When coaches are in trouble, we—the media—pounce.

He might get fired.

He could get fired.

He should get fired.

He will get fired.

Any.

Day.

Now.

If he loses this game, he’ll get fired.

Yes, he won that game. But it was close. So if he loses this game, he’s dead.

He’s dead.

I think.

Maybe.

Personally, I hate this stuff; hated the whole Charlie Weis firing frenzy. We, humans, are so bored that this genre of speculation counts for genuine entertainment. We question and wonder and pronounce. In South Bend, the Weis-is-gone watch has been going on for years. Then they’ll bring in a new coach. And he’ll stink. So the speculation will start again. And again. And again. They say coaches are hired to be fired, and it’s almost always true. But why do people find the drama so engrossing? Why was Weis’ fate at Notre Dame—a long-lost college football program—especially interesting? Does his dismissal impact my life in any way at all?

Come to think of it, does Tiger Woods’ car accident? Let’s say he fell asleep at the wheel. Let’s say he didn’t, and his wife caught him with Madonna and a line of cocaine, then beat the snot out of him with a Louisville Slugger. What difference does it make to me? Why is it news? Why do we care?

I’m always baffled by this disconcerting form of entertainment.

Why, dear God, do we care?

I graduated from Mahopac High School in 1990 with a student named Suzanne Dolson.

We weren’t close friends, but we shared a few classes together. Nice girl—friendly, warm, enthusiastic, etc.

Today I was directed to this site, Suzanne’s Fund.

Turns out Suzanne, age 37, is battling Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia and Large Cell Lymphoma—a blood cancer that typically affects older men. To pull from the website, “Unfortunately her condition has progressed more quickly than expected. Suzanne underwent 4 months of chemotherapy treatment for the CLL and sadly it was determined that her body was not responding to treatment. She learned that she has a rare genetic mutation that renders her highly resistant to the FDA approved treatment plan for CLL, making treatment especially difficult for this disease.”

This is a woman with two young children and mounting medical expenses.

If you’re looking to directly impact someone in a very positive way, here’s an excellent opportunity to do so …

Over the past few years, I’ve had problems with some of the athletes Sports Illustrated picked (and failed to pick) as its Sportsman of the Year. In particular, I was dumbfounded in 2006 when the magazine gave the award to Dwayne Wade, an excellent basketball player, over Roger Federer, the greatest tennis player in the sport’s history (and a man who has yet to earn the nod—an unfathomable oversight). I thought that decision truly lowered the award’s status. It truly did.

This year, however, I can’t argue: Derek Jeter was named Sportsman of the Year today, and it’s a wonderful pick. Is Jeter the best player in the game? No. Is he in his prime? Probably not. But at a time when sports have become overly commercialized, overly gimmicky, overly … everything, Jeter represents the virtues that draw us all to athletics in the first place: Passion. Love. Heart. His professionalism is to be admired; his approach emulated. As I wrote earlier, he is the Joe DiMaggio of the modern game.

I applaud the decision, and I applaud the man.

Great choice.

I like Mike Huckabee. I certainly wouldn’t vote for him, but he seems like a decent human being genuinely interested in doing (what he perceives to be) the righteous thing.

Yesterday, however, in a tragic blaze of bullets, his 2012 presidential aspirations likely ended.

For those who haven’t heard, four police officers were murdered yesterday in Lakewood, Washington. Their names are Ronald Owens, Mark Renninger, Greg Richards and Tina Griswold. They were sitting in a coffee shop when a man walked in, ordered something to eat or drink, whipped out a gun and began firing. It was a horrible massacre, plain and simple.

Today, authorities are looking for a 37-year-old suspect named Maurice Clemmons. He is described as having an “extensive, violent criminal record,” and was recently charged with assaulting a police officer and raping a child.

Clemmons is originally from Arkansas. Nine years ago he was released from prison after his lengthy prison sentence was commuted.

The politician who made that decision? Then-Governor Mike Huckabee.

•

For the record, I don’t like this. Prison sentences are commuted on a regular basis. They have to be, in order to keep the system running and prevent the overcrowding of prisons. Surely, had Huckabee known what would transpire, he would have never let the man out.

That said …

Politics is dirty. Filthy. Disgusting. Twenty-one years ago, Michael Dukakis lost the presidency to George Bush on an eerily similar issue—in Massachusetts, some prisoners were allowed weekend passes. One, Willie Horton, used a weekend away from prison to, ahem, kill people. Once this news got out, and was exploited by the Bush campaign (and used as a racial scare tactic), Dukakis was toast. T-O-A-S-T.

So, I predict, is Huckabee.

Earlier today I was sitting on the toilet, skimming through my ol’ Barry Bonds biography, Love Me, Hate Me (which, for the record, can literally be had for one cent on Amazon).

There was a point in the book when I cited Bonds’ new (at the time) website, www.barrybonds.com. You might remember that, when he was angry with the press, Bonds started only speaking via his site—which, conveniently, also sold jerseys and hats and balls for ludicrous prices.

Anyhow, this got me thinking: Does Bonds’ site still exist, and what’s there?

The answers: Yes, and not much.

It’s worth a look. No longer peddling his goods or yapping at the media, Bonds has stopped taking fan questions and, for that matter, any feedback at all. I don’t blame him, to be honest, because what’s the point? When you’re loathed by, oh 50 percent of the country, forgotten about by 45 percent and tolerated by five, few are sending flowers and kisses.

Nowadays, Bonds apparantly uses the site to strictly post photos of himself with sick and disadvantaged kids.

Hey, whatever works.

For the record, I actually don’t doubt his intent here. Bonds always had a soft spot for children—just that it was obscured by his unparalleled dickish behavior. Perhaps now, removed from the spotlight and (I’m guessing) the drugs, he can just be himself. Which is probably a good thing.

PS: Whatever the case, he’s looking better than Sammy Sosa’s site.

Yesterday I wrote about the apparent suicide of Mike Penner, the longtime Los Angeles Times scribe whose struggles with his transsexual identity almost certainly led to his death.

Well, today I received a message from someone who knew Penner well; who praised him as a kind, giving man and spoke of a human who “probably died of 1,000 cuts.” He told me of one cut in particular—a 2007 piece written Paul Oberjuerge, at the time a sports columnist for the San Bernardino Sun.

Here is some of what Oberjuerge wrote:

Penner is the guy who announced in, what, April? that he would henceforth be living as a woman, name of Christine Daniels. He/she was born a man, lived as a man for about 50 years, was married, etc. … but always wanted to be a woman, and told the world so in a column the L.A. Times ran.

Quite a drama, that is. But none of us had actually seen Mike … uh, Christine … since the announcement. Aside from her friends in the biz.

We were at the Beckham introductory thing at Home Depot Center … and were heading upstairs for the small-scale interviews in the suites … when I spotted a very large woman ahead of me … and it struck me, “Whoa. That’s Mike Penner. Christine.”

Anyway, I feel bad for the guy/girl. From what little I’ve seen of the blog he/she is doing, she (I’m gonna try to stick with the female thing now) seems quite happy. Buoyant, even. Massively relieved to be living as a woman. And that’s fine.

But …

I hate to be judgmental about these things, but Christine is not an attractive woman. Which probably isn’t a surprise when you’re 50 and have spent your in-the-world life as a fairly drab guy. Who has a fairly prominent Adam’s apple (not all of us do) … Who also isn’t exactly petite. Maybe 6-1, 200?

So … she looks like a guy in a dress, pretty much. Except anyone paying any attention isn’t going to be fooled — as some people are by veteran transvestites.

The thing is, and maybe this is cruel, but there were women in that room who were born women in body as well as soul. And the difference between them and Christine was, in my mind, fairly stark.

It seemed almost as we’re all going along with someone’s dress-up role playing … and I assume it’s far more important than that inside this person’s head. But it’s going to take a while for the Average Joes among us to get our minds around this. And I’ve got to assume Christine understands that.

•

When one chooses to write as a career, he/she inevitably exercises jarring lapses in judgment. Hell, I sure have—over and over and over again. That said, there’s an enormous difference between screwing up … and being mercilessly vindictive. I am genuinely curious: What was Paul Oberjuerge trying to accomplish, writing things like, “she looks like a guy in a dress, pretty much. Except anyone paying any attention isn’t going to be fooled—as some people are by veteran transvestites” and “… maybe this is cruel, but there were women in that room who were born women in body as well as soul. And the difference between them and Christine was, in my mind, fairly stark”? What was he trying to say? Clearly, Oberjuerge wasn’t simply describing a scene; wasn’t reporting a moment; wasn’t providing a valued social commentary.

No, he was being cruel. Devastatingly so. To a person who surely felt scared and alone and, to some degree, uncertain. Paul Oberjuerge was gifted with a platform, and he used it to be a punk-ass bully at the absolute most pointed time. When someone was vulnerable. When someone was an easy target. When someone was there for the taunting.

Classic bull•••. Classic.

According to LA Observed, Oberjuerge was eventually let go by his newspaper, and now works in, of all places, Abu Dhabi. I found his blog … read it … skimmed around. I never, ever, ever criticize the talents of other writers, because I recognize how difficult this can be, and how many of my peers possess talent I’ll never touch.

That said, after perusing Oberjuerge’s so-so work, I can say one thing with 100-percent certainty.

He’s no Mike Penner.

Not even close.

* To save yourself from sludge like www.oberjuerge.com, I recommend reading the Los Angeles Times’ tribute to Penner. It’s here.

We’re hosting my sister-in-law’s dog today. Her name is Mattie, she was found at a shelter and she has one of those mean SHOCK YOU! training collars around her neck.

I refuse to shock her—though I’d sure love to kick her somethin’ fierce.

Norma is starting to take to her. They fight over my socks.

Gladly, they’re happy.

Sadly, my socks are coated in dog spittle.

Although the world is changing at a mind-blowing rate, we still crawl when it comes to the acceptance of those deemed “different.”

Back in high school, people used the word “freaks” to describe those who dressed in black, wore Gothic makeup and listened to really mechanical-sounding industrial pop. But they weren’t “freaks” in any true sense of the word. They were merely people searching for an avenue to express themselves; searching for a way.

I bring this up because, just a few hours ago, I learned of the passing of Mike Penner, the Los Angeles Times sports writer who apparently committed suicide. He was 52.

I didn’t know Mike. We probably shared a press box or two through the years, though if so I never noticed him. I first learned of him on April 26, 2007, when a friend forwarded me this column—Mike’s announcement that he was about to undergo hormone treatments, and was to officially be known as Christine Daniels. Forget the subject matter for a minute: The column was superbly written. Introspective. Gutsy. Heart-felt. That, I’ve been told, was Penner’s mojo. A great writer, name/sexuality/gender be damned.

Mike had the sex change, became Christine, but by 2008 returned to being “Mike Penner” again. I’m guessing this sort of back-and-forth conflict isn’t uncommon among transsexuals, most of whom must battle not merely ungodly internal conflict, but the societal pressure and ridicule that accompanies such an existence.

And yet … why should they battle any societal pressures at all? We live in an odd world, don’t we? One where the public deems whether an individual’s behavior is moral or immoral, right or wrong, admirable or freakish? Mike Penner being Christine Daniels … Christine Daniels being Mike Penner—how was that immoral? Wrong? How did that even make the person weird? Because he didn’t conform to the societal standards? Because he felt something inside that wouldn’t conform with Pat Robertson’s vision of America?

As we speak, millions of Americans are on a so-called moral crusade. They gather in large halls, professing to serve God in their outing of evil. They tar the gays, feather the transsexuals, condemn those who choose to undergo and abortion, etc … etc. They tell us that humanity needs guidance and order, yet what sort of guidance and order are they offering? We shall hate the sins and love the sinners. Or is it hate the sins and hate the sinners?

Why do the Mike Penners of the world feel like outcasts at all? Why are they so conflicted—so tortured—that they choose death over life?

Why?

Mike Penner is dead.

He was 52.

I am, by nature, a hypochondriac. Which means that whenever something is physically off, I think the absolute worst. Headache=brain tumor, stomach pains=stomach cancer, heavy arms=Gehrigs. I’ve blogged about this quite often … nothing new.

That said, for the past month or so I’ve had regular swelling in my fingers and below my eyes (the eyes only when I wake in the morning), and more dry mouth than usual. Had a checkup recently—blood work fine, etc.

So I’m wondering whether anyone has swelled hands, and what they do about it? Can I soak them in something? Is there something to take? Sometimes it freaks me out, sometimes it just irks me, usually I’m able to ignore it.

But I’m tired of bugging my wife with these things—so I’m turning to you, the readers …

Thanks. 

My quick take:

Roberto Alomar—Yes. Absolutely. Without question.

Kevin Appier—Nice pitcher. But a big NO.

Harold Baines—Very good player. But not great.

Bert Blyleven—Yes. Was a better pitcher than Don Sutton, but lacks the magic 300. Deserves a spot.

Ellis Burks—One of the truly nice guys. But nope.

Andre Dawson—Not quite great enough.

Andres Galarraga—Big Cat, Big No.

Pat Hentgen—Zero chance.

Mike Jackson—If one took the time to check, he’d find 8,053 ‘Thriller’ references throughout this closer’s career. As for the Hall, eh, no.

Eric Karros—Not even close.

Ray Lankford—Worse than Eric Karros. No.

Barry Larkin—Larkin was one of the best middle infielders of his generation. But I lean toward no.

Edgar Martinez—A wonderful hitter, but no.

Don Mattingly—No.

Fred McGriff—No. But a case can be made: Nobody I know thinks McGriff used PEDs. He was a dominant power hitter in an era of cheats and frauds. He carried Toronto and, for a brief time, Atlanta and San Diego.

Mark McGwire—N.F.W.

Jack Morris—Yes, yes, yes. Should have made it eons ago.

Dale Murphy—No, but a great player.

Dave Parker—Sans the drug problems and weight gains, woulda had a chance. Side note: A female reporter who covered the Pirates back in the day told me Parker was a real pig. Once, he went up to her in the clubhouse, butt naked, and said, “I bet you want some of this.” while pointing to his penis. Reporter replied, “First I’d have to find it under all your fat.”

Tim Raines—Without question. He and Rickey were the two most dominant table setters the game ever saw. And yes, that includes Lou Brock. Brock was a first-ballot enshrinee, Raines has better numbers.

Shane Reynolds—Who? (I’m just kidding. But, uh, who?)

David Segui—Hee, hee.

Lee Smith—No, but the case can be made.

Alan Trammell—See Smith, Lee.

Robin Ventura—No, but a great friggin’ guy.

Todd Zeile—Same as Ventura.