Lets just talk for a moment, sports aside. Lets say that you were caught running a deep-rooted drug cartel out of your lovely little two bedroom apartment and were promptly evicted from your place.

What once was a comforting roof amid a family-friendly neighborhood is now nothing more than a lost memory, a remnant of your old ways.

With no house and a tattered record, an aunt, cousin, or good buddy goes out of their way to welcome you into their home and try to help you get back on your feet. They don't owe you anything, especially given what you did to get put on the streets, but they offer you a hand out of love.

They give you a room, a warm bed to sleep in, food to eat, and don't make you pay rent. You get to save some money while you find a new place that will extend a lease to a wayward soul with a criminal record.

How grateful would you be for that friend or relative? Pretty thankful, right?

During your free stay at their home, you would probably run some errands, make the trips to the grocery store, take care of the dishes after dinner, maybe even throw in a load of laundry or two while you are playing with the dog.

You would do many things to pull your weight and give thanks for probably the biggest favor you will ever receive. We agree on that, don't we?

Which brings me to my point about all the hoopla surrounding Manny Ramirez's Minor League Comedy Tour, one that began Tuesday evening in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

The biggest story - or disturbance, depending on your opinion - regarding Ramirez's "rehab" assignment is the fact that he is even being allowed to play ten games in the minor leagues prior to the culmination of his 50-game suspension.

Is it right? Is it fair? Why does he get to play in a Los Angeles Dodger sponsored affiliate before he can play for the Dodgers? If he is suspended by Major League Baseball, why is he allowed to play for a team that sends a cut of its revenues to MLB before his suspension is over? Why should he be given the luxury of getting into game shape before he sits out his 50 games? On, and on, and on ...

Personally, I really don't care. The only guys that really matter to me are the men who are currently wearing the uniform of a Major League club. And, of course, the clean prospects who are working their way up to the big leagues.

But the other guys? The users? I'm not really that interested in what they do while they are suspended. Go rock climb in Rome. Doesn't matter to me.

Is there something fundamentally askew with the MLB rule that allows Manny to play in these minor league games? Yes, there absolutely is. It's like putting a six-year-old on a thirty-minute time out, but letting him play after twenty minutes of solitude because he didn't kick and scream in the corner.

It's a ridiculous rule. It's so asinine that I'm not going to work myself up thinking about it.

But what I do have a problem with, is how Ramirez spent his Tuesday evening with the Albuquerque Isotopes. Ramirez didn't play a game with the Isotopes or spend an evening with the fans.

No, Manny played four innings, got his two at-bats in, and then was gone quicker than he came. After playing his four innings, Ramirez was out the back door, signing a couple autographs before hopping in a car and bolting from the media before the end of the game.

I don't care if Manny Ramirez says one word to the media while in Albuquerque. Hell, I wouldn't.

But what Manny certainly ought to be doing, is sticking around for the duration of the ball game, and then some.

He should have played his four innings, and then hung out with the other minor leaguers for the last five. He should have spent those five innings talking with the hitters, giving them two hours of total access to ask any question a kid would want to ask about hitting to one of the greatest hitters to ever play the game.

He should have spent the other five innings coaching. He should have paid attention to the other minor leaguers' at-bats, and then talked to them about pitch sequence and approach when they came back in the dug out.

He should have had steaks and beers delivered to the clubhouse after the game - on his dime - and sat around with the rest of the guys telling them what life is like in the big leagues.

For all of Ramirez's faults, he has a reputation of being a tireless worker. He should have sat around with the boys, enjoying a rib eye, explaining to them exactly what it takes to not only get to the big leagues, but also stick there.

He should have talked to them about all the fun you have in The Show, but also the professionalism and dedication it takes to taking care of your body and being ready to perform.

You don't think those minor league players would have been hanging on every story and every line? That would have been like Bring Your Dad To School Day in the second grade. Those words would have actually made a difference.

You could argue that Manny should have gotten to the ballpark early, and stayed late to sign autographs for all of the fans that want them. That would have been a nice gesture, but I'm not going to say that he has to do that. Hey, if he wants to say thanks to the people who pay his salary and support him, that's up to him.

But it's not up to him to give his time to his current teammates. He owes that to them. He's walking into their yard, taking the at-bats and outfield reps from a young kid who could use them to develop and chase a dream, all while he is suspended for testing positive.

In my opinion, the biggest travesty with steroid users is not that they cheated the game.

What doesn't sit well with me is that there are hundreds of minor league players who are working like hell to get to the major leagues and would give anything to have a job in the big leagues, but don't get it because there are cheaters who are keeping their job through artificial enhancements. That's the biggest disgrace of it all.

Steroid users don't cheat baseball; they cheat minor leaguers out of an opportunity.

Manny owes time and humility to these kids who are blindfolded and are trying to find their way to the top. Manny could have a profound impact on the future of some of these players, and it is now his duty to contribute to their success by offering his knowledge and experience.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda ...

What are some of those old sayings about being thankful, making an impact, and giving back?

Yeah, well lets see it. There's still time.

Teddy Mitrosilis is a staff writer for Around The Majors. He also writes for Bleacher Report. You can reach him at tm4000@yahoo.com.

I kept waiting for him to give us something, expected it actually. We didn't need a Tiger roar or a Sergio leap, but he should have given us something more. I wanted something more than a daft smile and a gentleman's handshake.

Maybe a poetic pose with his fists raised to the heavens, putter in one hand, golf ball in the other? Maybe a man-hug of his caddie Dan Cooper, one that even a torrential Bethpage Black rain couldn't drench?

Nothing. After sinking a short, knee-wobbling par putt on the 72nd hole of the U.S. Open that gave him his first career major victory, Lucas Glover was stoic.

Glover didn't play a great final round Monday in Long Island, New York, but he played just well enough, shooting a three-over 73 to claim a two-stroke victory over Phil Mickelson, David Duval, and his playing partner Ricky Barnes.

For a man that does nothing to earn your attention, Glover did the one unflattering thing that all Open champions learn to do: he absorbed the body blows better than anybody else.

With Mickelson trudging along, hoping and wishing to become America's darling and an instant Open classic legend with a victory for his cancer-battling wife Amy, Glover just kept lofting the ball out into the middle of the fairway.

With David Duval busy riding his time machine back to the '90s - a time when he was battling Woods for the No. 1 ranking in golf - and attempting to claim his first PGA Tour win in over eight years, Glover just kept plopping his iron shots onto the green.

With the flamboyant and likeable Ricky Barnes knocking the ball all over the track while attempting to tap into the vast potential that once suggested only great career milestones to come, Glover just kept rolling his putts toward the hole.

And so it was Monday at the 109th U.S. Open. Mickelson leaves with a final round of even par, Duval leaves with an elusive taste of contention, Barnes leaves with his scorecard as a memento for a major that should have been his, and Glover leaves with a sterling silver trophy.

That guy Woods? He finished at even par for the tournament, four strokes behind Glover, but was never really a factor in any of the weekend drama. All he did was struggle.

Add all of these stories up, and that is what makes this U.S. Open a great one to walk away with.

Ninety-five percent of America came to see Mickelson win a tournament that he almost didn't even bother to play in. About 4.99 percent came to see Tiger get one step closer to Jack Nicklaus' record 18 major championships. And I'll give you 0.01 percent for anything else that could have happened, just because.

The masses didn't get what they had hoped for, but that doesn't mean that the five days spent at Bethpage were a waste, does it?

If we didn't get a Mickelson victory or a Tiger romp, what exactly do we take away from this thing?

I'll tell ya. You take away the stories.

See, Glover won't be remembered because he isn't a superstar, and he doesn't do anything outrageous - like copy John Daly's attire - to garner enough attention. That's just the world we live in. We move onto the next big event.

Do you remember Michael Campbell? How about Ben Curtis? Or Zach Johnson?

If you don't, I don't blame you. For the record, those are past U.S. Open, British Open, and Masters champions, respectively, in the past seven years.

But Glover's victory is a remarkable tale about an unassuming guy who never even made the cut at a U.S. Open before winning on Monday. That's something to remember.

Mickelson's story tells itself, and there is no reason to hide the fact that virtually everybody was pulling for him. With his wife at home after recently being diagnosed with breast cancer, Mickelson set out to bring the Open championship back home to place in her hospital room as she begins chemotherapy treatment next week.

With a heart soggier than Bethpage itself, it is utterly remarkable that Mickelson was even a drive and an eight iron within the leader when the curtains were pulled on the tournament.

Thankfully, the Mickelson's believe they caught Amy's cancer early enough that her bout is not only curable, but also probably preventable in the future. Mickelson won't bring a trophy home to San Diego, but he did something greater than win a golf tournament this weekend.

During an incredibly trying time that hopefully fewer families have to endure in the future, Mickelson gave his wife and his kids a vehicle of entertainment and distraction, if only for five days. That's something to remember.

Duval used to look like the guy who could challenge Tiger for ten years at the top of the golf rankings. But as it turned out, Tiger kept winning and Duval kept sinking.

Duval, ranked near 900 in the world coming into the U.S. Open, faced odds longer than the 29,704 yards of nightmare he walked on his way to a second-place finish.

As it turns out, you really can recapture fallen expectations and take a second chance out for dinner and a drink. Duval showed us the way. That's something to remember.

Barnes was the hot shot from the University of Arizona, a heralded amateur player who was yet another player to fit the bill of Tiger's foil. In the 2003 Masters, he outplayed Tiger through the first two rounds, and then imploded.

Barnes, back with a humbled confidence and a hungry desire, was in perfect position to win the tournament before deciding he was more interested in swinging weed whackers than short irons.

This failed attempt at winning golf's toughest tournament will be a tough one to swallow, but Barnes should be able to find himself back in contention sooner rather than later. After finishing second, at least he knows that he doesn't have to go through Q school again for a while.

If he finds consistency, Barnes won't be going anywhere. There's something to be said for savvy striding hand-in-hand with talent.

Barnes is just beginning down that road, and I'm hoping to see him back because he brought fun and flair to a weekend known for an assortment of umbrellas and windbreakers. That's something to remember.

And, of course, there's Woods. The guy who was supposed to waltz to another major championship after his comeback at the Memorial prior to this event. Questions of the health of Tiger's knee and his major "drought" will surface in time for the British Open, but they are silly.

He's the only golfer in the world that forces us to panic when he doesn't win a major in a calendar year. Woods is healthy; he simply got beat. If Woods made half the putts that he normally does, he probably wins this tournament.

But he is more human than we care to believe, and I think that is a good thing for golf. Woods has weekends where he struggles, like this one, and that's the one thing that keeps him connected to every other man on the tour.

There are big favorites (Woods), huge underdogs (Duval), and fairytale dreams (Mickelson), and sometimes none of them come to fruition.

Sometimes it is the Glovers and the Barneses that steal the show, and we are reminded that there are more than three men that tee it up for the game's greatest display of creativity and skill.

Under every visor, painter hat, and Nike swoosh is a man who has been places and is trying to get to someplace else.

When you think back on the Open at Bethpage Black, don't think about what we missed. Think about what we saw. As it turns out, we saw a whole heck of a lot.

That's something to remember.

Teddy Mitrosilis writes for Bleacher Report. You can reach him at tm4000@yahoo.com.

I thought time only flies when you are having fun, but apparently that beauty of an adage isn't entirely true.

As it turns out, time also flies when you don't care. Seriously.

The Los Angeles Times reports that Manny Ramirez is tentatively scheduled to join the Dodgers' Triple A affiliate in Albuquerque, New Mexico, next Tuesday for the beginning of a four-game series. According to the report, Ramirez will then play a three-game series with Los Angeles' Single A Inland Empire club before being set to rejoin the Dodgers July 3 in San Diego.

Over the last two years, I have developed a conveniently dark, comfy place for baseball's steroid users in my heart, one that is more suited for REM than RBI.

True, I have to confront sleep apnea in my personal defense cocoon, but at least I don't have to pay any attention to reports (Mitchell), lists (the infamous 102 remaining names), and prescriptions (pick one).

So, naturally, I dealt with this week's New York Times report claiming Sammy Sosa tested positive in 2003 for performance-enhancers - wow, a shocker - the same way I have handled Manny's absence from Los Angeles.

"Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ... "

And let me tell you something. If you haven't tried this tactic, you are missing out. It's great!

Sure, it is going to be fun to see Ramirez back in the lineup and his dreds frolicking through the leftfield air as he skips and turns and twists and hopscotch's his way to a fly ball, but only because he is an entertaining baseball player, not because he is coming back from a suspension.

Heck, I may even make my way down to San Diego to watch it all happen. You never know.

Manny has been relegated to this type of minimal importance in my baseball life, and I'm better for it. Why? Because I actually got to open my eyes to the rest of the Dodgers roster in his absence, and follow some guys that are truly entertaining to watch, without being pricked with a dirty needle.

Since Manny got bounced by Commissioner Selig's drug testing policy in early May, the Dodgers have the best record in the National League (23-15) and have increased their lead in the National League West from 6.5 games to 9 games over the second-place San Francisco Giants.

How has it happen?

Lets just call it a collective effort.

And for the record, all stats from here on out are from May 7th to the present, or what I like to refer as Great Lent for the Dodgers - i.e. their official fast from Lord Manny. Okay, here we go ...

Orlando Hudson still looks like the best signing the Dodgers made last off-season, gobbling up any ground ball hit to second base and strolling the dugout like he's continuously connected to a special Red Bull IV drip. He's hitting .284, and continues to find himself on base and in the middle of seemingly every late-inning rally.

He has grown on me thicker than Jonathan Broxton's sideburns, and has become my favorite Dodgers player to watch.

I thought Dodgers GM Ned Colletti over-valued Casey Blake at last year's trade deadline, giving up a potential star in catcher Carlos Santana as part of the package sent to the Cleveland Indians, but I have it to give it to Colletti for pulling the trigger at the deadline and for Blake pulling the trigger at the plate.

Blake is hitting .364 with 5 homers and 1.020 OPS, and the Dodgers aren't nearly the same club without him.

If you haven't noticed him, don't feel bad. The only thing that really stands out about him is his beard. But that's a good thing. For once, Hollywood is putting substance above style.

James Loney? He's hitting .285 and playing a solid first base, although his .384 SLG is disappointing. The Dodgers have expected more power than that from him, but hitting coach Don Mattingly still believes it is going to come for Loney, so that's good enough for me.

Matt Kemp is teasing all of L.A. with his .338 batting average and .391 OBP while roaming centerfield. Kemp is the Dodgers' version of Adam Jones, but he just hasn't broken out yet with such flair.

See all the fun we are having sans Manny? And that's just the hitters.

(I didn't forget Andre Ethier or Rafael Furcal; it's just that their bats have been tanning in Malibu during Manny's absence.)

Chad Billingsley and Randy Wolf have been the stucco of the Dodgers pitching staff that leads the National League in ERA (3.57). Hiroki Kuroda is working himself back into the mix after missing more than a month with a left oblique strain.

Clayton Kershaw continues to take steps forward in his development, while Ramon Troncoso and Ronald Belisario do the heavy lifting in the bullpen leading up to Broxton in the ninth inning.

Earlier in the season, I openly wondered whether the pitching staff could hold up, or would the mirrors eventually shatter into a million pieces. Still early it is, but the pitching staff has exceeded my expectations.

And that's the beautiful thing about finding the necessity to move on from fallen stars and fake heroes. Your world is opened up to good players who can entertain in their own right, and the emotional burden is nil.

That doesn't mean not caring as a fan whether your team wins or loses. It means being able to eat dinner and sleep comfortably after your team is cold-cocked by the PED. You wake up fresh the next morning, ready for another ballgame.

My dad mentioned to me the other night that Manny may come back and just go on a tear because the Dodgers have taken the pressure off him by winning in his absence. Manny is not coming back to a house full of smoke and looking to be the extinguisher. 

I hope he comes back and goes on a tear, simply because he has cheated the fans out of 50 games of fun and his teammates out of 50 games of production.

"But, really," I said to my dad, "Manny could come back and hit 40 homers, and I wouldn't really care, or he could come back and stink, and I wouldn't really care. It's the same to me."

And that's only because the fan in me has moved on to bigger and better things.

I want Manny to come back, shut up, and hit. I'm not interested in fake press conferences and vague answers. Answer with the bat.

That way he will fit in with the rest of his teammates, who have been winners in the wake of his destruction.

But, either way, I won't be coherent during the circus that accompanies his arrival. The Dodgers, and the game, can do without it.

Just wake me up when Manny starts putting balls in the gaps.

Teddy Mitrosilis is a staff writer for Around The Majors. He also writes for Bleacher Report. You can reach him at tm4000@yahoo.com.

The Los Angeles Angels have spent the first two and half months of the season living life in a washing machine, carelessly tossed and turned, flipped and churned, before wading through the suds to find what's left.

How the Angels avoided what seemed to be an inevitable drowning is beyond me, but they've done it and here they are as we welcome the afternoon of June.

If there has been a team in the big leagues that has dealt with more than the Angels in such a short period of time, please, show me.

More than 60 games into the season, and the shocking tragedy of Nick Adenhart's passing is still fresh in many minds, his jersey hanging in the dugout during each game, his patch still front and center on the uniform, and his photo still gracing the outfield wall at Angel Stadium.

That nightmare will never take a redeye to oblivion, but at least there seems to be some closure within the Angels clubhouse.

There is no nuclear bomb that could have hit the ball club with greater force than that grave news, but it seems as if time has naturally downsized the baggage from a crowded U-Haul to a simple carry-on. That's the view from the outside, anyway.

And now it's back to baseball, where the bob and weave of any given season has produced a plethora of difficulties for manager Mike Scioscia, from the starting rotation to the bullpen to the lineup.

Jim Leyland is doing quite a job in Detroit considering his circumstances, but nobody has done the job that Scioscia has. Scioscia should be a lock for A.L. Manager of the Year.

The Angels were a favorite to run away with the American League West prior to the opening of the season, assuming they were at full health.

But extended absences from John Lackey and Ervin Santana, the nonexistence of Kelvim Escobar, and a bullpen that has quickly fallen from among the best to living with the worst in baseball, has opened up the division to the free-swinging Texas Rangers and surprising Seattle Mariners.

If we have learned anything from the Angels' recent string of playoff runs, it is that they can always rely on their depth of starting pitching and dynamic bullpen.

But that was the old Angels; this year's team is reinventing itself every week.

The bullpen was still supposed to be a major strength with Scot Shields, Jose Arredondo, and newly signed closer Brian Fuentes.

As we talk today, Scot Shields is done for the season, taking his 6.62 ERA to the disabled list and undergoing knee surgery to correct an injury that was initially reported as patella tendinitis.

Jose Arredondo, the heir apparent to Fuentes for the closer's job, appeared in 25 games, posted a 5.55 ERA, and is back in the minor leagues learning the importance of fastball command.

And, of course, Fuentes was supposed to be solid. And he has been. But solid isn't good enough when you are taking over for cult hero Frankie Rodriguez, who set the single-season saves record and then took his high-wire act to Citi Field after signing a three-year deal with the New York Mets last winter.

Fuentes has 17 saves - and a 4.64 ERA - but he lacks the presence that great closers always have. K-Rod was billed as an uncertainty during his time with the Angels, but at least a heavy dose of confidence came with the unknown.

Fuentes isn't any more of a sure thing than Rodriguez was, and he stands on the mound like he is in the middle of an arboretum. "Sweet ... a bunch of plants. So, what's for lunch?"

I don't think the Angels accounted for the swagger and attitude that Frankie not only brought to the ninth inning, but also brought to the entire bullpen.

As a middle reliever, I imagine you feel a little more sense of urgency to do your job when you know you have a closer, the leader of the bullpen, who carries extremely high standards and brings a certain level of respect and intimidation to the mound.

The attacking attitude is infectious, and it begins to rub off on even your lefty specialist. You can picture K-Rod lighting up the clubhouse if the bullpen wasn't getting it done. He wouldn't stand for that.

Fuentes? He's a good pitcher, an All-Star caliber reliever, but I don't know. The Angels bullpen used to be a dominant one, an intimidating foe in the later innings. Currently, it's just an apathetic bunch.

Pair that with a lineup that ranks 8th in the American League in runs scored, and has seen Howie Kendrick - a guy that some scouts were predicting would contend for the batting title in the spring - hit .231 before being demoted to the minor leagues to work it out, and I still haven't figure out how or why the Angels are here.

But, I guess we don't need to know, we just need to recognize their presence in the race, and the fact that there indeed are some glimmers of hope beaming through what has been a profuse thunderstorm thus far.

Lackey has a 6.10 ERA, but he pitched seven strong innings Monday night in San Francisco, striking out 10, and will only continue to pitch better as he settles into the season after missing the first month with arm issues. Don't forget, Lackey is in a walk year - he will be a free agent this winter - and that usually bodes well for performance.

Jered Weaver (7-2, 2.08 ERA) and Joe Saunders (7-4, 3.66 ERA) have been outstanding at the front of the rotation, one that has been overhauled with unknown names and faces, until now.

Ervin Santana is back from an elbow strain, although he missed his last start on Tuesday evening, and should be a contributor in the coming months as long as he is healthy, which we presume he is or else the Angels wouldn't be taking any chances with him.

Escobar made one start, realized that his arm couldn't take the workload of 100+ pitches, and now is headed to the bullpen. He hasn't made an appearance, but he has big stuff and moxie that will be gladly welcomed at the back end of the pen.

And we must not forget Torii Hunter, who has held the entire lineup together in the absence of Kendrick and Guerrero, hitting .319 with 16 home runs and is begging for another run-producer to join him. Juan Rivera is heating up, so maybe he will be that guy.

But that's the thing about this club; they are totally different than any model we could have expected.

I mean Sean O'Sullivan, Matt Palmer, and Shane Loux are three coveted arms in the mix. Who are they? My point exactly.

Regardless, this collective group has done a job to be proud of and they are lurking right at the top of the division, ready to claim once again what has been habitually theirs for the better part of this decade.

If nothing else, it just proves that good things do happen to good people who persevere.

Mike Scioscia and his club, bearing the splintered cross of tragedy, are a testament to that.

Teddy Mitrosilis is a staff writer for Around The Majors. He also writes for Bleacher Report. You can reach him at tm4000@yahoo.com.

I understand the bar room appeal of the All-Time Great debate, the competitive banter between equally-enthusiastic fans who believe that their guy - who, to them, is THE guy -- is the best we've ever seen.

I get it. It's fun. It's intoxicating. It's the sporting world's version of a romantic, late night heart-to-heart. I swear to you, I am not above these kinds of things.

And so when the Los Angeles Lakers completed their knock out punch of the Orlando Magic Sunday evening, winning the franchises' 15th NBA title in five games, we became even more vulnerable to two of the NBA's best "who's better" debates, one involving Phil Jackson, the other Kobe Bryant.

Celtics fans will go to their grave inhaling from Red Auerbach's cigar, proclaiming he of the famous tobacco fetish is superior to any other NBA coach in history. Auerbach, with nine titles to his name, now sits one championship behind Jackson, who celebrated his 10th Sunday by donning a custom made yellow championship hat with the roman numeral X on the front and his initials on the back.

You could argue that one is "better" than the other, but that argument is silly. How do you compare eras that are decades apart? The league has changed, players have changed, and different factors come into play.

Subjective debates have no finish line, but that is what everyone continually searches for. Sorry, it's not there.

Which brings us to Bryant, who finally has a ring for his pinkie after winning his fourth title in Los Angeles. With Bryant at four championships, the Bryant vs. Jordan debate has more fuel than ever before, and that one, friends, will never go away. Ever. I'm convinced.

Michael Jordan is regarded as the best basketball player ever to walk the planet, and he has six championships, five MVP awards, ten All-NBA First Team selections, nine All-Defensive First Team honors, ten scoring titles, and six NBA Finals MVP awards to prove it.

Okay, that speaks for itself.

Many people will say that Bryant will never be Jordan, even if he wins two more titles, and that's fine because different people have different memories and perceptions of players and how they dominated the league during their time. That bias comes with being a fan.

Kobe Bryant will never be Michael Jordan, in your eyes. So ... who cares?

And that's my point.

Why do we insist on having these debates? Why do we have to force a player to be somebody he is or isn't, regardless of what is true? Why are we mesmerized by the molds of legends who have been here and done it, to the point that we want to inject their DNA into one of today's stars?

Most importantly, why can't we be satisfied with great players simply being their great selves?

I have never really understood the logic between comparing players, not because I think it is foolish, but because of my tastes and preferences of being a sports fan. I like to take it all in and appreciate great players equally. I usually don't take the time to pit one player against another, but rather allow myself to become mesmerized in the moment. I find that more enjoyable.

When I think of Jordan, I don't think of his farewell tour through Washington, where he was barely better than average on any given night. I don't want to think of His Airness and remember tired legs and mild explosiveness.

When I think of Jordan, I still envision that one swift flick of the wrist at the top of the key in Utah. That will forever be his crowning moment, in my opinion, the perfect splash to an unprecedented career.

For me, Bryant's career has been completely different for two major reasons. First, I believe he has had more help thus far in his career than Jordan ever had. Sure, Pippen is an all-time great, but is that more helpful to a scorer like Jordan than having the most dominant big man in the game, like Shaq? I don't think so.

I don't think a wing complements a scorer quite like a dominant center does. A great wing paired with a great scorer is like hot chocolate chip cookies washed down with a perspiring glass of ice water. Definitely good, certainly refreshing.

But a great scorer paired with a great center is like those same cookies but with a frosty glass of milk. It just fits a little bit better, if not cradling up to perfection.

Second, Kobe has dealt with pressures and expectations that I don't think Jordan ever did, at least not to the same extent. Since the day Kobe stepped foot in Los Angeles, he was billed as the "Next Michael Jordan," the heaviest of burdens to carry.

Since the day Jordan landed in Chicago, he was billed to be the next ... what? Anything? I think Jordan was the first of his kind, a physical guard who didn't play basketball by the fundamental book (yet could execute anything on the court) and brought a sense of showmanship to his position, highlight reel plays that were more common from acrobatic forwards.

Dr. J, Oscar Robertson, and many greats came before Jordan, but he wasn't forced into a preconceived mold like Kobe was. Jordan was allowed to make his own mark without living up to the standard of a legend. In that sense, Jordan was able to freely construct his own legend.

We want to peg LeBron James as the next Jordan only because he is an absurdly talented guy and has accomplished a career's worth before even reaching his mid-20s.

But LeBron is nothing like Jordan, or Kobe, or anyone else. For better or worse, LeBron can only be LeBron. We have never seen a player as physical, graceful, and powerful as LeBron. Bodies that big aren't supposed to move with that much force and speed.

And while we are here, Dwight Howard isn't the next Bill Russell, either. Calm down, and let him be Dwight Howard, which could be greater than anything we previously imagined.

Ultimately, we are doing a player a disservice by putting these labels and comparisons on them. Young players, as great as they may be, don't deserve to be compared to past legends, nor should they have to deal with those expectations.

Furthermore, every player deserves the opportunity to make their own name and leave their own imprint. A player should be allowed to leave a legacy on his terms, not on his predecessor's.

And what we do in the process is cheat ourselves as fans out of potential greatness. Why even put limits on talents like Kobe, Howard, and LeBron?

Are we afraid that they may one day become so good and accomplish so much that their careers trump those of our childhood heroes?

Are we afraid of new faces rewriting history with disregard to former champions?

I don't know, but what I do know is that by comparing Player A vs. Player B, we place artificial barriers on our sports.

In essence, we are saying that we have already seen the best that will ever grace the court. That may be true, but do we really want to believe that, and stand by that?

Not me, I want to hang on to that 0.1% chance that we may one day watch a player who is so unimaginably amazing that he makes us forget of the past icons that we adore. I want to hang onto that small mysterious slice of the unknown.

The only way to be sure that we don't miss anything special is to appreciate every player we have for who he is, and forget who we may want him to be.

Just don't be the one too hung over on comparisons to see the light. 

Teddy Mitrosilis writes for Bleacher Report. You can reach him at tm4000@yahoo.com.