Who knows the odds of it happening again, but this college basketball season, both Duke and North Carolina will suit up matching sets of 6-10 siblings.

Call it the Brothers Rim.

The Tar Heels will feature freshman twins David and Travis Wear, from Mater Dei High School in Santa Ana, Calif., the same Catholic school that produced USC quarterback Matt Barkley.

They are forwards whose games are nearly as identical as they are, though David may Wear you out faster than Travis. They look so ridiculously the same that often even teammates can only tell them apart by their jersey number. Makes you wonder if they ever switch jerseys at halftime. (If you're guarding them, check for moles. You don't want to think you're guarding Travis when you're actually guarding David.)

The Blue Devils, meanwhile, counter with brothers Miles and Mason Plumlee of Warsaw (Ind.) High School, with a stop at Christ School in Arden, N.C. Miles is a sophomore already at Duke, but freshman Mason, who is 10 pounds lighter and quicker, could really give the heels a flat tire.

So here's what we're going to do. We're going to set up a charity tournament. We'll call it Twenty-Eight Feet Meet. The Plumlees vs. the Wears. Two-on-two at the Durham County/Orange County line, halfway between the two schools. We'll have a set of brother refs, sister cheerleaders and twin coaches.

Winning brothers get to give the losing brothers the usual brother business: one noogie, one wedgie and one loogie on the shoe.

They're having a parade because the New York Yankees won the title? Why not throw one because a bear ate a salmon? Or a hurricane knocked over a trash can? Hey, the bully just gave the nerd a wedgie! Let's throw a parade!

Look, the Yankees played well. But isn't that what the Yankees are supposed to do? They paid their players almost twice as much as the Phillies team they beat -- $208M to $111M. Just the Yankees starting infield made more than 15 teams this year. Throw them a parade? I don't get it. So what? George Clooney got a girl, Paris Hilton slept in satin sheets last night and Bill Gates went to the bank. Call me when you've got some news.

Oh -- and the next Yankees fan who looks to the heavens and sighs happily, "It's been nine long years!" gets tied to the front of the 4 train and run into a wall. Nine years? Nine years is a cigarette break to most teams in MLB. Chicago Cubs fans are at 101 years and counting. Cleveland Indians' fans: 62. New York/San Francisco Giants: 55. Pittsburgh Pirates: 30. Gee, nine whole years? The Boston Red Sox waited 86 years for theirs. The Chicago White Sox -- 88! There are people in swine flu lines longer than nine years.

Hope your parade takes a wrong turn off a pier.

Just when you thought there weren't any more headlines in Andre Agassi's incendiary, engrossing and endlessly human autobiography, "Open" (with J.R. Moehringer, from Knopf), the hits keep on coming.

In it:

Agassi hints he tanked games. "Losing on purpose isn't easy," he writes. "You have to lose in such a way that the crowd can't tell, and in a way that you can't tell. Your mind is tanking, but your body is fighting on. ... You don't do those tiny things you need to do. You don't run the extra few feet, you don't lunge. You're slow to come out of stops. You hesitate to bend or dig." Of losing in the semifinals of the 1996 Australian Open against Michael Chang -- a match Agassi suggests he tanked -- he writes, "I'm glad I lost."

Sportswriters who accused him of tanking often were wrong. "They never get it right," he writes in the diary-style format. "When I tank, they say I'm not good enough; when I'm not good enough, they say I tank."

He says his father calculated that when Agassi was 7, he made him hit 1 million balls in a single year.

He says his father gave him speed before the junior nationals in Chicago. Agassi writes he purposely made the match closer than it had to be, just so his father wouldn't make him take it again.

He did crystal meth partly out of self-loathing. "Apart from the buzz of getting high," he writes, "I get an undeniable satisfaction from harming myself and shortening my career. After decades of merely dabbling in masochism, I'm making it my mission. ... I hate tennis more than ever, but I hate myself more."

He was a bit of a pyromaniac. He liked to light things on fire. Once, on the balcony of a Munich hotel, he lit paper, clothes and shoes on fire, his way of coping with "extreme stress."

He had plenty of stress. He was so angry after then-girlfriend Brooke Shields licked actor Matt LeBlanc's hand at a live taping of "Friends," he stormed out, drove home and smashed all his trophies, including ones he won at the Davis Cup, U.S. Open and Wimbledon.

He was never sure he wanted to marry Shields. But he could relate to the actress. "She knows what it's like to grow up with a brash, ambitious, abrasive stage parent," he writes.

He claims that while Shields was getting in shape for the wedding, she taped a photo on her refrigerator of the "perfect woman" -- Steffi Graf (now his wife).

He says he got married with lifts in his shoes at Shields' request.

He says Shields got regular threats from stalkers, and he would put his longtime trainer, Gil Reyes, on a plane to stalk them back. "He ... appears ... at the stalker's house or workplace ... holds up the letter and says very softly, 'I know who you are and where you live. ... If you ever bother Brooke and Andre again, you will see me again, and you don't want that,'" Agassi writes.

He describes rival Pete Sampras as one-dimensional, "robotic" and a bad tipper, recalling a time Sampras gave a Palm Springs car valet one dollar. On the other hand, Agassi is grateful to have had Sampras' greatness to measure himself against. "Losing to Pete has caused me enormous pain," he writes, "but in the long run it's also made me more resilient. If I'd beaten Pete more often ... I'd have a better record ... but I'd be less."

He saves no love for Jimmy Connors, whom he calls a "rude, condescending, egomaniac prick." Of Connors' coaching Andy Roddick for a time, he writes, "Poor Andy."

He was incensed that Chang would point to the sky every time he won a match. "He thanks God -- credits God -- for the win, which offends me. That God should take sides in a tennis match, that God should side against me ... feels ludicrous and insulting."

He says Todd Martin was, "like me, an underachiever."

He insists that his sister, Rita, ran off with 32-years-older tennis legend Pancho Gonzales because their father was too contentious and controlling.

He notes that the irony of a man who never finished high school running one of the finest prep schools in Nevada is not lost on him. To say nothing of his school having a dress code.

And, perhaps the most shocking revelation of all: Beginning in 1999, he says, he never played wearing underwear again.

Charles Barkley joins Augusta National. Wanda Sykes is elected to the Supreme Court. "Dilbert" cartoons hang at the Met.

That gives you an idea of what it's been like having Nick Swisher suddenly join the New York Yankees.

Swisher is a guy who won't stop laughing even when he brushes his teeth. The only time he says "no" is when they ask him if he's had enough. He could make a colonoscopy fun.

It's actually a problem for the Yankee right fielder. "I smile so much, my cheek muscles are too built up and it makes my face look fat," he says.

Not a problem you usually find with Yankees, who are generally stiffer than the center field monuments. Even moreso: the Yankees clubhouse, which has always been just slightly tighter than Jerry Jones' face. Bounding into all this stodginess came the unsinkably happy kid from Ohio State and nothing's been dull since.

"The first couple days I was here, it was a little stuffy, everybody was a little quiet, not talking too much," Swisher says. " ... I guess the Yankees were more known for having a corporate-type atmosphere."

Not anymore. Everything's more fun since Nick at Night. For instance, he has 24 different home run handshakes -- a different one for each teammate.

"The weirdest one is with A.J. (Burnett). There's some snapping, some fist bumping and it ends with some howling, like a wolf."

He has more hairstyles than gloves: The Mohawk, the Fauxhawk, the Swishhawk and the Light Socket. "I saw Johnny Damon's Jesus cut and I just decided to branch out," he says. "Soon as we can grow facial hair again (banned on the Yankees), I might go with the full Jake Plummer Grizzly Adams."

He is the Yankees' version of Kevin Millar, the crazy on the 2004 world champion Boston Red Sox team who made the clubhouse a nuthouse. Without Swisher, the Yankees aren't this deep in the playoffs. He's a human pressure-release valve.

That's his collage poster every player walks by on the way to the field. He works on it nearly every day. It's a shine shrine. Everything on it is upbeat articles and photos reminding his teammates how great he thinks they are.

"My locker is the last one you see before you go out on the field," he says. "So if a guy's having a bad day, he can go by there and maybe get a little pick-me-up."

Swisher's been more than a little pick-me-up for the Yankees. He's had one of the best seasons of his six-year Swish-hitting career (.249 in the regular season, with 29 jacks and 82 RBI), played all three outfield positions and first base, even pitched one shutout inning.

There are three things in this world everybody seems to like -- Italian restaurants, refund checks and Nick Swisher, especially "Gossip Girl" actress Joanna Garcia. She's dating the 28-year-old Swisher and can be seen at most Yankees home games.

"She understands baseball," Swisher says. "I'll come home some nights after an oh-fer and she'll go, 'Your swing looked a little different tonight, Honey. Maybe your hands didn't get back early enough?' So I'm like, dang, maybe I need to start my swing a little earlier?"

You think Kate Hudson does that?

Swisher, who does not seem to need sleep, has been known to drag players to his favorite karaoke bar, where he sings a terrific version of Kings of Leon's "Use Somebody."

What's funny is that all this time, the somebody the Yankees could've used was Swisher.

On your 99th birthday -- if you get there -- do you think you'll be launching your new book?

John Wooden is. It's called A Game Plan for Life: The Power of Mentoring (with Don Yeager, $25, Bloomsbury) and it came out yesterday, the day before the great man's birthday.

Three weeks ago, I spent an afternoon in his Encino condo, which must be one of the most amazing 1500 of square feet in all of Los Angeles. His Presidential Medal of Freedom hangs next to one from the local YMCA. His letter from Mother Teresa hangs near his great grand daughter's report card. There are far more signed baseballs (his favorite sport) than basketballs, and nearly as many books about Abraham Lincoln (his hero) than there are jellybeans (his weakness.)

I like going to Wooden's house for the same reason people like going to church: It makes me want to be a better man.

The last time he swore? 1924. The last time he drank alcohol? 1932. Number of girls he ever kissed? One, his beloved Nell, who passed in 1985. He's never gotten over it. Still writes her a love letter on the 21st of every month -- the date of her death.

Every time I go, I learn something new about the Wizard of Westwood (a name he hates.) For instance, did you know --

-- Wooden helped build Memorial Stadium in Lawrence, Kan., still the home of the Kansas Jayhawks? He was 20, hitchhiking across the country at the time. "I wore my state championship sweater," he says. "It helped me catch rides." He needed some money, so he stayed and worked construction for two weeks.

-- Wooden once made a hole in one and a double eagle in the same day? It was in 1976 -- a year after he retired -- at the Balboa course in Encino. He made the ace first and then, a few holes later, holed a fairway wood (yes, wood) from the middle of the fairway for his second shot. He was a four handicap at the time. He did not celebrate with a beer.

-- Wooden used to predict how his UCLA teams would do that season and hide the prediction in his desk drawer? Only once did he predict the team would go undefeated: "Lewis's first year," he says. He means Lewis Alcindor, of course, who later became Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. And he was right. Alcindor's sophomore year (his first with the varsity), the Bruins went 30-0 and won the national championship, Wooden's third. "I just felt Lewis was so good and so different that it was going to be hard for opponents to catch up to him." Wooden had three other undefeated teams, two with Bill Walton.

-- Wooden didn't like it at UCLA at first and wanted to leave? After his second year he wanted to take the head coaching job at his alma mater, Purdue. Nellie didn't like Los Angeles. But he had.a year left on his contract. "There was a lot more money and everything else," Wooden says. "But UCLA reminded me that I was the one that insisted on a three year contract, which was true. So I talked it over (with Nell) and I said, 'You know I gave my word.' And I haven't broken it yet."

It's amazing, isn't it? How a man who can't get out of a wheelchair still manages to stand taller than everybody else?

"That blows!"

That being the lack of a rule barring NFL coaches from waiting until the last nanosecond to call a timeout, making the kicking team not only go through the entire FG for no reason but also scream with joy and hug like the game's over, because it isn't. They have to do it all again.

It's chintzy. It's bad theater. And it's unfair.

Imagine if this happened in any other sport. Bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, 3-2 count, pitcher winds up, batter rips it over the left field fence, gets mobbed at home. Oops! Nope, the pitching team called a timeout seconds before it was released. Let's do it all again.

There's a simple fix. No team may call a timeout on a field goal attempt when the play clock is at less than five seconds.

They've fixed these kind of sneaky coaching tricks before.

Remember when players would fake injuries in the last two minutes of a half to save their team from using a timeout? Now you're charged a timeout if you have an injury in the last two minutes, faked or not.

Remember when linemen would purposely commit a false start in the final two minutes because time was running out and their team didn't have it together? Now 10 seconds are run off the clock.

Remember when Ken Stabler of the Oakland Raiders purposely fumbled forward so his own player could land on it in the end zone? Now, if a teammate recovers a fumble, it's a dead ball.

Roger: Do it now. You're welcome.

Michael Jordan could've picked almost anybody on earth to present him into the Basketball Hall of Fame Friday.

Dean Smith.

Tiger Woods.

Barack Obama even.

But he didn't.

And he could've picked a North Carolina player. That would've been the right PR thing to do.

Or a Chicago Bull. That would've gone over happily.

Or the hand that feeds him, Nike boss Phil Knight. His accountant would've liked that.

But Jordan didn't.

Instead, he picked his boyhood idol -- and mine -- David (Skywalker) Thompson of North Carolina State and the Denver Nuggets.

I know, i know, you say you never saw anybody who could leap like Jordan, but you didn't see David Thompson. He had a 44-inch vertical, 50 with a single step.

And I know, you never saw anybody who could dunk like Jordan, but you didn't see David Thompson. The best slam dunk contest in history was Thompson vs. Dr. J in Denver in 1976 -- the single most exciting day of my 18-year-old life -- and that Dr. J won it is still the biggest crime since the Danny Ocean heist.

And you never saw anybody who could take over a game like Jordan, but you didn't see David Thompson, the man I once saw take a rebound off the top of a backboard, the man I once saw dunk a ball from the crook of his elbow, the idol's idol.

Glad to see him finally get his due.

The Denver Broncos' Pat Bowlen used to be one of the cleverest owners in sports. But now he's being undercut by an insidious opponent -- himself.

Bowlen, 65, admitted recently that he has "short-term memory loss." There are whole parts of the Broncos' Super Bowl seasons he says he can't recall.

Bowlen still insists Jay Cutler never called him back during McJay Gate this winter, which left him "no choice" but to trade a dead-lock Pro Bowl 26-year-old quarterback for Kyle Orton and draft choices.

But I've now got it from three different sources -- who choose to remain unidentified -- that Cutler did call Bowlen back.

"Jay called him twice," said one source. "It's unbelievable it came to this."

Is it possible Bowlen forgot?

People close to the team are starting to wonder how much the memory loss is affecting Bowlen's decision making. Disgrunted wide receiver Brandon Marshall says Bowlen promised him in June that he'd trade him. Yet Marshall remains untraded and unhappy.

They're also noticing that more and more of the final decisions have come down to Chief Operating Officer Joe Ellis, a cousin of George W. Bush, who is not a football guy and definitely not a Cutler fan. If you recall, Ellis alone made the trip out to Boston to have a second conversation with the Broncos' highly suspect new 33-year-old head coach, Josh McDaniels.

And how's this for weird: Bowlen admitted in May that he still hadn't spoken to the coach he fired, Mike Shanahan. Those two used to be the best of friends. Not even a phone call? Is Bowlen sure?

These and other curious goings-on have left the team with slim hopes and two Salvation Army QBs -- Kyle Orton and Chris Simms. Letting Cutler go will cost the franchise for years to come. This season, the general Las Vegas over/under on Broncos wins is seven. They'll be lucky to get six.

Making a lot of Denver fans will wish they could forget, too.

Proof that the Cash for Clunkers program is not dead:

(1) Brett Favre, a 39-year-old waffler who bombed in the second half of the 2008 season for the New York Jets, has a suspect shoulder and a broken decider, signs with the Minnesota Vikings for $12 million.

(2) The Ricketts family agrees to pay a record $845 million for 95 percent of a Chicago Cubs team that is falling apart nearly as fast as Wrigley Field. Love the place, but it needs a makeover worse than Bud Selig. The talent is overpriced, and now, so is the team.

(3) The Oakland A's are paying Jason Giambi his $5.25 million salary, despite the fact that they've released him and his .193 average. Giambi is now in the Colorado Rockies farm system.

Yet another reason why Mike Veeck, owner of the minor league independent St. Paul Saints, is my favorite executive in baseball.

Just to remind you, Veeck -- son of the single greatest owner in sports history, Bill Veeck, owner of the Chicago White Sox -- is the man who has so far brought you:

• A team pig, who brings out the baseballs before each game.
• A Sesame-Street-inspired bobblehead giveaway night, featuring Count "von Re-Count," and the faces of Minnesota's two deadlocked 2008 Senatorial candidates -- Al Franken and Norm Coleman -- on each side.
• Randy Moss Hood Ornament Night, celebrating then-Minnesota Vikings receiver Moss's infamous bumping of a traffic control agent with his car.
• Necktie night, to mock Bud Selig ending the 2002 All-Star game in a 7-7 tie.

Recently, he offered up a doozy: Souvenir Cup Night. Only these weren't your usual cups. These were cup cups. You know? The kind catchers wear? The kind I'm wearing right now as I type.

The first 2,500 Saints fans (male and female) received one. Recipients were warned that the "cups were not ideal for the serving of cold or hot beverages." Got it.

"This year's been a kick in the shorts for many hard-working Americans," said Veeck. "This is the least we could do."

Love him.

Three rules that need to be changed before next summer:

1. The one that states fifth sets in Wimbledon men's finals must be played out and not settled by tiebreaker. Because it didn't go to a tiebreaker, Roger Federer got a very unfair advantage. That entire fifth set, Federer got to serve first. So if he was broken by Andy Roddick, he always had the chance to break back to stay alive. All the pressure was on Roddick. He had to hold serve every single game or lose the championship. Nine straight games he did it. On the 10th, he didn't, and the match was over, with Federer winning it 16-14. The tiebreak is the only fair way to do it. It's why it was invented. Why suddenly go back to rules that don't work?

2. The one that states any past champion at the British Open can't play past age 60. That means that Tom Watson, who nearly won the damn thing, gets kicked out after next year at St. Andrews. Madness. Here's how it should be: If you're a past champion, 56 and over, and you finish in the top 10, you get five more years of eligibility. (The years do not accrue. It's a rolling five years.) This way, Watson, who clearly can still win this thing, would be eligible until he's 64. The rule used to be 65, by the way, so it's no huge change. Let's say Watson challenges again at 63 and finishes in the top 10. Now he can go until 68. Only fair. I ran it by Watson. He said, "Hmmm. Not bad."

3. The one that makes the cut at the British are the top 70 and ties, even if some of those players are within 10 shots of the lead. Tiger Woods was 10 shots off the lead when he was cut Friday night. Ten shots is a speed bump for Tiger Woods. He could've gotten hot Saturday and been within three or four shots Sunday. The people who set the rules there need to be a little more royal and a little less ancient.

The nugget I couldn't fit into the column on Lance Armstrong's remarkable attempt at an eighth Tour de France victory was that he might just try for a ninth.

"I'm finding out how hard it is to be away for four years," he said as he was being massaged in his room in Montpellier, France after Stage 4. "You can train all you want, but there's nothing like racing shape. That's why, if I did it next year, I'd potentially be better than I was this year."

So will you try again next year?

"Haven't decided yet," he said.

Love him or loathe him, you have to admit that Armstrong is a hope machine for those fighting cancer worldwide. As part of this comeback, he's ridden in Australia, South Africa, Ireland, Italy, Monaco, Spain and France, raising billions in guarantees from corporations to fight cancer. He's kept his Livestrong foundation in the black while so many other charities are down. They haven't had to fire a single employee. And don't forget, he's the only rider in the Tour riding for free.

For Armstrong, it's not just about the bike. It's also about the bracelet.

There are three remarkable things about Barcelona -- the art, the food and the overwhelming sense you get about every two blocks that a cesspool has just exploded.

I couldn't figure out how -- in a city as lovely as this -- that could be possible. But then one night, the wife and I were sitting on the balcony of the third-floor apartment we'd rented, just drinking sangria and catching up on our thumb twiddling, when we saw why. In the space of one hour, four different women came by, checked to see if anybody was looking, dropped their pants, squatted and peed between the parked cars below us.

Far worse, two of them had recently eaten asparagus.

One, the European press openly cheers and applauds for its nation's sports stars. In America, there's no cheering in the press box. Two, the reporters here are very frank. I remember an American reporter asking his 117th dumb question of a British Open at Turnberry once when an exasperated Scot hollered up from the back, "Y'er talkin' crap, man!" Three, the reporters for the scandal sheets -- the tabs -- can kill a press conference faster than a fire alarm. Some "beastie boy" from The Sun or The Daily Star will go, "Yes, Nigel, do you feel your performance today was affected by the rather curvy exotic dancer who's been accompanying you lately?" Cut to: Nigel stomping off.

But my favorite Euro press story involved Greg Norman at a British Open. He was in the press room, talking about an injury. He told about icing it overnight and how it still wasn't improving. Finally, he opened it up to questions. A hundred hands went up. Steve Hershey, then of USA Today, was first.

He asked, "Wait a second. You found ice?"

NEWS: Two pint-sized wrestlers died after a drink-fueled night with prostitues.

The pair were found in a hotel room on Monday in Mexico City, not far from the Arena Mexico wrestling venue. They were identified as two brothers -- Alberto and Alejandro Jiménez. Reports say the wrestlers, both 35, picked up two women posing as prostitutes and took them to a hotel room. Hours later, the women allegedly left alone. Investigators believe the grapplers overdosed after taking a dose of eye drops combined with alcohol. In Mexico City, it is a common crime for gangs of fake prostitutes to rob their clients after they pass out from ingesting tainted drinks.

VIEWS: If I see one more story about little people Mexican wrestlers allegedly killed by poison-eyedrop-wielding fake hookers, I think i'm going to scream.

Our little rented house in Wimbledon Village turns out to be the eye of the world tennis hurricane. You cannot throw a bucket of BBs without hitting a player, agent or Wimbledon mucky muck. Monday night, for instance, after Scotsman Andy Murray's historic under-the-roof win that went until nearly 11 p.m., we ate at the nearby Pizza Express, next to a bust of Murray, made out of pizza dough. They tossed us out for closing time. But 10 minutes after we left -- according to our friendly waiter the next day -- Murray himself came by, knocked on the glass, folded his hands into a prayer and asked if they'd feed him. They did. When he paid, you think they saved the Murray dough and put it next to the Murray dough?

One more: The local dry cleaners just got the contract to launder the Wimbledon umpires' clothes. But there was a problem, according to the harried proprietress. They kept finding blood on some of the trousers and jackets. Was it the return of John McEnroe? They were concerned enough about it to finally ask. Turns out it was nothing sinister, just juice from Wimbledon's famous strawberries, apparently snuck into pockets for sustenance during the endless five-set matches.

Near as I can tell, there are five reasons most of America finds it impossible to be happy for Kobe Bryant (and why they're wrong):

1) They think he threw Shaq off the Lakers -- and people like Shaq better. (Actually, Bryant doesn't own the Lakers. It was Jerry Buss who was fed up with Shaq, tired of him reporting to training camp out of shape and infuriated when he scheduled toe surgery just weeks before camp started. The team was staler than last Christmas' fruitcake. Somebody had to go. And, yes, Shaq is more fun. He acts 10 years younger than his age and Bryant 10 years older. But John Stockton makes Bryant look like a stand-up comedian and nobody hates on him.)

2) They think he has the refs in his pocket. (Actually, Bryant led all players in technical fouls in 2007-2008. He was ninth this season, tied with Shaq and a few others.)

3) They think he's a lousy teammate who hogs the ball. (Actually, Bryant set personal bests for assists in these playoffs. And watch the tapes of the Lakers celebration. You can't fake bonds like that.)

4) They think he's a threat to their god, Michael Jordan, as Greatest Player Ever. (Actually, Bryant and Jordan are friends. They talk and text a lot. Jordan has helped Bryant with his game and his public life. If Jordan doesn't resent him, why should you?)

5) They think he's a sourpuss who never smiles. (Actually, they're right. But now, with his fourth and by far most important championship, maybe he can lighten up. This title should take years off his face and tons off his shoulders. Maybe now he can start showing the world his sense of humor, his good heart and his upper row of teeth instead of just the bottoms.)

"Crap!"

That's what I shrieked—doubled over in pain—when I heard about Patricia Demauro, a New Jersey grandmother, who rolled 154 straight times at an Atlantic City craps table without losing, breaking the known record for lucky.

She rolled four hours and 18 minutes without sevening out. I nearly wept. Craps is the only game I play at the casinos. The longest I've ever had somebody roll is 20 minutes, tops. Usually, they have crapped out before my free beer comes.

One hundred and fifty-four rolls! Demauro won't say how much she made, but gambling experts think she could hardly have kept from winning into six figures. Working it out with my meager math skills, if I'd have been there at her table at the Borgata that night, making my usual bet—$10 on the pass line, $25 behind it at odds, $12 on the six, $12 on the eight and the occasional "yo" bets—I'd have made enough to never need a free beer the rest of my life.

And, just as you'd guess, Mrs. Demauro had played craps just once before. (Sound of me slapping my forehead). She was there to play the penny slots. (Sound of me grinding my teeth.) She was only talked into trying it by a friend. "I really don't even know how to play the game," she told a woman at the table.

Isn't that cute?

(Sound of me pulling final few hairs out of skull.)

One last puppet commercial:

KOBE PUPPET (entering the apartment): LeBron! Hey, LeBron! What's up? LeBron? Where are you?

(Kobe puppet looks behind couches, tables, into cupboards. Nothing.)

KOBE PUPPET: C'mon, dude! Don't mess with me! Let's get somethin' to eat!

(Enters bedroom. Notices all of LeBron's stuff is missing, drawers empty, closets cleaned out.)

KOBE PUPPET: He left without saying goodbye? Or even a handshake?

(He sees a note, which reads: I hope you choke in 4!)

KOBE PUPPET: What a dummy.

My mom used to say, "What you do comes back to you." She would've loved the final of the UEFA Champions League. Manchester United -- the team with the giant AIG across its jerseys -- got beat by FC Barcelona, the team with the UNICEF logo across its, 2-0. How cool is that? Barcelona does it all backwards. It blew off a jersey sponsorship deal worth tens of millions, like the best UEFA teams sign, and instead decided to donate $2 million a year to UNICEF for the privilege of wearing its name. And Barcelona will do it for two more seasons. Manchester, meanwhile, is wearing the logo of one of the world's greediest -- and most ruinous -- corporations in history. Karma. Who says you can't love soccer?

If Rachel Alexandra, the fabulous filly of horse racing, enters the Belmont and wins it, hers would be a bedazzling achievement the likes of which is rarely seen. She'll have won the fillies-only Kentucky Oaks at Churchill Downs by more than 20 lengths the day before the Derby. She'll have beaten the Derby winner (Mine That Bird) and 11 other males two weeks later in the Preakness. Then she'll have punked them all again in the Belmont. And all while changing barns, trainers and owners halfway through.

But the question is: what do we call the feat? I think it's as good as a Triple Crown -- anybody who's ever laid down a $2 bet knows she would've bested the Derby field -- but you can't call it that because she wasn't entered in all three. It's something like the year Tiger Woods won four straight majors over two seasons -- 2000-2001. It wasn't really the Grand Slam, but it was damn close. So we sportswriters came up with The Tiger Slam. How about the The Triple Tiara? It's not a crown, but it's close. Alexandra the Great would become, in my book, the greatest filly of all time. And what would we call Calvin Borel's feat of becoming the first jockey to win a Triple Crown on two different horses? How about: The Triple Transfer?

Three items with absolutely nothing to do with each other:

1) Manny Ramirez has been taking female fertility drugs? So what? That's just Manny being Annie.

2) USA Today wrote Thursday that Nuggets' guard Chauncey Billups was "raised in the gritty Park Hill neighborhood in northeast Denver." Please. Park Hill is where I was born. If that area is gritty, then I'm Tupac Shakur.

3) Of course Orlando guard Rafer Alston deserved a one-game suspension for his swinging headband readjustment atop the noggin of Celtics guard Eddie House. But why didn't House get a Flagrant 1 for the elbow Alston says he put in his stomach two seconds before? Kobe Bryant got a 1 for the elbow he threw at Ron Artest. Should it matter if a guy connects? It doesn't when it comes to punches thrown. Did House not get it for the same reason that Celtic Rajon Rondo didn't get one for slapping Chicago's Brad Miller in the face? Is it because the Celtics are the darlings of the league, are the defending champs, and the Finals MVP award is named after a Celtic (Bill Russell)? I'm not saying. I could be fined. I don't live in Boston.

If you could only see three sporting events in your life they should be Wimbledon, The Masters and the Kentucky Derby. Saturday's 51-1 long-shot Derby winner Mine That Bird was unforgettable—I found myself screaming at the rail with a bow-tied Dhani Jones of the Cincinnati Bengals—but the Derby is always unforgettable. The hats, the hooves and that first-Saturday-in-May hope that spring is here: priceless. What is forgettable is the rumor that Churchill Downs will someday run the Derby under lights. Churchill Downs says it's never been discussed, but it will start night racing on two Fridays in June and once again in July and you know where this is going. Once the lights go up and the temptation to get a prime-time TV audience is there, you can throw another great American tradition in the giveaway pile, along with World Series Games That Start Early Enough for Kids to Watch, Superstar Golfers Who Don't Cuss After Bad Shots and NBA Traveling. Please don't do it.

Ashton Kutcher isn't cool just because he's one of the few stars in Hollywood who played high school football. And he isn't cool because he recently promised to ding-dong ditch Ted Turner's house. He's cool because he just donated 10,000 nets at $10 a piece to stop the spread of malaria in Africa. Kutcher did it to celebrate becoming the first person to reach 1 million followers on Twitter, which inspired CNN to donate 10,000 nets, which got Oprah Winfrey to pitch in 20,000 nets. Perfect with World Malaria Day Saturday, April 25. But what if all million of Kutcher's Twitter-ers gave a net? That would be a million more lives saved! Now Turner has posed a challenge: If 10,000 more people join the Nothing But Nets campaign—the program I helped found with the United Nations Foundation—he's going to have Kutcher and his wife, Demi Moore, over for lunch If that happens, I'll donate 2,000 more nets myself. And do the dishes.

Denver Broncos QB Jay Cutler is getting jerked around like a Shetland Pony at a six-year-old's birthday party.

Just to recap: Incredible young talent leads team to second-rated offense in the league last year. Has seven 300-plus yard games and one 400-plus yarder. Does it all while going through seven different running backs and a defense with more holes than a Tyler Perry plot. Makes the Pro Bowl. Becomes the leader of the team.

Then his coach gets fired. Then the guy calling his plays leaves town. Then he finds out his new coach -- a 32-year-old rookie -- is shopping him for a trade. In the NFL, if you're thinking of shopping your star, you better not get caught.

But the Rookie got caught.

Only The Rookie lies about it -- says he was only "listening to offers." Then, in a face-to-face with Cutler, the coach flip-flops. Says, "Yes, we were trying to trade you, so what?" Cutler gets torqued and says so. The world starts calling Cutler a "baby" and reminds him that "this is a business."

But now Cutler sees he's not wanted, can't trust his coach and is no longer the leader in his teammates' eyes. So his career is suddenly dropping like GE stock. His ability to perform has been shredded. So he says, "Trade me," and now he's spoiled? He needs to shut up and take it? How come it's a business for everybody but Cutler?