So here's my latest brain burp: a new hall of fame devoted to sports fans, those abused, disgusted but completely devoted loyalists who won't give up on their teams no matter what. There have to be about 10 of us left, so the time to move is now, before the number drops to just you and me.
I'd place the Fans Hall of Fame across from Staples Center. Any team or league could sponsor an exhibit, but the broadcasters would have a big presence too, greats like Red Barber, Bob Uecker and that kid Scully who shows so much promise.
I'd make it free. There'd be peanuts on the floor and a refreshment stand (tavern) with a wax figure of Harry Caray tending bar. On the jukebox, you could press a button and hear Bill Murray sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." Or hear Chick Hearn go on and on about Jell-O.
Certainly, there'd be a Jack Nicholson wing. For Lakers fans, ol' blue eyes is our symbol, our spiritual leader, our Dalai Lama.
He is the best sixth man the NBA has ever seen, the oddest weapon in a very odd league. He should get an Oscar nod just for what he says to Ron Artest.
Nicholson doesn't return my calls, or those of any other scribe, though he'll talk to the obnoxious Jim Gray on occasion. That's a line I won't cross, the obnoxious one, though I've noticed more and more that it's the obnoxious among us who seem to thrive -- the Donald Trumps, the Paula Abduls, the real housewives of wherever county.
Remember the guy who won "Survivor," in part by disrobing, then later went to jail for tax evasion? There's the modern American dream at work.
Thank goodness for Nicholson, who mostly manages to keep his boxers on and whose very best work has always been on behalf of the scrappy little guy. Like Jordan Farmar, for example.
You want the truth? You couldn't handle the truth. But if we had our way, the Nicholson wing would be one of the most popular attractions in our Fans Hall of Fame.
Lord, we need a hall of fame now, as I hear more and more grumbling from fans. Once a way to escape life's crud, sports today seems to be a collection of the crud. The bad stuff spans from overwrought youth coaches to hopped-up superstars.
The new mantra: Just sin, baby.
Really, have you figured out yet how to explain Manny to your T-ball team? That's a conversation that involves cheating, banned drugs and female hormone levels. Sure, it's a "teachable moment," but if you can explain all this to a bunch of 6-year-olds, you deserve an Oscar.
