Some things you suspect, some things you guess at and some things you just know.
When Don Zimmer loses his love for baseball, it is baseball’s fault.
It is prudent to remember that whenever Sox GM Ron Schueler has a back-up-the-truck outburst, his only real job is to pick up Jerry Reinsdorf’s toys.
As a matter of fact, the Winter Olympics will fit Salt Lake City like a pair of expensive gloves, not O.J. Simpson’s, of course.
Not only does Pat Riley have to color inside the lines, he has to keep your crayons.
Though he wants to go back, Scottie Pippen’s domestic detours will keep him off the Olympic team.
Just give Francisco Franco’s old title of Generalissimo to Olympic nabob Juan Antonio Samaranch and be done with it.
The marketing challenge for Nike and Reebok is which can do a better job of obfuscating the playoff performances of Michael Jordan and Shaquille O’Neal (free suggestions: Fair Jordan and Shaq Loafers.)
Every time the Big Unit (Randy Johnson) faces the Big Hurt (Frank Thomas) it should be a Bigger Deal.
Buck Showalter getting a pep talk from George Steinbrenner has the same reassurance as a pork loin getting a lullaby from the butcher.
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Cutting down a lodgepole such as Jorge Luis Gonzalez puts Riddick Bowe back either at the head table of boxing, or the buffet table–his choice.
Darryl Strawberry should be allowed a tax deduction for getting career advice from Diego Maradonna.
Another Frank Thomas tantrum and someone may mistake him for a leader.
When Cardinals fans sigh and speak of Todd Zeile the way Cubs fans speak of Lou Brock, bacon will be a health food.
Never has the word interim had a better fit than Terry Bevington.
It is impossible to shake the feeling that giving Mickey Mantle a new liver is like buying a bartender a new cooler.
Barry Bonds’ invitation for booing fans to take his place in the field and do better should not be taken seriously until it includes a switch in salaries.
Using the Bible (John 8:7) to defend his oafishness ought to cost Bobby Knight another $30,000.
Baseball’s whine that it needs at least 11 new stadiums has the same sad longing as Bonnie telling Clyde that they could use 11 new banks.
The bigger insult to B.J. Armstrong will be if he is not taken in the expansion draft by either Vancouver or Toronto, but more interesting is to see which, the Bulls or Armstrong, uncrosses their fingers first.
Even Nebraska has to understand that greed is a perfectly good academic excuse for staging a Big 12 championship playoff game.
Before every Sox game, someone ought to go through the opposing dugout and take up a collection for Roberto Hernandez’s cab fare to the ballpark.
That old Chicago Bear and present Amsterdam Admiral himself, Will Furrer, had to throw every one of those 64 passes to lose the World Bowl to Frankfurt.
For poetry’s sake, if not just to beat the traffic, the Cincinnati Bengals ought to leave in the middle of the night for Baltimore.
The only proper presenter for Chris Evert to enter the tennis hall of fame on July 16 is not, after all, George Bush but her father Jimmy.
One octopus is eight too many.
Monica Seles left tennis as a wounded champion but she returns with a pre-paid guarantee in an exhibition against Martina Navratilova as a sideshow curiosity.
In light of Jimmy Johnson’s obvious desire to coach the Dolphins, his prediction of Miami over San Francisco in the next Super Bowl is a clear case of premature supplantation.
The most stunning bit of needless knowledge from the NBA Finals is that Shaquille O’Neal paints his toenails.
Baseball in Chicago; find it.