At 30,000 feet the mind has a tendency to wander. Staring out a six-inch square of double pane glass at a blanket of rippling clouds elicits an emotional clarity very few activities can match. I have looked out a passenger airplane window and had deep, soul-searching sessions regarding life and my own mortality.  About my own tiny impact on a planet that scars itself over millions of years. But my most terrible and horrifying realization came over the weekend, as my mind wandered back a week to what had been the most baffling and interesting NFL Draft in recent memory. As I thought about what had transpired over the course of two dreadfully long days, filled with more statistics and obscure athletes than any human being should be expected to endure, a realization came that shook me to my very core. I will tell you, dear friends, I have had trouble sleeping the past three nights. I can think of no better forum for sharing my discovery than this column. Breathe deep and read on if you dare, because:

MEL KIPER, JR. IS A ROBOT.

Take a second and think about it before you dismiss me as a lunatic. I will say it one more time for dramatic effect:

MEL KIPER, JR. IS A ROBOT.

Listen, I'm no robot expert. I can't tell you much about circuitry or flux capacitors and whatnot. I graduated from a state university with a liberal arts degree. I don't frequently occupy my time with thoughts of robots. But this thing came to me, just after finishing my Southwest Airlines complimentary dime bag of peanuts and shot glass of Diet Coke. Like I said, I'm no expert, but by God I don't need a degree from MIT to know a robot when I see one. To give you an idea of my robot sensory abilities (RSA), I attended Comic Con here in San Diego once, and could tell almost instantly that most of the dudes dressed up like Data from Star Trek the Next Generation were not, in fact, actual robots. Call it a gift if you want. I call it being observant.

Do you think the guy sitting next to me on this $70 flight would have the wherewithal to make a discovery like this? He's in his mid sixties, toothless, wearing green polyester pants and a baseball cap that proclaims "JESUS IS MY BOSS," all while shopping for water picks in Sky Mall. He would never notice a cover up like this.

There were 255 picks in the NFL Draft this year. Logic (my own highly developed and unscientific logic) would dictate that the final 100 or so picks are entirely up for grabs. Hundreds of players from big time programs and obscure universities around the country vying for the chance to be drafted in the seventh round and cut after the first minicamp. A large percentage of the players selected in the final rounds are not invited to participate in the major postseason all-star games or even compete at the scouting combines. Yet when the Oakland Raiders draft Gene McObsolete with the 247^th pick of the draft, ol' Mel isn't stumped. In fact, he stares into the camera, without the slightest hint of emotion or wit, and says something like, "I know he fills a position of need for the Raiders right now, but I think this pick was a stretch at 247. He is currently only rated eleventh on my board of best available long-snappers."

That just ain't right, people. It just ain't human. Some of you will say, "Hey lay off the guy! Is it a crime to be good at your job?"  My answer is that it isn't a crime to be good at your job, but it's easy to be good at your job when you have been programmed for that sole purpose. Besides, Mel Kiper has to be a robot. How else can one explain his paralyzing lack of personality or charm?

There was a moment in this year's draft coverage that will cement my argument as disturbing fact. Again, you probably missed it because you weren't paying enough attention. You'll find it if you go back through the twelve hours of draft coverage stored on your Tivo. There was a point during the second day of the draft when Mel had just finished a tirade about some selection he deemed "a stretch," and the camera was supposed to cut away from him. But it didn't. A producer's slow trigger finger kept us focused on Robot Mel a mere two seconds longer than we were supposed to, and gave me all the ammunition I need to prove my point. Looking off camera, no doubt at some pimple-faced MIT intern with a chest full of fancy robot fixing tools, Kiper mouthed these words from that Frankensteinish mouth of his: "oil can."

Even for a highly sophisticated robot, twelve hours of draft coverage is exhausting. Even robots get thirsty. I know, it sounds exactly like the Tin Man scene in the Wizard of Oz. You're going to think I copped this story from that decrepid old film and made it all, like modern and scientific and stuff. But it happened. Trust me, I'm an excellent lip reader. I can recognize instantly when women in even the loudest nightclubs reject me. Seriously, making this Mel Kiper discovery was as easy as deciphering "Ew, gross," on the lips of a club-going sorority girl who catches a glimpse of my Armitron watch and a whiff of my Old Spice aftershave.

Data says: Always draft the best available athlete.

It's time to take a stand people! Don't let the liberal media pull the wool over your eyes! There are highly sophisticated, artificially intelligent, humanoid sportscasters walking among us! If we don't take a stand against this infiltration today we could be in real trouble tomorrow. What's next, robot referees? Hey, how about robot strippers programmed to grind the pole for our filthy satisfaction?  If we don't take a stand we could even, God forbid, see a robot in the White House very, very soon. Getting Mel Kiper fired is a matter of utmost importance to our country's national security. Besides, giving away human jobs to robots is just un-American. I would be willing to accept our sportscaster jobs being outsourced and filled by Malaysian nine year olds, but that's where I draw the line.

So speak up! Write an angry letter and address it to the management at ESPN. Let them know that you are fed up with Mel Kiper and all the useless information stored in his memory banks. Tell them that it's about time they got a thinking, feeling human being to replace Mel Kiper and his insatiable appetite for the oil can and beefy offensive linemen from Southwest Maine State University. The very future of this country just may depend on it.

It still wakes me up at night from time to time. The same bad dreams. The same cold sweats. The same blood thirsty crowd, and all that mind-numbing pressure. The scene always manages to hang somewhere nearby.

It's happened to everyone. For all of us there was the moment when our childhood ended, that moment that caused us to look in the mirror in a much different way. The onset of the receding hairline, and the creditors, and all the pitfalls and trappings of adulthood. Some people live their formative years sheltered from the experiences that accelerate maturity. Comfortable homes and stable families keep them young as long as possible. But others have maturity thrust upon them all at once, in a painful or traumatic moment that haunts them as long as they live. Unfortunately I belong in the latter category. I have my one distinct, indisputable moment of shock and horror that altered me forever.

October 15, 1988.

I was eight years old and the Oakland A's were my obsession. On any given day I could have given you Walt Weiss' batting average. I could have told you how many doubles Dave Henderson had off the top of my head. The Bash Brothers were my heroes, and I practiced the Dave Stewart scowl in the mirror. I watched every telecast in my bedroom on a twelve inch black and white television that was passed on to me once we were able to afford a small color television for the living room. I gnawed on my t-shirt through every late inning. The green and gold cap seemingly never left my head. Through a historic 40-40 season. Through 104 wins. I cheered my na

On January 14, 1978 the Sex Pistols ambled onto the stage at Winterland in San Francisco for what would prove to be their final show together, and the end of a disastrous U.S. tour. Confronted by violent and indifferent crowds across the states, the poster boys of England's anarchist punk movement could no longer be bothered to put together the kind of hateful, electric show they had become famous for. After a short set comprised mostly of unintelligible noise, lead singer Johnny Rotten surveyed the crowd and said through a snarling smile, "Ever get the feeling you've been cheated?" He left the stage abruptly, and walked away from the Pistols for good.

I couldn't help being reminded of this moment in Rock'N'Roll history as I suffered through the Rockets/Timberwolves game a few weeks ago. The two teams, widely considered playoff contenders before the season began, entered the game with a combined win total of less than seventy games, and three of the league's elite superstars sitting in Diane Cannonesque seats at the end of the bench. I watched, along with the nearly 17,000 fans in attendance, as two teams with nothing to play for fumbled through four quarters of ineptitude. Blown layups. Shoddy defense. About as much excitement and atmosphere in the arena as one would find in the waiting room of a proctologist's office, but without the three-year-old copies of Good Housekeeping to keep the people entertained. I was all but waiting for the public address announcer to ask the crowds exiting the arena, "Ever get the feeling you've been cheated? Now please, drive home safely."

Shouldn't we, the ticket-buying public, expect more for our dollar as the season winds down? Shouldn't we expect our months of support and passion to be reflected in the efforts of the athletes on the playing field? In all honesty, under the current systems employed by the professional leagues in this country, the pure and simple answer is no. Sports stars will say in interviews that they are professionals. They will furrow their brows and look directly at the interviewer while they claim to play as hard as they can every game, regardless of the standings. To borrow a phrase from those rambunctious Sex Pistols, these statements are bollocks.

NBA Action, It's Fantastic! Now piss off!

Athletes are human, and human beings are driven by incentive. We can't logically expect professional athletes, months into a grueling season, to lay their bodies on the line while at the bottom of the standings. We can't ask them to pretend they're in the middle of a heated playoff race, when they aren't within a three hour flight of a meaningful game. It's not a fair or rational expectation. The only way we can make these insignificant games significant is to implement drastic change. A change such as, perhaps, introducing relegation.

 RELEGATION!

For those of you who don't follow soccer on an international level (I'm assuming the overwhelming majority of you), the idea of relegation is going to be, well, foreign. But it's a relatively simple concept. In soccer leagues around the world, the worst three teams each season are relegated, banished to the next lower domestic league, while the three best teams in that league are promoted, and get to run with the big boys the following season.

Now before you fly off the handle and dismiss me as a lunatic, or perhaps a heretic, take a second to imagine the possibilities of implementing this type of system. Instead of 10,000 people at PNC Park in September watching the Pirates audition a roster full of triple-A players for the next season, imagine Pittsburgh-area fans flocking to the park to cheer their guts out in an attempt to keep their beloved Bucs from the dreaded "drop." Instantly the level of excitement around sports leagues would increase tenfold. Players on last place teams would dive into the crowd for loose balls, barrel into the catcher on plays at the plate, and go for the tough catch over the middle inside the two-minute warning. Wouldn't you give your all if you knew that long bus rides to Roanoke loomed that much larger with each lopsided loss? Wouldn't you be more interested in how your team finished the season if it meant the difference between attending home games against Dwayne Wade, Shaquille O'Neal and the Heat, as opposed to, say, Jamario Moon and the Fort Worth Flyers?

Initially this may seem to be a concept that actually hurts fans. It's an argument that certainly carries weight. With relegation comes an immediate loss of exposure and prestige. But the New York Knicks had the second-highest ticket prices in the entire NBA for the 2006-2007 campaign. Fans of Larry Brown's dysfunctional bunch spent, on average, more than $75 per ticket to watch a team that changed its starting lineup more frequently than the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I wouldn't consider that fan friendly, either. And will ticket prices go down next year, after perhaps the worst season in franchise history? Don't bet on it, Spike.

One needn't look further than the current situation in the Barclay's English Premier League to see this concept in all its glory. The most popular sports league on the entire planet has never known anything but a relegation system. London club Chelsea has been in first place from the season's opening whistle, and has, for all intents and purposes, had the championship wrapped up for several months. With England's current soccer equivalent of the New York Yankees in cruise control, the most compelling games now involve teams clawing and scratching to finish in 17th place when the season commences in two weeks. One club, Sunderland, has been so dreadful this season that they were officially relegated several weeks ago. But there are currently three clubs, all with extensive history and a large base of supporters, competing to avoid the two relegation spots. The games are intense, the fans are rabid, and the level of play gets better as the noose tightens.

As unlikely as it may seem, teams promoted to the higher league do not necessarily spend the next season as the sports equivavlent of the high school band's flute player, bullied by all the big scary jocks on campus. In fact, of the three teams who moved into the Premier League from the Coca-Cola Championship at the beginning of this campaign, only one, aforementioned Sunderland, will fail to remain in top-flight domestic soccer next season. In fact, the other two promoted clubs, West Ham and Wigan Athletic, are both in the top half of the league standings.

Can we reasonably envision a team from the lowly NBDL moving up into the NBA and competing with teams like San Antonio and Detroit? Would any of the country's triple-A teams be able to step on the field with the White Sox and take even one game of a four game series? No way. But with the rapidly expanding base of international talent in both basketball and baseball, is it so inconceivable that there could be, in the future, a wealth of talent extensive enough to make a relegation system feasible? If the NBA were to bring top young talent from leagues in Europe and South America stateside, stacking the NBDL with players that were fundamentally sound and hungry to prove themselves, is it that irrational to question whether one of these teams might be able to give the Trailblazers or Knicks a run for their money? Imagine the tremendous support and interest that would be generated in some of the smaller sports markets around the country, as they followed with great intensity their local team's battle to move up into Major League Baseball or the NBA.

Now that I've proposed this revolutionary concept, it's time to kill it. Time to drive a red, white, and blue stake right through its heart. Despite my best efforts I'm a realist, and I know that there is absolutely no chance that any of the American professional sports leagues would give this idea even the slightest thought. College football and the disgrace that is the BCS make it all too evident that the governing bodies of our sports universe resist change like the Olson twins would resist a heaping pile of Hooters wings. It just doesn't happen folks. To initiate relegation systems would mean overthrowing years of tradition and alienating a ton of fans. Tradition goes a long way in defining the way we look at sports, and we just do not reverse these traditions, even when they're silly or outdated (i.e. Cracker Jacks at every Major League ballpark).

The real reason this would never fly: the Benjamins, baby. Our leagues have been fashioned into teeth gnashing, revenue sharing, collective bargaining beasts over the years. Making massive structural changes to the NBA or the NFL would disrupt the delicate financial ecosystem that keeps so many owners fat, literally, and so many players fat, figuratively. In the age of billion dollar network television contracts and league-wide product sponsorship, the owners would never approve of the kind of revolution I am writing about, no matter how much excitement it added to our sporting pallets. The infrastructure of our country's minor leagues would have to be gutted and rebuilt. Lower league franchises would have to shift organizational focus away from their current function as training grounds for younger players under contract to big league clubs, and instead learn to compete on an uneven playing field with the big money outfits they have been supporting throughout their existence. Stadiums and arenas in minor league towns would have to be renovated to comply with the standards of their big brothers. Rosters would have to be overturned. Contracts would have to be torn up.

In summation, more logistic, economic, legal, and public relations headaches would arise from a move toward relegation than I have the time or mental capacity to address or solve.

So I'm left to daydream about what could be, but never will. I'm left to ponder what that mid-April game between the Houston No-Shows and the Minnesota Don't-Cares would have looked like in some kind of alternate universe, like say, the Bizarro World in the Superman cartoons, or perhaps, Italy. Both teams would have likely been clear of relegation by the date of the game, but we can't know that for sure. I can guarantee that there would have been several fewer DNP's in the box score that night if the game took place in a relegation universe. But hey, the San Franciscans who witnessed the extinguishing flame of one Rock'N'Roll's landmark bands didn't get their money refunded that January night in 1978, either. I guess we're all just stuck with being cheated once in a while. I'll focus my sports daydreaming on other, more attainable visions in the future. Hmm, like what would Yao Ming sound like singing "Anarchy in the U.K." on the karaoke machine in my living room? Hmm.....