The seven deadly sins of pro sports

Yea, my children, the apocalypse is upon us.

How do I know? I don’t have ESP. I have ESPN.

The sports world has shown me that, indeed, the end is near. Sure, there are some Saints in professional athletics; they play football in New Orleans. Everybody else, it seems, are sinners.

Take Tank Johnson, defensive tackle for the Chicago Bears. Johnson, who recently spent 45 days in a county jail for a misdemeanor weapons charge, certainly didn’t eat like an inmate. Displaying extreme gluttony, Johnson wasted $700 on vending machines, purchasing and ingesting 162 beef sticks, 40 honey bun sweet rolls, 35 summer sausage blocks and 35 bags of barbecue chips. And while Johnson undoubtedly needs some divine intervention, he’ll probably have to settle for divine indigestion.

Although I don’t envy Johnny Morton, former wide receiver for the 49ers, Chiefs and Lions, he evidently envied Bruce Lee. Morton decided to try his hand at mixed martial arts — with mixed results. In his first fight Saturday night, Morton managed to stay in the ring for 38 whopping seconds before leaving on a stretcher. I’d suggest that Morton stick to football but I suppose getting the living daylights beaten out of you is still preferable to being a Detroit Lion.

Morton’s pride may be deflated, but maybe he can borrow some from Atlanta Falcons quarterback Mike Vick. Vick, who is currently embroiled in an investigation involving dog fighting on a Virginia estate he owns, did the classically narcissistic thing when asked how the public has perceived him: He referred to himself in the third person.

“Everybody loves Mike Vick,� he declared.

While this statement is highly inaccurate, and incredibly egotistical, it would make for a good television show. Plot synopsis: Vick decides to put his prized pit bull, Spike Vick, up against one owned by a teammate. Everything is going well until Vick’s bumbling father brings over a few of his friends from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Vick smoothes things over by offering the agents Falcons tickets near the 50 yard line, much to the chagrin of his jealous, less-talented but equally maleficent cousin, Marcus (whose last collegiate game culminated in his stomping on an opponent’s right leg), who bellows “everybody loves Michael� before returning to his job flipping burgers. Hilarity ensues.

I don’t mean to pick on football, however. There are bad eggs in every sport — even baseball.

There is none more greedy than Roger Clemens, who signed a $28-million contract to pitch once every five days for the Yankees. That’s roughly $100 a minute. Clemens is old enough to be my dad and recent reports have suggested that he is suffering from a groin injury that will delay his Major League debut for at least a week. Somewhere Clemens is laughing, probably from a golden speedboat docked on his private, tropical island.

Let’s move from a Yankee trying to get paid to a Yankee trying to get, uh, you know. Third baseman Alex Rodriguez was caught by paparazzi lusting after an unidentified blonde bombshell outside of his hotel in Toronto. I’m not usually interested in the personal lives of players but I can’t help but be concerned about this one. After all, I don’t want to have another Yankee go down with a groin injury.

The fact is, the Yankees need A-Rod. To describe their start as slow would be an understatement. It’s downright sloth-like. In fact, because many of the Yankees are old enough to qualify for a discounted Fish-a-majig at Friendly’s, sometimes they actually look like sloths in the field. I think I saw Bobby Abreu curl up into a ball and fall asleep during the Boston series.

Sin has even reared its ugly head in the minors. Beware the wrath of Phillip Wellman, manager of  the Atlanta Braves’ Double-A affiliate, who earned a three-game suspension for the wildest temper tantrum I’ve ever seen. Wellman covered home plate in dirt, crept on all fours to the pitching mound, used a rosin bag as a faux-grenade, and stormed off the field with second and third base in hand. All of which lead me to believe that Wellman isn’t completely well, man.

Looking for hope on the horizon? Here’s a piece of good news: Barry Bonds is still nine home runs shy of Hank Aaron. Maybe it’s not the end of the world after all.