It sits there in the corner of my living room, waiting to bring me the news of the sports world in an instant. A single click of the remote brings it to life and, with it, access to all of the sports happenings I could possibly ask for. So, when I sprang my television to action this weekend, I was not disappointed.

The Human Lightning Rod

AJ Pierzynski certainly has a magnetic relationship with the spotlight.

Either, he finds it or it finds him. And, yesterday, it found him on the most routine of plays, a sacrifice fly ball to left that scored a runner from third.

As Pierzynski chugged down the line from third, Chicago Cub catcher Michael Barrett stood in the baseline waiting for the throw from left. As the runner with the right of way, Pierzynski plowed into Barrett to get to the plate with the run. As Barrett went sprawling, Pierzynski emphatically slapped the plate with his hand.

As it turned out, that was a bad idea.

As Pierzynski jogged toward Barrett to get his helmet, Barrett stopped him and punched him in the side of the head. With that, all hell broke loose. Benches emptied, other punches were thrown by other players, and AJ Pierzynski was given the heave-ho.

Huh?

That's right. Pierzynski essentially got thrown out of a baseball game for getting punched in the side of the head by an opponent. It was only after the umpires conferred that Barrett was also tossed. After all, if you're going to throw the guy who got punched out of the game, it might not be a bad idea to throw the guy who delivered the punch out as well.

As for Pierzynski, he really didn't do anything wrong. Even though Barrett did not have the ball at the time of the collision, Pierzynski is allowed to make contact with him if he's in the baseline and does not get out of the way. As for the hand slap, that's borderline hot-dogging, but is it enough to trigger a punch to the chops?

Such is the way it is for Pierzynski, though. From rumors of clubhouse troubles in San Francisco to his supposed trash talking to the Oakland A's bench in the ALDS a few seasons back, his reputation around the league hasn't been good. So when he finds himself in the middle of a storm, opponents tend to react strongly. Like wanting to punch the guy in the side of the head for not really doing anything wrong.

Speaking of polarizing the masses on the baseball diamond...

Barry and the Babe

With all of the pro-Barry and anti-Barry sentiments that have been aired over the past few weeks, sometimes it's easy to lose track of what is actually happening on the diamond.

On Saturday, Bonds left little doubt as to that angle of the story.

The 714th home run of his MLB career was a no-doubter, a towering drive into the right field bleachers in Oakland. And with that, Bonds brought himself even with George Ruth's career home run total.

Whether loved or hated, Bonds did produce baseball history on May 20 in Oakland. Perhaps, that is the ultimate lesson to be learned here. History always seems to have the last word. So while opinions may differ, and differ significantly, baseball history tells us that Barry Lamar Bonds has as many home runs in his MLB career as George Herman Ruth.

And I, for one, was glad I spent a part of my afternoon watching it happen.

Tragedy at the Track

Two weeks ago, Barbaro destroyed the field at the Kentucky Derby. His overwhelming victory at Churchill Downs led many to predict Triple Crown immortality for the champion thoroughbred.

At yesterday's Preakness Stakes, something went horribly, horribly wrong.

Shortly after the start of the race, Barbaro stumbled and then dashed awkwardly and painfully away from the rest of the pack. The look of utter surprise and then absolute confusion on the horse's face may be one of the most heartbreaking things I have ever seen at a major sports event. Indeed, it was painful to watch the champion thoroughbred trying to continue in the race but not comprehending why he could no longer run.

Sadly, the question now is not about Barbaro's chances of achieving horse racing greatness by storming to a Triple Crown but whether or not this magnificent thoroughbred will need to put to sleep as a result of his injuries.

Not So Fast, My Friend

A funny thing happened on the way to the King's coronation.

The Detroit Pistons suddenly remembered their own championship pedigree and went back to doing the things that had made them champions in the first place. On Sunday, the Pistons held LeBron James and the Cleveland Cavs to 61 points and took Game 7 and the second round playoff series, 4-3.

Despite the emphasis on Game 7, Cleveland's best chance to bounce the Pistons from the playoffs came in Game 6 at home. The Cavs had just stunned Detroit at Auburn Hills to take a 3-2 series lead, and King James could do little wrong. The 21-year-old phenom had simply taken over the 4th period in Games 3 and 5 to lead the Cavs to upset wins.

With everything seemingly in their favor going into Game 6, LeBron and company had an excellent chance to win the game and take the series. However, they could not hold serve (and home court), and the Pistons proved once again that a champion's heart will tend to show itself when it matters most.

Surely LeBron is on his way, it's just too soon for his complete ascent to the crown.

And so it was this weekend. My television brought me AJ getting popped in Chicago, Barry chasing the Babe's ghost off the field in Oakland, Barbaro's heartbreak in Baltimore, and the Pistons resurgence in Motown, all in the course of a couple of afternoons.

If that's not some sort of magic, I don't really know what is.

He has a royal nickname.  He has a lethal offensive game.  And there is a very good chance that LeBron James will, one day, lead his team to an NBA Championship.

This year just seemed a tad early for King James.

The prodigy, who has gone from high school phenom to legitimate NBA star in three years, now finds himself on the right side of a 3-2 lead in the second round of the NBA playoffs.  And one of the games on the Cleveland Cavs' side of the ledger came courtesy of LeBron's spectacular triple-double performance in Game 3.  In it, James hit several key shots down the stretch (one, a phenomenal finger-roll through a double-team; another, a dagger of a 3-pointer) and got the assist, his 10th of the game, on Damon Jones' 3-pointer with 40 seconds left that effectively iced the game.

Most surprising is that the man who would be king is climbing his way through the playoffs against five guys from Detroit with championship rings.  The Detroit Pistons won the NBA championship in 2004 and made a return trip to the NBA Finals last season before falling to the San Antonio Spurs in seven games.  That playoff-savvy starting five from the Motor City was thought to be a virtual shoe-in to put LeBron's coronation off for at least another year.  However, right now, the only shoe around is the one being fitted for the biggest Cinderella story of this year's playoffs.

In a series pitting promise against experience, promise has a 3-2 lead.  On paper, that didn't seem possible.  Detroit's overall edge in experience and ability seemed overwhelming compared to the upstart Cavs.

Specifically, Detroit's Chauncey Billips is quick and decisive and his court vision allows him to find open looks and open teammates with equal ability.  Plus, he makes nearly 90% of his free throw attempts which is an added weapon when close games are decided at the line.  Rip Hamilton is a conditioning freak with a nice mid-range stroke.  His ability to wear down defenders with his constant hustle on the floor pays late-game dividends in the form of wide open looks.  Ben Wallace is a soul crushing defensive force of nature in the paint. 

And 'Sheed?  Even though he puts the "T" in team, he's also a 6'11" scorer who can knock down a three.  Even the man assigned to guard King James, Tayshaun Prince, is an agile defender with incredibly long arms and has given LeBron everything he can handle on the defensive end.  And they all have a ton of experience in late-round, high-pressure playoff basketball.

The Cavs?  Other than the King, they have Anderson Varejao, the 23-year old Brazilian, who has energy and ability but is as raw as an uncooked porterhouse. Damon Jones is a journeyman point guard but did make his mark on the playoffs by hitting the game-winning 3-pointer that sent the Washington Wizards home in the first round.  Donyell Marshall and Eric Snow are capable veterans but elicit little more than a shoulder shrug when assessing their skills.  Zydrunas Ilgauskas is 7'3" and has never averaged more than nine rebounds a game during his eight-year NBA career, a classic case of a big man with a little man's game.  And Drew Gooden often appears as ready to disappear into the hardwood floor as stand out while running the length of it. 

Larry Hughes, Cleveland's talented guard, is out indefinitely as he grieves for his younger brother who suddenly and sadly passed away last week.

Seemingly overmatched and down 2-0 in the series at one point, all Cleveland has done is take Detroit's own style of basketball right back at the defending Eastern Conference champs and sent them reeling three straight times, right to the brink of playoff elimination.

Though LeBron's Game 3 heroics may well prove to be the tipping point in the series, Cleveland's other two victories hinged on one of the Pistons' regular post season staples, defense.  In Game 4, Cleveland held the Pistons to just 72 points on 33% shooting from the floor.   Though James was in the midst of a horrendous 8-for-23 shooting night, he did get his teammates involved with 9 assists.

In Game 5, the Cavs won the turnover battle 17-12 and held Detroit to 2-of-10 shooting from 3-point range.  Meanwhile, LeBron was en route to a 32-point night and a crucial late-game assist to Drew Gooden for the eventual game-winning shot.

And, now, Game 6 looms.  It is a win-or-go-home ultimatum for the team with the "favorite" label and the championship pedigree.  And the only thing standing in the way is a 21-year-old kid who just may be the biggest thing the NBA has seen in two decades.  It is a 5-on-1 fast break, and the smart money is now riding on the "1".  And if Games 3, 4, and 5 of this series have taught us anything at all, it is that betting on King James is a decidedly better option than betting against him.

Though Shaq, Wade, and the rest of the Miami Heat are waiting for the winner of the series, the reign of King James may be starting, well ahead of schedule.

I wonder what Bernie Kosar was doing when he heard the news.

Nearly 22 years after Kosar's Miami Hurricanes were beaten on a last second Hail-Mary TD pass against Boston College, the QB who threw that game-winning pass announced his retirement from the NFL.  Yesterday, Doug Flutie said goodbye to professional football after 21 seasons.

At 5'10", 180 pounds, Flutie was never considered big enough or strong enough to be an elite level quarterback.  However, the little man with the big heart made a name for himself on the football field through sheer force of will. 

His collegiate career at Boston College was a prestigious one, though no one could have seen it coming.  The BC football program was struggling in the early 1980's.  The school hadn't been invited to a bowl game in nearly 40 years, and in the three seasons prior to Flutie's arrival, BC had gone 12-21.  Although the three-sport star from Natick High School in Massachusetts had dreams of playing big-time college football, he was recruited by exactly one Division I program.  And they had gone 12-21 the prior three seasons.

But Boston College had hired a new football coach for the 1981 season, and Jack Bicknell was about to turn around the BC football program with the help of the undersized quarterback that no one else wanted.  Whether scrambling or rocketing passes downfield with a surprisingly strong arm, Flutie flourished in BC's wide open offense.  By 1982, the team ended the school's long post season drought with a Tangerine Bowl appearance against Bo Jackson's Auburn Tigers (a 33-26 loss).

In 1984, Flutie's senior season, the little QB who could made national headlines.  Flutie punctuated his Heisman Trophy-winning season with a thrilling comeback win against the defending national champion Miami Hurricanes.  Miami quarterback Bernie Kosar and Flutie went toe-to-toe for four quarters, each player driving his team to scores seemingly at will.  With a minute to go, Miami went ahead 45-41, and Kosar retreated to the sidelines with 447 passing yards, two TD's, and the game in his back pocket. 

However, Flutie answered back.  Loudly.  With 6 seconds left in the game, he fired a perfect strike from 48 yards that hit receiver Gerard Phelan between the numbers and gave BC a stunning 47-45 victory.  The Eagles went on to finish the year 10-2 with a 45-28 thrashing of Houston in the Cotton Bowl as an exclamation point.  Doug Flutie took home college football's biggest piece of hardware and had hopes of NFL stardom just around the corner.

Sadly, it did not happen.

Flutie tumbled all the way down to the 11th round of the NFL Draft amid speculation that he would sign with the rival USFL.  (Note to Matt Leinart: dropping to the 10th pick of the 1st round is a cake walk by comparison.)  So, Flutie went ahead and signed with the fledgling league.  His boss?  None other than the Donald himself, who owned the New Jersey Generals (and leave it to the Donald to name his team something only a step or two removed from the rube opponents of the Harlem Globetrotters!).

But before Trump could say, "You're fired," the USFL went out of business (and, in effect, "fired" everyone, the Donald included).  So, Doug Flutie, the Heisman-winning Golden Boy, was made to pound the pavement looking for a job.  Fortunately, Flutie landed with the playoff-bound Chicago Bears.  Unfortunately, the Bears ran an offense about as far away from Jack Bicknell's wide-open, run-and-gun style at BC as possible.

There is always a lot of talk in the NFL about the importance of quarterbacks playing in skill-compatible offensive systems.  That said, Doug Flutie was never meant to sit in the pocket, hand the ball off 75% of the time, and throw 12 passes a game.  After two seasons of mostly backup duty, he went back home to the Boston area and tried his hand with the New England Patriots.  While he did see more playing time, the results weren't much better.  Shackled by conservative play, Flutie was like a skilled driver not given the keys to a fast car except for intermittent trips to the market and back.

With any meager NFL opportunities drying up quickly, Flutie decided to go to the one place he knew would suit his frenetic, wide open style of play.  Oh, Canada, indeed.

With a bigger field and fewer downs, Flutie was left to pass the ball to his heart's content in the CFL.  Flutie's scrambling, gun slinger style netted him six Most Outstanding Player awards and three Grey Cup championships.  In the wild ride that was Flutie's eight-year CFL career, he passed for over 40,000 yards and 270 TD's.  Finally, he was given the keys to the car and allowed to open the thing up on the highway.

His success in Canada allowed him a second stint in the NFL, and given more leeway, he found pockets of success.  He helped the Buffalo Bills make the playoffs in 1998 and 1999 and took over an awful San Diego Chargers team in 2001 and led the team to a modest four-game improvement.

But clipboard duty also beckoned, and he spent nearly as much time on the sidelines as on the field.  In the end, the NFL was never convinced that desire could outweigh genetics, and Doug Flutie left the league with unfulfilled promise practically dripping off of him.

In a final hurrah and in his final NFL game, Flutie successfully completed the first drop kick for an extra point in the NFL in 60 years.  And in that final moment in the football spotlight, the little man with the big heart showed a glimpse of what the NFL had been missing all of those years: something surprising and fun and not likely to be seen again for a very long time.

Perhaps that is the truest measure of Doug Flutie's football legacy, that heart can be bigger than height and that every once and a while you just need to give a guy the keys to the car and let him loose on the Autobahn.

Just ask Bernie Kosar.  He'd probably tell you that that car went by pretty fast and that it's not likely something you will see again for a good long while.

I don't know what is particularly sweet or scientific about it.

Nonetheless, boxing has often been referred to as the "sweet science".  Despite the nickname, the object of the sport remains the same: one fighter is to physically punish another fighter until that fighter is either knocked to the ground for at least 10 seconds, rendered unable to protect himself or judged not have dealt as much punishment as received by bout's end.

It is a swirling world of strategy, brute force, and violence. And in such a world, anger, sweat, and a basic sense of survival tend to rule the day.  Boxing is one of the purest, most visceral forms of physical individual competition, and the individuals who have populated such competition over the years have varied nearly as much in character (or lack thereof) as actual ability in the ring.

So when someone like Floyd Patterson puts on a pair of boxing gloves and displays his level of personal dignity, in and out of the ring, and pairs that with his exceptional skills as a fighter, people, justifiably, will take notice.  So, too, will they mourn when he is no longer here.

Last week, Floyd Patterson, dubbed "The Gentleman of Boxing", passed away at 71.

Floyd Patterson was a Brooklyn kid.  Although he was born in Waco, NC, Patterson grew up in one of the more celebrated of the Five Boroughs, and spent most of his life somehow connected to the Big Apple.  However, in his youth, Patterson was headed for trouble, but boxing (learned in a juvenile detention facility) changed his life (and legacy) forever.

Under the tutelage of legendary trainer Cus D'Amato, Floyd Patterson achieved success in boxing quickly and dramatically.  At just 17 years old, Patterson won a Gold Medal at the 1952 Helsinki Olympics as a middleweight.  By 21, he was the youngest professional heavyweight champion in history (albeit, he won the title by beating a man twice his age, 42-year-old Archie Moore).  He defended the title four times before losing unexpectedly to Swedish heavyweight Ingemar Johansson in 1959.

In the rematch with Johansson the following year, Patterson displayed fully his athletic compassion and cemented his reputation for true sportsmanship.  In the 5th round of the rematch, Patterson leveled the heavyweight champ with what many would later call the greatest single punch in boxing history.  With the heavyweight crown on the line, Floyd Patterson landed as solid a left hook as may have ever been thrown in a boxing ring and caught Johansson flush.

The big Swede crumbled, and Patterson shot his arms up in victory. However, Johansson had been knocked unconscious and began convulsing.  When the challenger realized how badly his opponent was hurt, Patterson rushed to Johansson and held him until medical help arrived.  In his grand moment of triumph, Patterson dismissed it when he realized the human cost, and that, in large part, is what fueled his legacy.

Though Patterson carried the heavyweight title for a couple more years, devastating one-sided losses to Sonny Liston, who was the antithesis in demeanor to Patterson, and Muhammad Ali pushed him out of the ring as a fighter.  However in his reign as heavyweight champ, Patterson understood that superior athletic accomplishment must be coupled with equally superior personal conduct in order for the championship to mean anything.  While champion, Patterson regularly reached out to young people living in urban poverty.  He remembered his own difficult childhood and fully understood the importance of simply giving young people opportunities when their lives had provided precious few of them until then.

After he left the ring, he continued his involvement in boxing and twice served as the Chairman of the New York State Athletic Commission.  He also continued to reach out to young people.  The pinnacle of that effort occurred when he adopted a young man named Tracy Harris, who would later win the WBC Super Bantamweight title with his adopted father's mentoring.

However, his selfless concern for a fallen opponent in 1960 remained his most recognizable action in his sport.  And in this day and age where ears are bitten off in boxing rings and wild-haired publicity mongers trade on others' physical well being for market position, Floyd Patterson's instinctive compassion should be valued.  And with his passing, his enduring legacy of valuing people over the games they play should truly be taken to heart.

In that way, I suppose I can understand how any measure of validity can be attributed the sport dubbed the "sweet science."  And in the frenetic, violent world that takes place in a boxing ring, Floyd Patterson was proof that sportsmanship and decency have a place there as well.

With the tentacles of the BALCO investigation that just won't seem to let go, the sordid allegations in the book "Game of Shadows", and the general animosity most fans feel towards him all swirling around the cauldron that is Barry Bonds' world right now, the last thing Bonds probably needs to deal with is the Fat Man's Ghost.  But there it is, the looming specter that is Babe Ruth's legend.  It is the scariest sight an MLB player will ever see and one of the hardest things to nudge by on the way to whatever accomplishment Babe Ruth's name stands in the way of.

And Bonds is not alone.  Roger Maris had to deal with it.  Henry Aaron had to deal with it.  And now Bonds joins the select group of players who have had to stare the Bambino's ghostly visage directly in the eye.

It might be Barry's world and the rest of us may just live in it, but I have a feeling that being Barry at the moment is considerably more difficult than booing him.  However, as the Babe's restless apparition makes yet another appearance on the eve of one of his greater accomplishments being pushed back a notch, I must confess that I am at somewhat of a loss in understanding our continued fascination and nearly religious devotion to Ruth.

Of course, I understand his monumental achievements in the sport.  His were towering, almost surreal career numbers at the time of his retirement.  He out-homered entire teams in his heyday. He set post-season records as a pitcher.  And, most importantly, he single-handedly ushered in a brand new style of play in which sheer, raw power changed games in an instant.  It was Ruth who showed the entire baseball world that a single thunderous swing of the bat could decide a ballgame.

Off the field, Ruth lived as big as he played.  He embraced his dizzying celebrity like few others and rang it for every drop of self-indulgence he possibly could.  His insatiable appetite for alcohol, women, and fastballs on the inner half of the plate never seemed appeased.  He was one of America's biggest icons and never seemed to tire of the blinding spotlight he lived in.

And he did all of this over 70 years ago.

Certainly, one baseball's great charms is the acknowledgement and celebration of its own history.  And George Herman Ruth was unquestionably a central figure in the game's past.  However, at what point does tribute turn to an irrational and overly zealous attempt to preserve his legacy?

Whenever a player has edged towards either of Ruth's most cherished home run marks, his single season high of 60 or his career home run total of 714, reaction has been swift and severe.

When Roger Maris started launching home runs in bunches for the New York Yankees during the 1961 season, he probably had no idea that by season's end his most vociferous opponents would be a ghost, the commissioner of baseball, and his own fans.  As Maris, who had never hit more than 39 homers in a season, approached Babe Ruth's then-single season record of 60, the scrutiny of the moment almost became too much. 

Yankee fans made no effort to hide their preference for Maris' teammate Mickey Mantle and urged Mantle on toward the record until an infection sidelined him late in the season (Mantle finished the year with 54).  To the local media, the shy but sometimes truculent Maris was an easy target.  Rumors of a feud between Maris and Mantle were played up to lionize the latter and villanize the former.  However, the denouement was Commissioner of Baseball Ford Frick's announcement that he intended to preserve Ruth's record of 60 homers if that total could not be matched within 154 games.  The new, longer season now included 162 games, and if Ruth's mark was passed after the 154th game, Frick wanted the new total to stand as a separate record.

When Maris did, in fact, pass the 60-homer mark on the very last day of the 1961 season, Frick did not get his actual wish (his powers as commissioner did not include changing the record book).  However, Maris was deprived of sole ownership of the single-season home run record in the minds of many, nonetheless.  The idea that an asterisk had been placed by Maris' home run total to indicate it had occurred in a longer season than Ruth's mark was believed by so many that it ultimately became recognized as fact.  (Note: No such asterisk ever actually existed.)  So, the Babe got to hold onto his record in the minds of many even after it was surpassed.

But something else surfaced during Roger Maris' home run barrage of 1961.  Many simply did not want to see Maris break Ruth's record, because he was not deemed "worthy" of the honor.  To many, the fact that Maris' skills paled in comparison to Ruth's prowess made it somehow wrong and a dishonor to Ruth should such an inferior player trump the Babe for one of the most storied records in the sport. 

However, when Henry Aaron approached Ruth's career home run mark of 714, the whole thing turned a very different shade of ugly.  Sadly, Aaron was bombarded with death threats laced with vile racial epitaphs.  The very idea of a black man claiming baseball's shiniest individual achievement was simply not tolerable for some.  That he would be taking the record from the Babe himself made it decidedly worse.

To his credit, Aaron persevered and did so with the class and dignity that marked his long and storied career.  However, the fact that as decent an individual as Aaron had to endure such ugliness in the first place is troubling.  Of course, many of those who directed their racist venom at Aaron were of the lunatic fringe: narrow-minded, hateful people clearly on the margins of society.  But there was no denying that Ruth being white and Aaron being black played some role in the resistance of many to enjoy and actively cheer Aaron's pursuit of the record.  Further, the public adoration of Ruth again subjected his pursuer to a "worthiness" litmus test.

Even after Aaron passed Ruth on the All-time homer list, there were whispers that Aaron had passed the Babe only because he'd had several more at-bats to do so.  When Aaron finished his brilliant career with 755 homers, there were some grumblings that he'd been able to pad his career total by being a DH in his final years as a player.

However, in measuring pure quantitative statistics, there is only one thing that matters, quantity.  Simply put, if one player has a higher total of something than another player, he passes that player.  Period.  End of story.

The idea that some extra qualitative metric applies to Babe Ruth's statistics is absurd.  There should be no charisma standard that needs to be met before fans can "accept" a player passing one of Ruth's milestones. 

And speaking of charisma (or lack thereof), Barry Bonds is now standing on the edge of Ruth's home run territory.

Of course, the extra ingredient that gets stirred into the pot is the incredible amount of baggage attached to Bonds at the moment.  Where Aaron and Maris may have been carrying thin briefcases, at most, Bonds is lugging around a steamer trunk.  Allegations of illegal performance-enhancing drug use loom over Bonds as they have few others, and his volatile public persona has turned fans off for years.  He may now be as unloved by the baseball public as Babe Ruth was loved in his heyday.

But it doesn't really matter, because when he hits the 715th home run of his career he will have more home runs than Babe Ruth.  Simple math is all you really need to know to understand the event.  Now, baseball fans do not have to like the idea of Bonds passing the Babe.  Not at all.  They are free to boo to their heart's content.  But they do need to accept it.  And if they are at all decent people they will refrain from the kind of unwarranted ugliness that turned the brightest moment in Henry Aaron's career into a sickening personal nightmare.

Regarding whether or not Bonds' career achievements should "count", that is an entirely different discussion.  In order for them not to count, a mechanism for banishment needs to be firmly in place and another system for the eradication of records needs to exist as well.  Until either of those things are in place, Barry Bonds stays in the major leagues along with all of his stats.  And if such a system is ever created to throw players out of the game and have their statistics purged, it must be a system objectively applied.  So, a beloved ballplayer would get the boot right along with a disliked superstar on the verge of breaking the game's biggest records.

Of course, I am not blaming the Babe himself for the over-zealousness his legacy has taken on.  By most accounts, he was a good-natured, fun loving (if somewhat reckless and self-destructive) galoot whose immense baseball skills were only matched by his embrace of life.  He brought America to its feet with every swing of the bat, and his rollicking, joyous baseball life deserves a special place in not only baseball history but in Americana itself.

However, it is those who use his memory to beat down others that bear the brunt of the responsibility for the ugliness that ensues anytime someone nears one of Ruth's milestones.  And if they had any foresight at all, they would know that the Babe will never be lost to history and forgotten by the baseball public.  His memory will continue to shine no matter.

I think it's high time to let the Fat Man's ghost rest in peace and just let the game play out as it should have all along.