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ROY’S RANTS, PEEVES AND ASSORTED GRIPES

What bugs me about sports? I tell you what bugs me.

Autographs, for starters. I’m sick of how autographs have taken over sports like a huge monster, making fools of athletes and fans, driving a wedge between them, and cheapening everything.

You go to a game now, there are signs everywhere, NO AUTOGRAPHS. Here’s my two cents: If you’re an athlete, you should sign autographs for at least 20 minutes before or after your event or appearance.

Let the fans line up, you sign for your 20 minutes then say, “That’s it, folks, sorry if I didn’t get you and hope I can next time. Thank you very much for caring!”

And don’t sign only when the cameras are rolling. Do it whenever you can, because it’s a way of saying thanks to the fans who not only like and admire you, but pay your salary.

Don’t blow off the autograph hounds by saying, “I have to do my work.” This is your work. Don’t have your bodyguards push the fans aside or clear them away, that’s crazy.

And take the time to make your signature look like something more than a line from a seismograph printout. Most autographs today wouldn’t even qualify as scribbles. I think this is a metaphor for what some players think of fans, that the fans are not worth actually signing a legible name.

Now if you’re a fan, be a fan and not a crazed stalker. Be polite. Understand that even the most kind-hearted athlete can’t sign every autograph.

The whole process has lost any semblance of dignity. The autograph started as a simple and honest form of human connection between a fan and a famous person. Now the process has all the warmth and humanity of a withdrawal from an ATM.

The market for autographs has made the whole autograph process more devisive and dehumanizing for everyone. I’ve been to autograph shows and seen signs like, “Do not engage in conversation with Mr. Mays. He will sign flats only. Do not ask him to personalize unless you want pay another $39.95.”

These athletes should be on their knees thanking God that someone wants their signature.

Autographs are a commodity, and every athlete knows that some adults will try to get his signature in order to sell it, or will hire kids posing as “fans” to get the autograph, and this gives many athletes an excuse to shut down completely.

But there’s no way out. Autographed baseballs sell for $450. No wonder athletes are mad, they’re being used. Of course, they’re also exploiting the system.

Remember that Pepsi commercial where Mean Joe Greene tosses his jersey to the little kid? In real life, the kid would sell the jersey on EBay and buy a Porsche. Then Mean Joe would get wise and start selling his “game-worn” jerseys to these sad-eyed little kids.

Now the athletes sell their “game-used” or “game-issued” clothing and equipment. On Barry Bonds’ web site you can buy a game-issued (not used in a game, but it could have been) glove signed by Bonds for $5,000.

Those famous-athlete web sites, I’m not a fan of those. That’s where the superstar avoids real interaction with the media (and therefore the fans) by serving up third-grade level hokum and pablum on his web site. And then sells you the shirts off his back.

Moving on, can we please put an end to high-fiving God after home runs and touchdowns? You know, when the hero crosses home plate and points to his Big Hitting Coach in the Sky? Me and You, God!

It’s as if Mr. Slugger is the only person in the ballpark with a direct connection to God at that moment. I bet God is on his speed-dial. I guess the home run or touchdown means that God has taken this opportunity to punish the heathen opposing pitcher or the sinning linebackers. But hey, it’s their fault for not going to chapel this morning.

Wouldn’t God be just as grateful for your thank-you if you delivered it to Him or Her in private? And not by reading a prepared statement. I’m sick of those, too. The prepared-statement apology is the worst. Try one of those on your wife or girlfriend.

And if you’re thanking God in your postgame interview for helping you hit that home run, when you strike out with bases loaded, shouldn’t you thank Him publicly for keeping you humble, and for showing mercy to the opposing pitcher?

I’m bleary-eyed from the logo wallpaper that now serves as the backdrop for every press conference.  It’s the team logo or a sponsor logo copied 1,000 times, to be seared onto your brain. Just once I’d like to see one stamped 1,000 times with “GREED-GREED-GREED.”

And there is no longer such a thing as, say, a pitching change. Now it’s a Speedy Oil Change Pitching Change, or the Viagra Third-Down Measurement.

Incidentally, Viagra is great for those in need, but how many of these commercials do we need to see? Surely every person who could use this type of assist is now fully aware of the choices, so why the continued barrage?

I’m dizzy from the rotating signs on the basketball sidelines, the computer ads on baseball backstops, and now some arenas have video screens that run completely around the arena and flash non-stop commercials. I’m afraid this stuff is going to start giving people seizures, like Japanese cartoons.

I’ve had it with the 24-hour sports highlights on TV. We’re oversaturated and inundated with scores, information, highlights, commentary on the highlights and highlights of the commentary. Sure, you the viewer can pick and choose, but I remember fondly the old Monday Night Football halftime shows when Howard Cosell would narrate the highlights of the previous day’s NFL games, 10 minutes of everything you need to know.

I’m sick of the award shows, especially the ESPYs. They congratulate the athletes, promote the athletes, pay the athletes (in gifts, expenses or other considerations), then claim to be honest news organizations covering the athletes objectively.

I did a TV commercial with Michael Jordan once and I was criticized by John Walsh of ESPN, for compromising my objectivity. I said to John, “Are you kidding me? Every ESPN ad on TV uses a famous athlete. You guys are totally in bed with these guys.”

I don’t want to overanalyze this, but we overanalyze everything. Too many stats, especially in baseball. Do we really need to know a player’s batting average with two outs and a 1-2 count? It’s the Billy Beane-ization of sport. I like Billy, he’s a very bright and entertaining guy. But enough already about Scott Hatteberg’s on-base percentage.

Here’s a useful stat: Joe Blow is hitting .500 (2-for-4) lifetime against Lefty Johnson. Announcers give us these stats as if they had any meaning, and managers use ‘em to justify strategy. Two-for-four! The two hits were a check-swing dribbler and a pop up the pitcher lost in the sun, but the hitter is hitting .500 so he’s King Kong.

I hate college football coaches’ TV shows. TV at its worst. Complete fluff and dishonesty. “Sure we’re 3-and-11, but every dang one of our starters exhales carbon dioxide, which is a building block of photosynthesis!”

Shock radio, another peeve. Every athletic mistake or failure is blown up to the level of a felony. You didn’t merely boot a ground ball, you failed as a human being and deserve to be attacked by every frantic host and call-in yahoo. The ridicule and criticism is constant. You don’t question a manager’s strategy, you question his manhood, his IQ and his sanity.

I believe this causes fans to become angry and entitled, and promotes the disintegration of relationships between athletes, fans and the media. When did it become so uncool to be cool?

Two sports radio stations in Miami were battling for ratings. One station publicly referred to the other as “sissy-boy radio, a bunch of girlish-type topics.” The other station called the first one, “Old, white, nursing-home. . .fossilized radio.” Marconi would be so proud.

I’ve had it with the posse. Any posse, and not just those of inner-city basketball players.  Finnish lugers have ‘em. Some tennis stars travel the world with a full-time racket stringer. One basketball player has a buddy on his payroll whose only duty is to wake up the star. A human alarm clock! I wonder, if a guy is rich and famous enough, is his posse so important that it has its own posse? A farm posse?

I don’t get the phony attempts to make stock-car racing look like everyman’s sport by bringing in celebrity fans. We’re supposed to believe that Magic Johnson is an avid NASCAR fan, or that stock-car racing is hot in the ‘hood and in Hollywood?

I’m sick of voodoo economics. TV ratings continue to drop for many sports but broadcast revenues rise. The players make more and more money, the team owners and all the corporate people involved make more and more money, and what’s the upshot? You can’t afford to attend a live sporting event unless you’re an oil baron, a Saudi sheik or Bill Gates. Going to a Laker game at Staples Center is like checking into the Ritz Carlton.

Go to an NFL game and there are no fans under the age of 25. Nobody can afford to take a kid to an NFL game. You can only take your customers, and write it off on your taxes.

While we’re fixing things here, can we blow up all the luxury boxes? Sorry--luxury suites. Chandeliers, fine art, crystal and silver. Bulletproof glass to keep out the chill and the annoying crowd noise. Five TV monitors, but nobody’s watching the game.

The whole New Elitism of sport is more than annoying. It started in L.A. and New York, but it’s creeping. Valet parking at a ballgame? Preferred parking? Next we’ll see moguls carried to their courtside seats on sedan chairs.

I’ve had it with the $8.50 hot dog. I took my two kids to a ballgame, we got hot dogs, nachos, drinks, and a pretzel as hard as a steering wheel. Sixty-five bucks for an armload of microwaved synthetic garbage.

And when you buy a ticket, what’s that $5 convenience fee? It’s not convenient for me to pay an extra $5. It should be called an inconvenience fee.

Extreme tailgating, that loses me. You set up your base camp a week before the game, barbecue a moose carcass and wash it down with a keg of beer, then stagger into the game. It’s not a hobby, it’s a bizarre lifestyle. If it helps you enjoy the game, fine, but please try not to barf on my sneakers, okay?

Is anyone else tired of the shirtless guys with the body paint in the blizzard? One thing this is good for: If any of these guys are ever charged with a crime, they can plead insanity and prove it by showing the jury the TV clip of the suspect sitting half naked in a blizzard, waving a barbecued moose leg.

Can we have a new rule that no TV-radio pregame show or postgame show can last longer than the game? These shows once provided a pleasant bridge between reality and the event. Now it’s paralysis by overanalysis.

I enjoy the Olympics, but I resent being forced into a heavy emotional investment in sports I don’t care about because they pop onto my TV screen for 10 minutes once every four years, and if I withhold my love, I’m unpatriotic. Ice skating, swimming, volleyball, luge, curling, synchronized anything--lovely sports, all of them, but don’t guilt-trip me if I’m not cheering with my heart and soul.

I’m no Communist, but I cringe at the USA! USA! USA! chanting at international events. We know who we are, the other countries know who we are. We are the coolest country ever, but let’s not rub Nigeria’s or Australia’s nose in it, okay?

Thank you, I feel much better now.

ROY’S KINDER, GENTLER SIDE

You cannot make your living in sports, or at least you shouldn’t, unless you are a goose-bump guy. Here are some of the things that give me the chills, that make me glad I lucked into a career that involves great moments and great athletes.

So punch up John Coltrane on the jukebox with “These Are a Few of My Favorite Things.”

Wrigley Field, Yankee Stadium, Fenway Park. They are separate little worlds, and visits to them never fail to get my blood pumping. Put me in one of these ancient temples of baseball with something on the line and I’m a happy man.

Or the stadium in Ann Arbor, Michigan, with 100,000 close friends on a football Saturday afternoon.

Or the Rose Bowl on New Year’s Day, at sunset, the air turning chilly and the last rays of sun dancing with the San Gabriel Mountains. It’s more beautiful every year.

I love the jolt of electricity running though the crowd before the bell at a heavyweight championship fight. Two giants are about to try to kill one another, and it’s all very exciting and very real.

I’ve never been an auto racing fan, but you stand near the first turn at the Indy 500, and here they come, and the sound and power smack you in the chest and knock you backwards.

I love Duke’s Cameron crazies, all passion and noise.

I love the love affair between Brett Favre and the Packers fans. Nothing quite like it. Brett wrote the book on how a great athlete should treat the fans, and the Cheeseheads wrote the book on how to return that love. Nothing phony, nothing held back. It’s a beautiful thing to see.

Certain voices cut right to the heart. Dave Johnson calling the Kentucky Derby over the PA system at Churchill Downs, there’s nothing like it. “And down the stretch they come!” I don’t care if it’s 10 mules and a donkey, you get the chills.

I love to hear Joe Buck calling a ballgame as well as his father did. Jack passed the torch beautifully. Joe is one of the best in the biz, a great guy, and humble. Not a lot of gimmicks, though I like the “Track! Wall! Gone.” Just broadcasting integrity and a commitment to the craft.

Give me Johnny Miller at the mike in a big golf tournament. I’ve never met anyone so incapable of holding back an honest comment.

And I know I’m home when I hear Vin Scully invite me (and a million other close friends) to pull up a chair. That’s how Vinny has opened his Dodger broadcasts for over 50 years, and it’s the start of three hours of poetry.

Derek Jeter, there’s something special about this guy, it’s almost spooky. He not only comes through in the clutch, he does it in new and crazy ways. Remember the backhand flip to home plate to nail Jeremy Giambi and kill the A’s in the playoffs? The swan dive into the stands for that foul ball? He’s almost a cartoon character, the ways he finds to beat you.

 For sports moments you can’t beat Lance Armstrong in the Tour de France, going into the mountains. For the Decade de Lance, the stage of the race where they head for the hills was almost its own season. It’s like, Honey, do you remember our first date? Of course I do, it was in ’97, the week Lance rode into the mountains.

A lot of guys could ride with Lance until the pavement got steep. I never attended the Tour, but it was a thrill to hear the TV announcers say, “There’s Lance Armstrong, dancing on his pedals!”

I love the last out of the Little League World Series, maybe more than the last out of the real World Series. The raw emotion, the joy, the tears. It’s life and death with these little guys and I believe they’re learning hard and wonderful life lessons.

I loved watching the Red Sox get it done in ’04. I’m no rabid Red Sox fan, but I’ve never seen anything like their run in the playoffs and World Series. Bob Costas (?) has a theory that we all over-dramatized the curse & anguish angle, but it was a remarkable month of real baseball thrills in a magnificent setting.

I love the attitude, style, joy, flair and unworldly skill that a few special people bring to the party.

I love Ozzie Smith’s backflip, Emmitt Smith’s heart and LeBron James’ creativity. For joy, there’s Miguel Tejada, who gets more fun out of baseball than the other guys. He reminds me of Magic Johnson.

Some people are put off by Ray Lewis’ strutting, but not me. He walks onto the field, he’s got his hand up, he’s doing that thing with his helmet, and dancing and strutting. It’s an exuberance I find endearing. Sometimes he carries it too far, but at the start, to set the stage, it’s like something from the days of the Roman gladiators when they had to impress the fans and intimidate the opponent, or die.

I love watching Kobe Bryant deal. I know he leaves some people cold, but when you try to define the burning need to excel, you just point to Kobe A. Arrogant, selfish? No doubt, at times, but still I marvel.

My job would be a bore without the likes of Barry Sanders and Tony Stewart working with a sliver of daylight, or Jim Edmonds outrunning a line drive.

When Barry Bonds is at the plate, you realize you’re watching the culmination of 150 years of hitting evolution. Whatever Barry used or didn’t use, however all that controversy eventually comes out, I’ll never forget his hitting in the ’02 World Series, probably the single most amazing performance over a series I’ve seen in athletics. He never missed a pitch. Whether or not he’s deserving of our applause as a human being, he surely is a hitting marvel.

In sports, to me, the good always far outweighs the bad. Put me at any ballgame, any sport, and I’ll find something I love and someone I admire. Just give me a game and a hot dog, even an $8.50 hot dog, and I’m a happy guy.