And it isn't Tim Tebow.

Let's start there. The 20-20 TD club? An interesting stat. Like knowing the ratio of pigeons to statues in New York City. But what does it tell you? Does it put Tebow up there with the best ever? While we're at it, is the Heisman trophy even relevant? Here's your four heroes, pick whichever one the hype machines paint the nicest golden shade. Don't worry if you guess wrong, there are better players not on the dance card.

The bowl games are coming up. Ohio State and LSU. Where's Georgia? Where's USC? Where's the game that will settle it all. Not getting one of those this year. And how about Les Miles? He seemed awful fond of Michigan's maize and blue, but somehow managed to develop an affinity to LSU's green along the way. What about a nice punch in the mouth to any coach who uses the word "kids" in a sentence?

Sports is getting more and more like Christmas. There's just so much of it. Inescapable, commercialized beyond reason, and everyone says you're supposed to be excited. "Honey , does it blow your mind that the prophets would lie." Rodney Crowell got it right.

Another day another multi-million dollar football coach who may or may not ever win anything. A new $100 million stadium renovation plan at Rutgers, while they cut $114 million from the academic budget and eliminate six sports that real students take part in.

More athletes arrested, but that's a given. Would be a headline story if a day went by and none were downtown getting the free profile photo pack.

So you turn on the news and there is Barry Bonds. The best hitter since Ted Williams walking into court surrounded by the best defense team money can buy, sporting a reputation money can't fix.

Some 17 year old trigger man wants to make a deal after shooting down Sean Taylor in his home. Pathetic. Sad. Disgusting. Meanwhile, what to think? One day everybody talks about Taylor's murder as a byproduct of his lifestyle. The next day all and sundry moralize about a rush to judgement. Then the NFL does what it does, and turns death into a United Way commercial version of life, complete with missing man formation. Everything and nothing was true. None of it really much matters.

Someone is throwing down a dunk on TV. Down by 20, but keeping track of the style points. A muscle bound layup. And we clap because we're supposed to, and we watch because there is nothing else on, and then we hit the mall to buy $120 sneakers that cost $17 to produce. Could be worse, we could be scraping by in Southeast Asia making shoes. Or we could be the last American shoe maker, if one exits.

A little light reading is good this time of year. The Mitchell report will come out Thursday. Owners will try to act suprised and morally outraged when the players they managed not to see juicing are named in black and white. Maybe Bonds won't look so bad when so many other big names don't look so good.

Todd Bertuzzi is back skating after a concussion. Steve Moore, the guy who he attacked from behind and severely injured a few years back, is out of hockey. The lawyers have been playing tether ball with it for two years. Now there is testimony it all happened because Bertuzzi's coach wrote on a locker room black board that Moore should "pay a price". Hope Moore got a receipt with "paid in full" marked on it.

And so we stagger on. Through the winter meetings, through bowls, through the Super Bowl. Maybe we'll get what we want for Christmas. The Cowboys inflicting rough justice on the Patriots for various sins, real or imagined. Then again, the way this year is going it will probably be the Seahawks and Jaguars.

What we need is something new. Something or someone exciting. A new Joe Namath, a new Michael Jordan, a new Larry Bird, a new Bobby Orr, a new Willie Mays, a new Dale Earnhardt, a new Jack Nicklaus. A return to the Monsters of Midway, Notre Dame football, the Canadiens racing down the ice 3 on 2, a great baseball team not assembled, bought, and paid for by the highest bidder. A John Wooden, Jim Valvano, Tom Landry, Billy Martin, or Bo Schembechler.

This is the winter of our sporting discontent.