Advice on "Chatting with Foreign Guests":

Don’t ask about income or expenses, don’t ask about age, don’t ask about love life or marriage, don’t ask about health, don’t ask about someone’s home or address, don’t ask about personal experience, don’t ask about religious beliefs or political views, don’t ask what someone does.

Advice on "Interacting With Handicapped Athletes":

1. You should use polite and standard forms of address for handicapped athletes.
2. Try to keep as light as you can with handicapped overtones.
3. Pay attention to how you congratulate handicapped athletes.

Pay attention to avoiding taboo subjects, quit using bad platitudes, and do not use insulting or discriminatory contemptuous or derogatory terms to address the disabled. Say things such as, “You are amazing,” or “You are really great.” When chatting with the visually impaired, do not say things like “It’s up ahead,” or “It’s over there.” When chatting with athletes who are paraplectic in their upper body, do not say things like “It’s behind you.”

And finally, how to walk when the foreigners are around:

When men and women are walking together, men should generally walk on the outside, and the person carrying things should normally walk on the right. Men should help women carry things, but must not help women carry their handbags. When three people are walking side-by-side, elderly should walk in the middle. Where there are many cars around, men should walk on the side of the sidewalk closer to the street. When four people are walking together, it is best to walk two-by-two.

Yes, it's just like New York!

[Peaceful Rise via Coudal]

Let's lay out the facts:

1. These ads do indeed depict what is widely considered to be the most humiliating possible thing that can happen to someone on a basketball court.

2. That humiliation arises from the balls-in-face aspect of the dunk, meaning it is fundamentally a homophobic sentiment. At least subconsciously.

3. Nike's ad placement shows they're appealing to a very specific basketball player/ fan demographic. It's doubtful they'd use this same ad campaign for the general public, without some tweaks.

There's also a racial aspect at work here, although it's more fuzzy. One strict interpretation would be that Nike is even more irresponsible for fomenting and supporting homophobia in the black community, where AIDS rates are higher and homophobia is, therefore, more deadly. The opposite, but equally strict, interpretation would be that basketball is a sport with lots of black players at its highest levels, and therefore using black slang, etc. in ads targeted specifically at basketball players is only natural and right.

Leaving aside my unrelated general hatred of Nike, I have to take a slightly more forgiving line with them here. Context is important! Didn't we learn anything from the freaking New Yorker's Obama cover? Hardcore basketball fans would scarcely think twice about these ads, except maybe to chuckle. Trash talk is a fundamental part of streetball.

That said, the larger point is that the joke here—as in other campaigns revolving around ALL OF AMERICA'S MOST POPULAR SPORTS—is based on the implacable homophobia of straight jocks. That can't be denied. So Nike should pull the ads. Or rework them to be friendlier to gay basketball fans, at least. Be aspirational, you bastards! The sad part is that this isn't a new low in homophobic advertising. It's the sports status quo.

Everyone's nervous about the Olympics this year. The Chinese government's politicization of the ceremonies reminded sponsors and spectators alike of its human rights record, particularly in Tibet. Broadcasters are pushing back against restrictions on TV reporting. Athletes are concerned about air quality. In short, the Olympics are the same politicized mess they've always been, and more commercial than ever. How to keep everyone focused on the athletic action? Easy, just keep the cameras pointed at the lithe young hardbodies that flock to this competition every four years. And if that seems like a lecherous degradation of a noble event, remember this: the Olympians themselves are notoriously bad at keeping their hands off one another once they get eliminated from competition. Remind yourself by browsing this photo gallery of hot Olympic athletes past and present, curated by intern Nicola Gherson.

The WSJ speaks to Costas about his HBO show today, and the entire first half of the article is Costas' obligatory rehash of Bissinger's tirade. I'm sure he will never tire of discussing it! And he has obviously perfected his equivocation on the issue by now:

"The truth," says Mr. Costas, "is that this issue was a powder keg waiting to explode somewhere, and ours just happened to be the match that set it off. I think Buzz realizes he did a disservice to the journalistic standards he was claiming to uphold by jumping on Will that way. At the same time, it's easy for many of those in the blogosphere to dismiss Buzz's outburst as representative of the objections the mainstream sports media has to the excesses of the Internet.

Interesting. Any further "on the one hand, on the other hand" formulaic statements of diplomacy you'd like to make, Bob?

"Put it this way: Though I would have preferred more light and less heat on the subject, I think we did a service by putting the issue out there to be discussed. And it won't be the last time that we'll be discussing it. Next time we'll be better prepared. For now, I'll leave it at this — though Buzz is a friend, those who suggest that he was expressing my views on sports blogs are wrong." His own feelings about the Internet, say Mr. Costas, echoing Alan Ladd's gunfighter in "Shane" on the subject of his weapon, is that "it's just a tool. No better or worse than the person using it."

Then he describes his next show, which sounds incredibly boring in comparison.

[WSJ]

"I'm going home to jerk off to you now." Aww/eww. A tipster tells us that Avery added "And that's a big compliment," and later text messaged Kirschbaum saying that "the session is going well." So yes! A little creepy, but at least he's not been completely be-sassed by the sleek and bitchy fashion industry. Though it could all be an elaborate ruse and he really went back to his hotel to drink Moët and do blow all night with Tom Ford while Anna Wintour did slow 70's disco claps in the background, Carly Simon playing softly. If that's the case then boo, but if he really was practicing his stick-handling skills then good on him. I hope he had a steak afterwards.

"The libel claim focuses on a series of articles that appeared in the British press including the Daily Mail, the London Evening Standard and the Independent on Sunday from April 22 onwards.

These articles alleged that Robert Dee had lost 54 consecutive professional matches, making him the world's worst player. British-born Dee, who works full time as a tennis professional at La Manga in Spain, has denied the claim.

According to his spokesman, Dee said that while he has lost 54 consecutive International Tennis Federation matches he also won 20 other professional matches in that time."

Robert Dee is a terrible tennis player. God bless the USA!

(Also, could this spell the end of derogatory listicles in the UK? Heaven forbid!)

[Guardian UK]

The deal was ironed out yesterday, but Hooters would not reveal how much it paid for the rights. Hooters said the owners and the jockey approved the deal.

"We have a great relationship with UPS, but Hooters has a great plan to have 450 of their restaurants doing a Big Brown day," Wietsma said.

Hooters is also going to slap its logo on the jockey's legs, and, if Big Brown wins, he will "be greeted by busty Hooters girls in tightfitting T-shirts."

Stay classy, rich people.

[NYDN]

*Uh, extreme-violence-and-language-disclaimer-here.

Red Sox ace pitcher Josh Beckett recently turned down Jordan's request for an interview for New York Times Magazine story. But even big stars in the 70s wouldn't dream of such a thing. Here's how he got a story on (now Hall of Famer) Catfish Hunter of the Oakland A's:

I checked into the A's hotel and went right down to the pool. I watched as Reggie Jackson, Sal Bando, Rollie Fingers, and Rick Monday eyeballed the chicks laying by the water. I asked one of the players which one was Catfish Hunter. He pointed to a shy, North Carolina country boy barely into his 20s with a chew of tobacco puffing out his cheek. I introduced myself to Catfish and said, "I'm here to write a story about you for Sports Illustrated." He nodded. I said, "Can I drive you to the park?" He nodded again.

Another current Hall of Fame pitcher, Tom Seaver, wasn't any harder to get:

I called the Mets, told them I was an SI writer, and asked for Seaver's home number. They gave it to me, gratefully. I called Tom, told him what I was doing, and he invited me to his home in Greenwich for lunch. We ate in the afternoon on the porch of Tom's farmhouse. He barbecued a huge T-bone steak, cutting out the filet for me and the sirloin for himself. Then I drove him to Shea Stadium in a rainstorm in my old Corvette with the T-top that leaked. Water dripped on Tom's forehead. He looked up and said, "Why don't you buy a Porsche?" I said, "Because I'm not Tom Seaver." Water dripped on his head. He laughed. "That's a fucking fact."

But today, even jerks like steroid fan Jose Canseco screw with him!:

Jose was, well, Jose, reneging on our arrangement only after I'd flown to L.A. at his request. Why should he have wanted to talk to me? He had by then written his second magnum opus and was scheduled to appear on David Letterman and Howard Stern.

So he wrote a story about what a jerk Canseco was, and Will Leitch ran it on Deadspin. Blogs win!

[Slate]

Dean is at a club, on an island vacation spot, when he meets him:

He was across the room standing against the wall with a drink in his hand. He was bobbing his head to the Hip-Hop beats and surrounded by slew of bodacious women and physically fit men.

I couldn't take my eyes off him. He was absolutely gorgeous - Tall, caramel, chinky eyes, and a body that wouldn't stop. Damn, he was fine! I felt the temperature in my body rise. Lust was speaking and its low growl was whispering in my ears.

Then he looked over in my direction and smiled.

They have a short, coy meeting at the bar. Who was that man?

I asked my boy Clever if he knew the beautiful specimen of a man. Clever acknowledged that he did. "That's 'Preston' I haven't seen him in a while. He's always on the road. He plays for ________."

Now, I am really excited. This professional athlete just approached me and how he did it was so smooth. No one noticed anything.

The next night, Dean is in his hotel room:

Anyway, I opened the door and there he was. Tall, broad, strong, sexy, and smiling at me. Preston strolled into my suite as if it was his own. I was in shock. My mouth dropped open, and so did every molecule and cell in my body.

I quickly closed the door. Preston didn't say a word. Nothing. His muscular body glided into the bedroom. I followed. He unbuttoned his shirt and revealed an amazing physique. I followed suit, and, like that, me and Preston went at each other like two lovers in heat. We wanted each other badly. We explored each other's bodies as we peeled off our clothes and strewn them throughout the room.

My gosh, Preston was ferocious in bed. His soft lips met mine. We kissed tenderly, and then passionately. Our tongues danced in each other's mouths. We groped each other finding different and wonderful places to touch. His long hard muscle was massive. He felt wonderful in my hands.

We have no guesses!

[1224 Confessions]

Were they actively encouraging you to develop an eating disorder?

Yes, absolutely. I don't think they would say, "Go throw up," or "We want you to be anorexic," but the fact is that they were asking us to do things that were impossible without engaging in behaviors that were dangerous. People weren't quite as sophisticated in their understanding of eating disorders then as they are now, so I don't know if they understood that there were long-term psychological and physical effects.

Then the commenters jump in: "As a skinny little 8yr old I was mocked for having "baby fat" by coaches," says one. "Another gym told me (at 5'1 100 pounds of pure muscle- no eating disorder here!) that I had to lose 20 pounds to train with their team," says another. Some jump to the sport's defense, but the insane weigh-in standard stories seem common. Sey also says her doctor and coaches essentially conspired to have girls training even when they were injured. And:

Throughout the book, you make elliptical references to male coaches who are attracted to young girls and imply that your own personal coach, John, was one of them. What did you mean when you said that he was "lewd and lascivious" and "may have liked being near all the barely dressed teens, but ... never explicitly let on"?

He was never inappropriate with us, but he was a really flirty guy, and we all saw that. And sometimes the women he flirted with were very close to our age — 18, 19 years old, and we were 15 or 16. There were a lot of things he did that made me feel weird — he was a weird guy. The conditions of the sport are strange, and that was what I was trying to say. Most men that coach women gymnasts have never been gymnasts themselves. So I always wondered, even as a child: Why do these men want to coach little girls? In some instances, it's purely financial. But I think in the minority of cases, there are men who are interested in little girls.

Previously held vague suspicions now anecdotally confirmed!

1. I would like a quiet tropical vacation. Beach access is a must.

2. I would like to see a favorite Martial Arts film, Dragon Inn, which has not been seen since the early '70s. (UCLA Films Archive.)

3. I'd like to do a trail ride on the Colorado Continental Divide trail for a few days. It's a beautiful trail that runs the length of the state of Colorado.

Email rsvp@iconomy.com to make this poor man's dreams come true!

Leon Spinks is good at spitting between his teeth.

Stop poking Al Unser, lady!

George Foster is always ready to sneak up from behind and hit you with a bat.

Occasionally, basketball players will pull each others' shorts down, just for fun.

You don't want to meet Nancy Lopez in a dark alley.

It is, without exaggeration, the most atrocious press release we have seen in at least a few days. Let's examine its errors, shall we? They start out with the very top line:

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: Thursday, March 19, 2008

That would be Wednesday, March 19. Just quibbling here! Next is the awesome old-timey flame animation on the slogan, "LIGHTNING! HOOPLA! ACTION!" A mark of quality. So what was Mr. Harwell's strategy in buying this off-brand team?

The entertainment industry producer and entrepreneur understood that the passion inspired by NBA teams like the Clippers and the Lakers could easily support a team with games that are active, high-energy, and full of athletic drama.

Yes, because rather than go see, you know, Kobe Bryant, the citizens of the "City of Angeles" can turn to this scrap heap of castoffs and second-rate schoolyard players for their dose of athletic drama. Smart! Next, inexplicably, is this:

Wise decision to include a photo of Hollywood Casting Director Pixie Monroe in your press release—otherwise people might not take you seriously.

The release goes on to say the team needs a "vivacious girl" to be "Miss L.A. Lightning," doubtless one of the most sought after positions among washed-up Laker Girls. It concludes:

And as for Harwell, he's hoping Lightning will strike all season long.

Dude: You'll be lucky to escape this cut-rate venture with the shirt on your back. Step one in preparation for your inevitable bankruptcy: Fire your flack.

[UPDATE: The flack in question, Juliette Lewis of It Girl Public Relations, emails us to say that she did not write this particular press release; although Lewis is the PR rep for the team, and listed on the release, she says that this one originated with Pixie Monroe of Monroe Casting. Noted!]

Though Booty's NFL career seems impressive on paper, he had never appeared in a regular-season NFL game when he was drafted to the Raiders last year. The Raiders then quietly waived him within four months. While his brother John David Booty is a quarterback for USC, a clearly ambitious Josh Booty may have feared his best days were in his past.

[TMZ]

1. He has a young son named Dante and a daughter named Serena—like the chick from "Gossip Girl"!

2. Photographic evidence (above!) proves that Dante hates baseball! Mmm hmm. Or the media. Either way.

3. The Yankees could have hired Don Mattingly (sorta hot in that big-mustache 70s way) or Tony Pena (not at all hot) but they did not! Yay!

4. He looks a lot like Vin Diesel but without the overcompensating thing!
5. He is a catcher.

6. He hates Texas Rangers designated hitter Sammy Sosa, and so should you!

7. He is totally stroppy with obnoxious busy-body bosses—he had an on-the-field knock-down drag-out with Marlins owner Jeffrey Loria. Loria, as art world homos will know, was a bigwig collector who has some super-serious self esteem issues. Plus he's cheap. He thinks it's all about him, foreal! So, though Joe is pretty close-mouthed, there is the potential for serious tabloid catfights with the Steinbrenner family down the road!

8. He is 5'11" and probably a little down from his game weight of 200 pounds.

9. He is 43, which is actually just the right age for a man.

10. A talking point: "It's too bad that New Joe will probably be just like Joe Torre; always sounding like he's saying something meaningful and straightforward, but not really saying much at all. Man, it'd be nice for once to see someone ready to mix it up with the junior Steinbrenners in front of the press!" Also: "Wow, this is gonna be rough on the bullpen. He's hard on the pitchers!"

Heh. That sounds dirty!

Burt Randolph Sugar, the legendary boxing raconteur, was calling the game. He did so ineptly but with great passion. To his immediate left sat James Lipton, the sycophantic host of Bravo's Inside the Actors Studio. A gnarled misshapen demon of a man, Lipton brushed aside a child's request for an autograph with a wave of his hand. He was too busy eating hot dogs, his face distorted by the meat, his dark feral eyes gleaming misanthropically into the field of play. As the writers went up to bat, Sugar read from a roster. "Mort Zuckerman, the pitcher and owner of the Daily News...." or "Rick Leventhal, from FOX news..." When the artists went up to bat, the introductions went something like, "Jeffrey Meizlik's sculpts in bronze. Some say his work deals with issues of life and death..."

On the writers squad, Zuckerman was the star and star pitcher. His teammates gathered around him, patting him on his back after every inning, though he gave up countless runs. Ad-man and egotist Donny Deutsch, who later played second base, and the New Yorker's Ken Auletta paid homage to the master.

I timidly patted the man on his back as well, and asked him for any words of advice he might have for Jared Kushner, whose New York Observer is still trudging down that long road towards profit. "In the publishing game," Zuckerman said, "the definition of genius is lasting five minutes longer than the other guy."

We nodded because we wanted him to think we understood; also because we thought we understood. Only later, during the 6th inning, while the writers were on their way to a crushing defeat, did we realize we didn't know really know what Mort meant. While we were pondering, the very athletic Daily News-man Mike Lupica, over at second base, dove to catch a line drive, a nimbus of dirt enveloping him momentarily until out of the cloud, his glove appeared: Ball firmly in mitt.

It was too late. Perhaps if Jerry Della Femina (along with Mort, he is one of the Four Horsemen of the Hamptons) or Giuliani had showed up for the writers, things would have ended up differently. Or maybe it was that Alec Baldwin was a no-show for the artists that tipped the game in their favor. Either way, Zuckerman's looked defeated as the two teams lined up for the post-game handshakes. This time, it seemed, the other guy had lasted five minutes longer.

Says Yankees manager Joe Torre:

When you get into that area, I think it's over the line. It's what people seem to think is important or seem to think they have to do. In New York, there are so many more things that you talk about on a regular basis in addition to baseball. When I took this job I certainly knew it wasn't going to be about hitting and running and changing pitchers.

Another Classic 'NY Post' Headline: 'Stray-Rod' — Tactless Ballplayer in Topless Bar? [AP]

The spectacle of watching two dudes punching each other in the face until one is knocked out is already a vexed issue. For true fans of the sweet science, watching a fight unfold is pure drama. But when 99% of the audience is composed of incredibly wealthy white guys who have no interest in boxing, uneasy-making racial issues are raised. It doesn't help that the audience is shouting out, "Knock him out, son!" or that, after an hour of open bar and in the company of fellow men, aggression in the audience was almost as palpable as aggression in the ring. During the third fight, the audience was torn between a brawl in the balcony and the final round in the ring. Are these hooting, hollering, drunken douches the engines of our economy? This thought alone is capable of turning the market from bull to bear.

If casual racism and unfettered access to wealth are the hallmarks of douchiness, so too is a certain level of lady-fear and lady-hatred. Thanks to the numerous corporate sponsors of the event, no chance to ogle tits went unexploited. Primary Support sent around two statuesque women to hand out business cards in wife-beaters; they read "We're Hot for Technology." A lingerie show by a company called "Ravage" featured G-strings and models who walked in a circle around the ring. Meanwhile, inside the ring, some poor model in a black cotton jumper, white chucks and black face did interpretive dance. Weird.

Some of the money from the event went to Laureaus Sport for Good charity, so to dismiss the entire thing as simply a worthless jackass freakshow would be unfair. But proceeds notwithstanding, it really was a convention of douches and dudes, a terrifying view into the coal chamber of our economy. —Josh

BuyCatch: So my apologies for not being able to chat with you more last night, Ms. Gould. It is difficult for a shy boy like myself to cut through your fanbase.
Memily: Heh, fanbase. [Note: Emily doesn't actually have a fanbase — Will is employing a literary device called "hyperbole."] I don't think either of us really has the fanbase of Prom King John Green! [Note: John Green wins awards for his writing and also is just generally very endearing, so he's like a rock star among his fellow YA writers.] The funniest part is how much some of the ladies there OBVS hate his wife.
BuyCatch: Ha.
Memily: "You stole our dream date John Green! We hate you!"
BuyCatch: That is absolutely true. I think by the end of the night he was kissing babies and signing boobs.
Memily: It's such an interesting scene. I mean, it's actually a scene!
BuyCatch: Yeah, I never realize there's a scene until I actually show up at one of those. Someone who I'd never met told me last night, "I thought your story really didn't fit with what they were doing with this book. It's a little too adult." Hey, good to meet you too!
Memily: Who SAYS something like that? Oh: hopeless loser dorks.
BuyCatch: I suspect there are some unresolved high school issues amongst some of that crew. Just a guess.
Memily: What tipped you off, the evening of tiara'd swaying to 'In Your Eyes'? The, uh, CAREERS IN YA NOVEL WRITING? I know unresolved high school issues are what led me there!
BuyCatch: Yeah. Someone else, at another reading a few months ago, mentioned that they didn't think, because I was writing another book that wasn't YA, I was "devoted" enough to "what we're doing." It's a cause!
Memily: I'm so disturbed yet oddly charmed by that.
BuyCatch: Of course, I also had five different people last night ask me where my wife was, so I suppose I've done an effective job of avoiding them for a while. [Note: for a while last year it seemed like Will might get married, and then it didn't.]
Memily: Those people clearly haven't been keeping up with YA AUTHOR SCANDALSHEET WEEKLY magazine.
BuyCatch: I know. You know, the people who run that magazine, they're all parasites. They're all going to hell.
Memily: They should really think about what they're doing with their lives.
BuyCatch: They really should. WHY CAN'T THEY JUST LEAVE ME BE.
[later]
BuyCatch: Does 'settling scores with old girlfriends' count as "unresolved high school issues?" I suppose it probably does.

Mickey Mantle Novel 7 Finds A Publisher [NYT]
Even Bitches Have Feelings [NYMag]
Related: Mickey Mantle, God Among Men [Deadspin]

Over the weekend, friends of former Oddjack editor A.J. Daulerio gathered at popular internet-person bar Lolita to roast the young man. Despite having been canned when that Gawker Media gambling site was shuttered, Daulerio contributes to sports site Deadspin. He is perhaps best known as the superstud of the New York blogger scene, at least if you read the Observer. Sadly, he's taking his well-polished tool back to his native Philadelphia, AKA the sixth borough. (Snarf.) The clip you see above is but a brief tease for the full video (by Richard Blakeley, natch) that will appear on Deadspin at some point this afternoon. Until it does, enjoy A.J.'s heartfelt feelings concerning someone here at Gawker Media who is near and dear to all of us.

Daulerio Going Away Roast [Flickr]

Pals of Brady claim Moynahan didn't bother to tell him she was announcing her pregnancy via Liz Smith's column in The Post on Sunday. "Bridget didn't even bother to tell him she was going to go public with this," said a friend. Some say that Moynahan, three months expectant with her first child, "may have gotten pregnant on purpose. She is 36, wanted a baby, and Tom was dumping her. It's a little suspicious." But a friend of Moynahan said, "Please. They dated for three years and they broke up in December - right around the time he found out she was pregnant and he immediately started dating Gisele Bundchen. Who's the gross one here?"

Tom's Camp Disses Bridget [NYP]

Related: A Very Brady Ash Wednesday [Deadspin]

Deal News
Among the latest: Ignacio Ramonet's interviews with Fidel Castro find a
US publisher; Marina Litvinenko will write about her deceased husband; retiring NLF star Tiki Barber will write his autobiography; Dalia Jurgensen portrays her unglamorous life as a chef; and still many more.

[PublishersMarketplace]

Witnessed a "Clay Mate" (aka post-menopausal fag hag from the 'burbs) who insisted that her seven-months-pregnant daughter stand for a couple of hours with her in a big crowd in the cold in front of Tiffany's for the Unicef snowflake lighting with Clay Aiken this event a few weeks back. Was shocked when I spied the "man" himself waiting in the wings: he had an only slightly modified Dorothy Hamill wedge cut, very weak chin, and eye makeup that may have looked natural onstage but made me a little queasy in natural light. The most charitable thing I can say is that he is a strange looking cat. Anyway, after some bromides about the good work that unicef does, Clay was introducing his partner in turning on the snowflake's lights. The buildup was big: one of the NBA's all-time greats...a great scorer and rebounder...etc. etc. Finally, the big moment came—the player was...Darryl Hawkins. The few hetero male brows in the audience furrowed as the hulking ex-NBA-er came out. Of course it was Darryl Dawkins, not Hawkins. I guess Clay was thinking of something else when they were prepping him for the introductory remarks....

Earlier: Blind Item Guessing Game: Back Door Play

Which Middle-American pop star, who really should have learned to stay off the Internet, has been chatting online again? Apparently his ultimate romantic ambition is a simultaneous date with an entire NBA team (except he didn't use quite those words).

Don't Shoot The Messenger [Gatecrasher, last item]
Earlier: Gawker's Coverage of Clay Aiken

The fan of the year in 2006 is ... [Fox Sports via Eat the Press]

to two sporting goods stores in Times Square to see if Corporal [Pat] Tillman is remembered in any way. Sports lovers are often vocal in proclaiming their support of the military. These two stores, visited by people from all over the country, stock jerseys bearing the names and roster numbers of football, baseball, basketball and hockey players. Do you, we asked, have one for Pat Tillman? In both places, the clerks said: "Who?" Exactly.

THE National Football League sells hundreds of styles of replica jerseys at its official Web site, nflshop.com, and fans can add to the choices by customizing jerseys with the name and number of a player. In almost every case, though, the best sellers are replicas of those worn by the most popular players in the league today, including Reggie Bush, the rookie running back with the New Orleans Saints, and Peyton Manning, the starting quarterback for the Indianapolis Colts.One notable exception is Pat Tillman, who last played for the Arizona Cardinals nearly five years ago and was killed while on duty as an Army Ranger in Afghanistan in April 2004. Of the top 10 jerseys sold in October, Mr. Tillman ranks No. 7, the league said.

A Battle for Freedom at the Mall
A Soldier's Uniform Ranks High in N.F.L. Sales [NYT]

The crash has left several people without homes for the holidays because of fire or water damage in 70 of the building's 130 apartments. Owners have fretted over repairs, insurance policies and property values. Industrial air filters have rumbled in the hallways at all hours. Contractors have monopolized elevators.

Lidle crash impact lingers at high-rise [AP]
[Photo: Getty]

To the editor:
I am writing to take exception to your comment about the dearth of new yorker readers who might want to go to, or even watch the rose bowl.
I am a straight, non-jewish male who reads your site with some regularity. I read the new yorker (that McGrath!) and leave it near my bed to remind the girls I take home of the voracity and breadth of my intellect. I also watched the rose bowl last year and will again this year.

Deadspin editor Will Leitch's THE BALLAD OF RON MEXICO: Why ESPN, yellow bracelets, fantasy leagues, and yes, bloggers, have ruined sports for real fans and how we can get them back, a humorous call to arms in which the ringmaster of the influential sports blog punctures today's out of control jockocracy and offers a blueprint how to put the fun back into our games, to David Hirshey at Harper, in a pre-empt, by Kate Lee of ICM.

Some pre-empts require little explanation [GalleyCat]