuses ... not even living on an island in the middle of nowhere. While boys will be boys, and men should behave like men, there are times in life — stages, I guess — when men acting like boys is healthy. And for three days on the coast of South Carolina, we acted like boys.  

The combination of sunshine, golf, cold beer, and midget wrestling will go a long way toward extending one’s life. Despite an ailing back that limited me to “designated putter” duties at Indigo Creek Golf Club, the steady, prolonged laughter of our gathering was unmatched in my adult life. And I say that with as happy a marriage — and the two most rewarding, delightful daughters — a man can claim. This was just prolonged, steady laughter ... of a different kind.  

Our oldest friends, you see, serve as soul mechanics. (Tim will appreciate this.) We tend to adjust priorities as we age, hopefully intelligently. Influences — like, say, a wife and children — enter our lives that make the days, weeks, and months less about who we are or who we were, and more about how we can best contribute to a larger cause. And this a good adjustment, a nice shift of gears (again for you, Tim) in the human condition. But old friends provide a realignment for the soul. In the right setting (a beach will always do) and with enough time (a long weekend will suffice), friends from our formative years remind us that we are, fundamentally, products of our youth. Take yourself too seriously at age 40, and a friend from your 17th year will quickly have you back on track. You may have 200 airmen under your command, but not one of them knows the difference your van made in high school. We know, Audie.  

Among the memories I’ll carry from Myrtle Beach — beyond the tallest pair of boots I’ve ever seen — is the remarkable consistency in happiness among seven men who have traveled in so many different directions. Each of us is happily married, six of us the parents of healthy children, with Gabby’s wife due in February. I’m not sure what the odds are of such a confluence, particularly among a group from a town so very small. I’ve lived near (and worked with) people for much of the 22 years since I left Northfield for college who don’t know me the way these six men do, distance be damned. We keep making friends, if we’re lucky, throughout adulthood. But the older you get, the harder it is to find a good soul mechanic.  

I’m eternally grateful for mine.

It’s hard to imagine a greater contrast within a 24-hour window for University of Memphis athletics. Friday night at FedExForum, 17,584 fans turned out to greet 32-year-old rookie basketball coach Josh Pastner for the Tigers’ regular-season opener against Jackson State. Then at noon Saturday, an announced 18,031 fans sat in the Liberty Bowl to say goodbye to 55-year-old football coach Tommy West, whose dismissal after nine years at the Tiger helm was announced five days earlier.

As tends to happen with greetings and sendoffs, one was positive (Pastner is undefeated as a head coach), the other not so much (West remains a victory shy of 50 with the Tigers). Sports are transient, particularly the college variety. Last weekend will stick, though, for Pastner and West.

“After the game, Mr. R.C. Johnson came and gave me the game ball,” said Pastner to a contingent of media after the Tigers beat Jackson State, 82-53. As if the coaching wonder-boy needed to further enhance his innocent-as-a-choir-boy image, he actually referred to the U of M athletic director as “Mr. R.C. Johnson.”

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“I took the ball and I told him — and I mean it — this has nothing to do with me. It’s about the players. The players win the games. This will never be me. Credit goes to the guys. They stepped up, gutted it out, and found a way.”

He may be new to the gig, but Pastner has his victory cliches polished and packaged. And what he’s missing, to this point, is that the 2009-10 basketball season is very much about him. The first legitimate roar in FedExForum this season came during the pregame video intro, when a gleaming face above a sparkling white shirt — that would be Pastner’s — appeared behind the rotating basketball-as-globe, the theme from “2001 a Space Odyssey” filling the arena’s sound system. He will not score a point this winter, nor dish out an assist or grab a rebound. But don’t doubt that Josh Pastner is the star of his team. (The news Saturday that yet another recruiting gem — Atlanta’s Jelan Kendrick – is on his way to Memphis only cements this region’s devotion to The Pastner Way.)

The atmosphere was considerably more subdued when West met the Memphis media one last time Saturday afternoon, after his Tigers fell to UAB, 31-21. (On the list of things West will not miss about his career as Memphis coach, press conferences in the back of what was once the visitors’ locker room at the Liberty Bowl must be near the top.) Unlike his emotional statement on November 9th, though, West had a firm grip on his comments, and sense of humor.

“I’ve got strong emotions,” he said. “But I’m not going to go into a tirade today. If that’s what you’re waiting for, I’m not going to do it. I took four Xanax before I came in here.

“Nine years is a long time. I’m going to miss being here, I really will. This is a good place, and there are good people here. This happens, it’s our business. You hate it for the seniors that you’re having this kind of year. A sour year. I’m not worried about myself. But most of those players won’t play again. I’m gonna coach some more, so it’s not about me. I hate it for them. I’d like to have seen them go out at home the right way.”

West described the calls he’s received from his peers in Conference USA, and managed a chuckle in recollecting the chats. “Everybody likes you this year, because they beat you,” he said.

On an idyllic, 70-degree afternoon for football, I counted a solitary sign in the Liberty Bowl that acknowledged West’s pending departure. Not exactly poetic, it read “W the Coach.” The letter will always stand for “West.” Sadly this year, it can’t be said to stand for “win.”

Pau Gasol was never going to win a popularity contest, at least not in Memphis. He arrived with a strange name, a strange game (a seven-footer with touch!), and an accent to boot. So in many respects, Pau Gasol embodied the arrival of big-league sports in the Bluff City, a foreign concept to generations accustomed to football and basketball B-leagues that didn’t make the sports section beyond the Mid-South. While he didn’t start the very first game in Memphis Grizzlies history (he scored four points off the bench on November 1, 2001), Gasol started 79 games as a 21-year-old rookie, and led Memphis in scoring average for each of his six full seasons here.

My introduction to Spain’s preeminent hoops export came in the form of an interview for a profile in the Grizzlies’ inaugural-season game-day program. I expected a wide-eyed, eager athlete trying to find his way with English, let alone his back-to-the-basket skills. Instead I found a confident — cocky, even — young man playing where he expected to play, in the world’s greatest basketball league. “You have to be confident,” he said, “if you’re going to be able to do things on the court. I’m very ambitious. I want to be one of the best, ever.” He took particular umbrage with the label most European players have been tagged with upon their arrival in the NBA. “You cannot be soft and play in the NBA,” he stressed. “There are more and more [Europeans] playing in the NBA, and we’re doing what we have to do.”

Gasol went on to lead the Grizzlies in scoring (17.6 ppg), total rebounds (730) and blocked shots (169). Despite Memphis winning only 23 games, Gasol was named the league’s Rookie of the Year (the first European to earn such honors). Among the players he topped for the trophy: San Antonio’s Tony Parker, Golden State’s Jason Richardson, and Utah’s Andrei Kirilenko.

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Gasol averaged 19.0 points and 8.8 rebounds in 2002-03, the season Hubie Brown took over as coach. The following season remains the Grizzlies’ finest to date: 50 wins and the franchise’s first playoff berth (where they lost to San Antonio in the first round). Gasol topped the team in scoring in 34 games. Lacking the flash of point guard Jason Williams or the off-the-court charms of swingman Shane Battier, Gasol was merely an efficient difference-maker at both ends of the court. Ironically, this was the only season as a Grizzly that Gasol did not shoot higher than 50 percent from the field (48.2). He paced the team in scoring in the playoffs, too (18.5 ppg), but was unable to thwart a sweep at the hands of the Spurs.

Gasol was the centerpiece for playoff teams again in 2005 and 2006, but found himself twice more on the wrong end of series sweeps. He averaged a career-high 20.4 ppg in 2005-06 and earned the first All-Star nod in Grizzlies history. Playing for a Western Conference squad that featured fellow-Europeans Dirk Nowitzki and Tony Parker, Gasol failed to score but grabbed 12 rebounds in 14 minutes of action. The shaggy beard Gasol sported during the 2005-06 campaign added a dose of personality to his game. But despite becoming the hairy face of the franchise, he never gained unqualified devotion from Grizzly fans. An 0-12 playoff record will do that to a star.

Despite missing 23 games with a broken foot, Gasol led the 2006-07 Grizzlies in scoring (20.8) and rebounding (9.8). But the club fell off the playoff wagon rather violently, losing 60 games. With the team on its way to another 60-loss season, Gasol was shipped to the Los Angeles Lakers on February 1, 2008. (Along with a pair of future draft picks, the trade brought the rights to Gasol’s younger brother, Marc, to Memphis.) Gasol left the Grizzlies as the franchise’s career leader in points (8,966), rebounds (4,096), blocks (877), and games (476).

In less than two full seasons as Kobe Bryant’s new sidekick, Gasol has played twice in the Finals (earning a championship ring last June), played in a second All-Star Game, and earned third-team All-NBA honors. Whether or not his path leads to the Hall of Fame, though, Gasol will always be the first big-league star Memphis could call its own. Worthy of Athlete of the Decade honors. Almost.

[The countdown is almost complete. After Stubby Clapp (5), Danny Wimprine (4), Chris Douglas-Roberts (3), and Pau Gasol (2), only one slot remains to be identified. Memphis’ Athlete of the Decade will be profiled here in December.]

Tommy West is among the most genuinely decent men I’ve written about as a journalist, and that includes the many sources and subjects I’ve met outside the sports arena. Which makes the countdown to his almost-inevitable ouster as University of Memphis football coach especially difficult. Last week’s embarrassing loss to East Carolina on a damp Tuesday night, in front of an all-but-empty Liberty Bowl (and on national television to make things worse), will likely be the game West’s critics recall as the shouts for a replacement grow in volume. The outcome surely indicates a growing chasm between the Tiger program and Conference USA contenders. And if the U of M cannot contend for a championship in a second-tier conference, ticket sales will continue to sag and the likelihood of joining a major conference will drop. The first person accountable for the team’s sagging performance, of course, is the head coach.

If West is indeed dismissed, though, athletic director R.C. Johnson and university president Shirley Raines had better have a candidate who personifies improvement in mind. This would seem to make common sense: don’t let go of a known quantity — however he may be struggling — without a better option behind the curtain. The last time Johnson dismissed a football coach (Rip Scherer, after the 2000 season), he had West — with credentials from his days running the Clemson program — behind that curtain as Scherer’s defensive coordinator. Due respect to current coordinators Clay Helton (offense) and Kenny Ingram (defense), neither is remotely buzz-worthy. And neither would sell an extra ticket if named head coach.

The Tiger football program has so many leaks, on such a large scale, that a head-coaching change would be merely a sponge on a listing ship. A new coach cannot shrink the Liberty Bowl. (4,117 fans may look small in a stadium that seats 30,000, but in the 60,000-seat Liberty Bowl?) Boosters line up to give money to the the school’s basketball program (which is reflected in salaries like the one John Calipari enjoyed for nine years). The football program is in the hands of a smaller group of diehards, with pockets not as deep. And while a basketball team can be made with four or five top recruits, a football team’s two-deep roster requires 44 capable players recruited in the heart of SEC country. Sound like a job you’d get in line for?

You won’t find in this space suggestions for a successor to Tommy West. Unless you know the names on Johnson’s speed dial, coaching candidates are speculative at best, random rumor at worst. And either way, entirely unfair to the man still challenged with winning four football games this year.

Empty seats scream in a football stadium. As Johnson and Raines respond to those screams, we’ll see how mindful they are of a one-man fix being nothing short of fantasy.

• The closing of Memphis Motorsports Park by Dover Motorsports is a disturbing development, and not just for Mid-South race fans. There’s a Darwinian quality to sports entertainment in the new economy, just like any other industry. But sports facilities are especially susceptible, as they rely almost entirely on the two words – long companions — that have come to be somewhat of an oxymoron: discretionary income. As recently as 2006, MMP was thriving, with total attendance in excess of 600,000. But despite hosting an annual event on NASCAR’s second-tier circuit (currently the Nationwide Series), the park’s business model collapsed under dwindling profits. And consider the facility was run with fewer than 30 employees. Current Sprint Cup drivers Kevin Harvick, Clint Bowyer, and Carl Edwards all won in Memphis, but star quality simply doesn’t sell like it once did. Certainly not enough to fund a yearlong operation like MMP.

The next local litmus test will be AutoZone Park, where the front-office has been turned inside-out and overhead reduced dramatically in the hopes of closing the gap between dwindling revenue and operating expenses. As much as summer baseball — like race weekends — feels like a given in our community, the enterprise is a matter of business. Here’s hoping the new management team at Third and Union has a tighter grip on profitability than Dover Motorsports did at MMP.

• I find the St. Louis Cardinals’ hiring of Mark McGwire as hitting coach to be especially dubious. Consider: the Cardinals are entrusting the tutelage of their hitters — including the best steroid-free (to this point) hitter in the game, Albert Pujols — to a former player who is on the Mt. Rushmore of the game’s “Steroid Era.” McGwire has been a virtual hermit since his retirement after the 2001 season, his biggest splash being the embarrassing testimony he delivered before Congress on St. Patrick’s Day in 2005. Now, all of a sudden, he’s prepared to face cameras and writers, day-in and day-out, for seven months, with questions about steroid use filling every thought bubble in every ballpark where the Cardinals play?

McGwire has built a reputation as a hitting guru from his home in California, and you’d like to think this will be a reunion with a happy ending. But with Pujols climbing the home run chart — and closing in on free agency — you have to wonder if proximity to a former player held guilty in the court of public opinion for cheating the game is healthy for either party.

National Baseball Day would be a step closer.

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A World Series game has not been played in the afternoon since Game 6 of the 1987 series. (That game was played in the Metrodome in Minneapolis, so even then there were no natural shadows on the field.) Games start in “prime time” on the east coast, often not ending till well past midnight — past the bedtimes of millions of kids from Maine to Miami.  

In the name of children coast to coast (and in the interest of our national pastime, clinging to relevance in many pockets of the country), the time has come for National Baseball Day. For a country obsessed with spectator sports, how is it that no federal holiday has been proclaimed to celebrate what so many millions do so often? And with no break between Labor Day and Thanksgiving, late October is ripe for a day with no school, no mail, no screaming alarm clock before the sun has risen.  

Here’s how the holiday would unfold: On the Wednesday that coincides with Game 1 of the World Series, the aforementioned schools and offices would close. Most importantly — pay attention, Fox — the game would start at 3 pm eastern time (noon on the west coast). Every child in the entire country with an interest in the game would be able to watch all nine innings, and before dinner. The television fat cats aiming to maximize ad revenue with prime time slots are missing a critical opportunity here: kids are a demographic, too. They — and more often, their parents — spend money. Maybe not on cars and beer, but certainly on video games, snacks, movies, and fast food. And when National Baseball Day is marketed the way it should be — for the kids! — smart-thinking sponsors will line up to be part of the outreach.  

I’ve interviewed professional baseball players who have little memory of the World Series from their childhood. They happened to develop skills in a sport that they watched considerably less than the NFL or NBA. (The latter has the good sense to televise national matinees throughout the winter and spring, even in the playoffs!) Major League Baseball, though, is compromising much of its future market by ignoring it when the Fall Classic is played. Remember the walk-off homers at Yankee Stadium during the 2001 World Series, only a few weeks after the horror of 9/11? Not if you’re under the age of 20 today. Derek Jeter and Scott Brosius did their thing after the witching hour in the Big Apple.  

Since a third round of playoffs was added in 1995, the Series has crept closer and closer to November. Now with the adjusted schedule, at least one game of the World Series will be played during the same month as Thanksgiving ... and that’s without any rain-outs (or snow-outs). With colder, wetter weather a part of the mix, wouldn’t daytime baseball make sense, simply for the brand of baseball we all want to see from the sport’s two best teams? (Baseball hats designed with earmuffs are an abomination.)  

Baseball isn’t for everyone, and there will be no obligatory viewing on National Baseball Day. Take your kids to a park or movie. If you don’t have kids, spend some bonus time with someone you love, maybe a special friend you need to catch up with. Or chill out and start some leisure reading you’ve been meaning to do. Just remember it was baseball that got you there.

But I’m giving up on football. I’d like to believe my sweet daughters will attend a few games with me in the years ahead, but as for keeping up with the action, they’re on their own. Football’s a funny game, with rules about as rigid as lemon meringue pie. Just when I think I’ve got it ... well, read on.

(To keep this as simple as possible, I’m going with NFL rules and regulations. We can discuss subtle differences in the college game when my head stops spinning.)

• The play clock exists to keep the game moving, 40 seconds from one play to the next. Watching a team huddle or send signals from sideline to quarterback is about as exciting as watching the line move at the DMV. But what happens when the 40 seconds expire, you on the edge of your seat to finally see a play? A whistle is blown and the referee crosses his arms (best signal in football): “Delay of game.” And the game is delayed ... further. Seems like punishing a talkative student by asking him to recite the alphabet.

• Every man playing tackle football is required to wear a helmet. But if you happen to drop that helmet a fraction in making a tackle — using it as a “weapon” — it’s an unsportsmanlike conduct penalty. What gives? Why not remove the helmets from the equation? Now that would deter head-to-head tackles rather quickly. And now, with the new horse-collar penalty, a player cannot be tackled by the back of his shoulder pads. The message is clear: tackle if you must, but do it gently.

• Football is a game of contact like few others. When the ball is snapped, men collide. But only until the quarterback throws the ball! At that point, it becomes competitive dance: which man downfield can contort himself mid-stride and grab the airborne pigskin without making contact with another player. There is no more subjective ruling in the land than “pass interference.” (Well, unless it’s “holding.”) With the possible exception of a batter hitting a baseball, no greater sense of timing is required by an athlete than a defensive back tackling a receiver. And the fact is, those safeties and corners who do this best are called for interference a lot more than the dancing d-backs (i.e. the great Deion Sanders) who prefer downfield ballet. Next time you run into a cornerback in a restaurant, give him a hug. (Just don’t lower your helmet.)

• Speaking of Sanders, the future Hall of Famer once said that when he’s returning a punt, he wished his teammates would simply lie down and let him run. Because as often as not, a blocker for a lengthy punt return is going to deliver an illegal block, bringing the most exciting play in football back as though it never happened. What’s worse, the offending penalty is likely to be 20 or 30 yards away from the returning ball-carrier, meaning whether or not the coverage player got planted on his face from behind had nothing to do with an athlete dodging seven or eight other would-be tacklers on his way to pay-dirt.

• The most egregious antidote to action in this hallowed game, of course, is the replay appeal. Whether initiated by a coach who disputes a call that his tailback fumbled before his knee touched the ground or a “booth review” that comes late in a game (or half), this is where millions of football fans get to do the same thing accountants (and too often, journalists) do 40 hours a week: sit and wonder. The NFL may have the right intent: getting the call correct, beyond human error. But what happens if a disputed play occurs after an official — a human — has blown his whistle? The play is beyond review. Human error, meet vicious cycle.

• Finally, we have the NFL’s “blackout rule.” Mandated for television broadcasts, this stipulates that a game that does not sell out will not be televised locally. Consider the logic here. If the Detroit Lions or Jacksonville Jaguars can’t market themselves enough (or win enough) to sell every last ticket to a home game, those fans not willing or able to buy a ticket aren’t allowed to see what they’re missing. It would be like a magazine refusing shoppers to buy its product on newsstands if they don’t subscribe. Pro football and television are the perfect marriage. But every bit as dysfunctional as the game itself.

Can’t wait 'til next Sunday.