Three of the brightest baseball pitchers of their times staged comebacks without much success - David Cone, Jim Bouton and Jim Palmer - but there was room to admire their quixotic gesture.

There is nothing wrong with athletes coming back from retirement.

Most descriptions make Beijing sound overbuilt: not a blade of grass left.

As my wife will attest, I do not shop casually.

For years, I advised George Steinbrenner to get out of town because he dishonored my hometown with his bullying and bombast.

Pennant races drain the energy from the best of them. Old-fashioned baseball races are to me the most grueling daily test in any sport. Gotta keep coming out, every day, in the face of looming disaster.

What is there about basketball that makes Larry Bird or Lenny Wilkens want to coach after their playing careers are done?

Many of the most successful coaches and managers have come from players who never reached the highest level. The one exception seems to be basketball, where many of the greatest stars at least tried to coach a team.

Yankee caps pop up all over the world, not as a statement of loyalty to that team, but as a symbol of - what? Winning 27 so-called World Series? Much of the world doesn't even play that sport.

Ball caps travel far and wide. They do far more than keep the sun out of your eyes or the cold off your head. Ball caps are a statement.

In New York, I run into Packers fans who have never lived in Wisconsin, Canadiens fans who have never lived in La Belle Province, Celtics fans who admire Russell and Bird and Pierce but have no trace of a Boston accent.

Sure, there were people from Missouri and Illinois who grew up Cardinals fans and migrated to New York for work or love. Cardinals fans congregate periodically at Foley's near Herald Square to root for the team of their childhood, up there on the TV screen.

For years, I have been harboring memories of my first major league game at a place named Ebbets Field in Brooklyn.

I love Boston. I love Fenway Park. I love Red Sox history. But in no way am I a Red Sox fan.

Having been aware of the Red Sox since the 1946 World Series, having been growled at by Ted Williams as a young reporter in 1960, having been present at the horror of 1986 and the comeback of 2004, I have seen the highs and lows of some other people's favorite team.

I know, I know - men have that extra hero gene in their foolish makeup; it's part of our charm. But I happen to know some women who have their inner sports hero, too.

Lots of ballplayers have their own personal music blasted by the sound systems in modern ball parks.

Flo Hyman became America's best-known volleyball player with a faulty aorta, but she did not know it.

There is only one thing wrong about the Flo Hyman Award: it came to be named for the Old Lady of Volleyball much too soon.

Newspapers are the engines that drive the Web.

There may not be much future for the kind of sports column I did.

Many American players - Paul Caligiuri, Claudio Reyna, Eric Wynalda, Kasey Keller, Tony Sanneh, Michael Bradley and Steve Cherundolo, just a partial list - have sought the income and challenge of Germany.

I would never tell anybody to give up hockey - the great sports we have here - basketball, lacrosse - rugby coming into its own - we've got so many great team sports, and I say hold on to them.

What I like about it is the creativity. When I watch good soccer players - the way they have to make a play out of nothing.