Some things you suspect, some things you guess at and some things you just know.
It is no more shameful for Dick Butkus to pretend to be a football coach in Chicago than it was for Mike Ditka.
The 37-minute speech from Carlton Fisk at the Hall of Fame ceremony exceeded the total number of words spoken by Fisk in his entire baseball career.
Dennis Rodman is putting a camera in his home so Web surfers can eavesdrop on his parties, a prospect every bit as appealing as watching Dennis Miller on “Monday Night Football.”
Following some sort of unseen, divine road map, Reggie White has ended up in Green Bay and now in North Carolina, which should be all the proof all of us stubborn males need to stop and ask directions.
Now that Camp David is empty again, it can be used to settle the bigger war between jock fathers Earl Woods and Richard Williams.
Good riddance and back to Los Angeles for Ismael Valdes and the most notorious fingers in Chicago since Jake “Greasy Thumb” Guzik.
Here’s my plan: When Howie Long is giving his induction speech in Canton, we paste Dan Hampton’s face on the TV screen.
Even if front-office clerks Bryan Harlan and Ken Valdiserri were gambling on the Bears, no amount of actual, usable inside information ever showed up in their press releases.
Low attendance at Comiskey Park shows serious suspicions of the White Sox, whose fans also insist that the earth is flat, the moon is made of Camembert and Kathy Lee Gifford will be missed.
The lie is not in calling Kobe Bryant a rap artist, it is in calling rap art, or rap craft, for that matter.
Astonishingly, new head Blackhawks clerk Mike Smith refused to lie about when the Stanley Cup would come to Chicago, not by 2004, nor by the end of his contract, which will come first unless he wises up.
If Harold Baines comes back for thirds with the White Sox, he ought to just change his first name to Minnie.
Of course it is Cade McNown’s job to lose, and Brian Urlacher’s and Curtis Enis’ or Mark Hatley is the most incompetent personnel judge since … well, whoever it was who brought us Rick Mirer, Rashaan Salaam and John Thierry. And speaking of Dave Wannstedt …
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In the end, James Baldwin will give up more home runs than Frank Thomas hits.
Baseball has determined that nearly half of the folks who go to baseball games are females, but that 43 percent of the women cannot name one player on the hometown team, although 30 percent of them still guess Mark Grace.
Losing 5-0 to Spain in tennis may have been shameful, but they still don’t get back the Philippines.
As Mark McGwire suffers through tendinitis, out of action for maybe the rest of the season, cancer survivor Lance Armstrong is making plans to win his third straight Tour de France.
Since Sports Illustrated, using its unlimited resources and hard-hitting investigative journalism techniques, has boldly pronounced David Wells fat, we can hardly wait for the next piece declaring Muggsy Bogues short.
Baseball’s executive of the year must be Ed Lynch, whose absence has turned the Cubs around and spurred them to a six-game winning streak. Lynch, by the way, was known around the clubhouse as “Big Dumb Ed.”
Baltimore linebacker Ray Lewis will not be punished further by the NFL because he “has suffered enough.” Ratting out your friends and taking a year’s probation is hard on a soul, though not as hard as, you know, dying.
Why should George Steinbrenner have to pay to keep a baseball team in Montreal, or Minnesota, or Oakland, or South Florida? Because Steinbrenner can afford it and if he doesn’t, then Bud Selig became commissioner of baseball for no other reason than to keep the Milwaukee Brewers from going out of business.
Isiah Thomas will try to coach the Indiana Pacers, a mistake never made by Larry Bird.
When a sportswriter makes the list of “America’s 100 Most Eligible Bachelors,” what you know is the votes were taken at 3 a.m., with no taxi in town, a full pint in the computer bag, the wedding ring in the pocket and the assurance that Michael Jordan is not only a close personal friend but will be dropping by the room later for batting tips. Hey, it always worked in Sarasota.