… I figured I’d make a list. TOP 10 THINGS THAT IRK ME ABOUT ESPN.

1. Chris Berman’s nicknames.

2. The way they celebrated distance and strength and power well after steroids were obvious.

3. That they gave Barry Bonds a reality show.

4. Around the f*&%ing Horn.

5. Stephen A. Smith—a man who insists on the A.

6. The way they treated Mike Freeman after his excellent tell-all book on the network.

7. Stuart Scott and his worn-out late-90s lingo.

8. Ron Jaworski. I know, I know—he’s supposed to be amazing and all. But I just can’t listen.

9. The way they hyped Terrell Owens until there was nothing left to hype.

10. Having a non-print journalist host the Sports Reporters.

The book isn’t scheduled to be released for quite a while, but I do have a first look at the cover to “The Rocket that Fell to Earth.” This sort of reminds me of being a kid and sitting around the TV, anxiously awaiting MTV’s debuting of a new video. Inevitably, the Stray Cats’ “Rock This Town” video would suck. Hopefully this book doesn’t follow suit.

Am writing as we speak. A very, very rough process …

While working out at the gym earlier today, I had the misfortune of watching ESPN’s coverage of Super Bowl Media Day II. Specifically, I saw some reporter ask Pittsburgh’s Willie Parker some of the dumbest questions of all time (Note: My mom says there’s no such thing as a dumb question. She is wrong.) Among the inquiries:

• “You had a long run in the last Super Bowl you played in. Would you like another one of those?”

• “Are you tired of being asked questions like these?”

Come to think of it, that second one is pretty good, because it allows Willie Parker to say, “Are you f-ing kidding me? Are you f-ing kidding me? Of course I’m tired. Y’all can’t think of one original thing to ask me. Not one. So, yeah, I’m tired, because you’re a moron, and just because I’m paid phat dollars doesn’t mean I should be forced to sit here and listen to this bullshit.”

Sadly, Parker merely smiled and nodded. Oy.

Really, watching such affairs reminds me of why I left Sports Illustrated six years ago. I was tired of the garbage. Sports can be sooooo cliched, and while many don’t seem to mind, it actually drove me to drink. First, there’s the presumption that these athletes are fascinating people—which, 98% of the time, they’re not. Think about it: Your life is train, compete, train, compete, train, compete. Sure, the pay is great. And women will sleep with you in odd positions. But does that result in a riveting humanoid? I’d argue the opposite.

Second, while I respect many of my professional peers, the large majority suck. Not suck, in the “bad” sense. “Suck,” as in they have no interest in striving to go beyond. Take a guy like Tom Verducci, for example. Tom and I were co-workers for six years at Sports Illustrated, and he’s the best reporter I’ve ever seen. Why? Because the guy probed; asked real questions; hunted around for the right answers; never, ever, ever fell in with a pack of reporters, standing to the side and comparing notes. He rose above, and saw sports (in his case, baseball) in a very unique light. But Tom’s a rare gem. Most reporters head straight for the quarterback; run the standard cliches; nod with every banal answer. It’s sickening, but reality.

Anyhow, I’m babbling. But you probably get my drift.

Here it is. Perfectly stated …

It seems like, over the past two weeks or so, I’ve been running into Jennifer Love Hewitt all the friggin’ time. At Costco with the wife. In CVS. At the supermarket tonight. Generally, I don’t notice the cover of Us Weekly—a magazine I rate right after Popular Douchebag on my favorites list. But for some odd reason, wherever I look, there’s perky Jen, peeking out from this cover:

For those of you who aren’t down with with ol’ Sarah Reeves (ie Hewitt), Us says she was recently dumped by her fiance, who tired of her nonstop wedding planning. Though this certainly seems like a good enough reason to dump your future wife, I’m skeptical. Odds are, if the fiance kicked Hewitt to the curb, it wasn’t because she was an insane wedding planner—but because she’s simply insane.

Why do I say this? Because all celebrities are insane. They truly, truly, truly. truly. truly are. I’ve met many in my day as a writer, and even the relatively normal ones shrivel up if they’re not the center of attention for more than three minutes. I think back to an assignment from seven or eight years ago, when I spent five days with Molly Sims on an SI Swimsuit shoot. Molly, myself and a crew of, oh, seven or eight were all holed up at a lodge in Meeker, Colorado. She was nice and friendly, but she clearly knew she was the shit, and we were the wipers. You were expected to laugh at her jokes, comment on her looks (My take: Meh), etc, because, well, she was famous.

Now, having spent several years mechanically butchering lines on a canceled TV show, I’m willing to bet Sims only drinks bottled water and valet parks her car at a mall. Why? Because fame is the world’s worst drug.

Well, save for crack.

… is reading your manuscript. Then reading it again. and again. and again. and again. and again. and again. By the time it’s all over, you hate the damn thing, because it’s rotted your once-thriving brain into mashed carrots. And I loathe mashed carrots. Unless they’re sweetened with some brown sugar, and maybe a drop or two of vanilla extract. In that case, they’re really yummy, and make for an excellent snack.

So after about 2 1/2 years of writing for ESPN.com, I’ve jumped ship, returning to my old Sports Illustrated haunting ground to write a regular Friday column for SI.com.

I wish I had exciting details to report, but, really, I don’t. I loved writing for ESPN.com—my editors were cool, the exposure was fantastic, the pay, well, eh, hmm—my editors were cool.

Unfortunately, like most places these days, ESPN has been struggling. This is just my take, but it seems the network/website/magazine became obsessed with adding every big journalism name out there. So it started unloading tons and tons of money on the Rick Reillys of the business. Rick, of course, is a wonderful talent. But what have they done with him? At some point, ESPN seemed to be hiring for the sake of hiring. They treated journalists in the way sports organizations treat players—gobbling up “free agents” without much thought. Now, they’re loaded with big names, but is the finished product that much better? Probably not.

I, for one, was never a big name at ESPN. Hell, I didn’t even have a contract. I was paid per column, at a pretty inexpensive clip. But when the site was told to reduce expenses, well, I saw that the end was near; that my end was near.

So I left.

Truthfully, I’m happy to be back at SI. I loved working for ESPN, but I never loved ESPN. It was sorta like playing for the Yankees against Kansas City. Too big, too powerful, too rich, too overwhelming. I think I’d rather help the upstart (in this case, SI’s website) kick ass.

Hence, here I am. Column starts next Friday …

Made the mistake of listening to Mike Francesa on WFAN as I drove home today. Man, this is a broadcaster who truly turns my stomach. Knows everything. Listens to no one. Talks as if he’s coached 20 years—as opposed to the reality: Sitting on his rear, binging on Frito’s, spewing nonsense into a microphone.

Anyhow, Francesa and one of the station’s employees were discussing Super Bowl Media Day, and all the inane questions that were asked. They were particularly hard on the reporter who wanted to know about Willie Parker’s tattoo. “There are so many dumb things asked,” Francesa said. “Blah, blah, blah, blah …”

So here’s the thing: Whoever asked Willie Parker about his tatts—hats off, bro.

It’s easy and mindless to show up at a big sports media event and spew the standard, expected drivel about “what’s your motivation?” and “can you talk about Kurt Warner’s revival?” and all the crap of that ilk. Yet the way to get a true story—to really find something—is to ask the questions that no one else has the balls to throw out there. Maybe Willie Parker’s tattoo is for a dead relative. Maybe it’s to signify his love of Jimmy Carter. Maybe it’s just an ugly design. Who knows? But the only way to get something different from an otherwise brain-dead gathering is to reach outside the box.

On the down side, morons like Francesa might rip you.

On the bright side, you might snag a great piece.

** A side note. Six or seven years ago I went with Jesse Orosco to San Diego’s Lego World for a profile. We walked around the park and stumbled upon a Jessica Simpson concert. There were about 200 people there, and she could actually sing. Time, alas, has not treated the ol’ sista well …

My wife is addicted to stuff. Well, not stuff. Stuff to put stuff in. She loves boxes and crates, baskets and shelves. Every half year or so, she’ll get sick of the mess bogging down our house and go on a pilgrimage to some sort of Container Store-esque place. Today, she made a visit to Long Island’s very own Ikea, and came home with two enormous boxes.

One contained a shelving unit to place the stuff in my daughter’s room. The other contained a shelving unit to place the stuff in the den. Soon, we’ll need a box or bag to put the stuff that holds the stuff that contains the stuff. It gets confusing, and sometimes a bit bewildering. I love my wife, and clearly it could be worse. There are people addicted to jewels, to crack, to sports. She’s merely addicted to large wood shelves.

The Super Bowl’s coming! Really, it’s coming! But, just being honest, this is an unexcited as I’ve been in eons. Just don’t care about the Steelers, and only sorta care about the Cardinals. I’d say the big problem is that Super Bowl XXXXIII is not a battle of the NFL’s top best teams—just its two hottest. At best, Arizona ranks fourth or fifth in the NFC, and the Steelers—in my debatable opinion—were lucky the Colts fell and the Pats didn’t qualify. Yes, their defense is killer. But the offense? Blah.

I’m thinking this might have something to do with age. As a kid, I LOVED the Super Bowl. As a teen, I REALLY LIKED the Super Bowl. As an adult, I enjoy the Super Bowl. But once you’ve covered enough big events, you stop seeing them as big deals and start noticing the little men behind the curtains. The lights, the cameras, the fireworks, the dancers—all showbiz. Come day’s in, everyone farts and poops and goes to bed.

Man, I’m a downer.