While I was writing about and live-blogging the U.S. Open this weekend, I wrote the word “Tigerbole” twice to describe the media hyperventilation over the greatest golfer of this generation, maybe ever.

Now, while I patted myself on the back for that little neologism, I knew that somewhere, someone had to use that word before me, right?

Well, yes. Sort of.

The Google search for Tigerbole nets five results, and two of those were mine, one on this blog and one a carbon copy of what I wrote here posted in the Deadspin comments section.

The other two that link to uses of the word were a second-sentence mention from a media column in Sports Illustrated about the coverage in the 2001 Open, and a Knight-Ridder piece you can’t see in full without a valid library card for the system.

The fifth just shows that tigerbole.com should be a valid domain name, but if you have any concept of what the word “should” means, you need not click on that link.

So I’m left to wonder why this very simple, aurally pleasing perfect rhyme for hyperbole that describes a phenomenon we’ve seen time and again this millennium has failed to gain traction.

I mean, five results from Google? “Spaghetti Alpha Wyclef shovel” gets 2,890.

And it’s not like this word’s not going to keep getting used to describe media behavior; Pat Forde and Gene Wojciechowski both had front-page columns for the Four-Letter’s website about Tiger and the Open, the wonderful Steve Elling, who wrote for the Orlando Sentinel for a number of years, had a good piece at Yahoo! Sports, and SI.com has a link to a Golf.com article ranking his major championships. (And, oh, yes, this counts as Tigerbole. This, too.)

How deafening is the hype going to get when he gets to and past Jack Nicklaus’ 18 major titles, or makes another serious run at the Grand Slam in 2010 with a ridiculous track (Augusta-Pebble Beach-St. Andrews-Whistling Straits) for him?

I say very, and that’s why I hope this word sticks around.

So I leave you with my definition:

Ti·ger·bo·le (n., \tī-ˈgər-bə-(ˌ)lē\): extravagant exaggeration of or relating to American professional golfer Tiger Woods, esp. by media figures.

Come and get it, folks. (Update: You may not need it until 2009.)

But remember where you heard it first.

Congratulations, sports fan. You’ve now lived through one of the more exciting sports weeks in recent memory.

Now figure out something else to do for two months.

Guess what? The golden period we just experienced, the one with a classic rivalry in the NBA Finals that produced a few good games (Games 1 and 2, and maybe 5), one unforgettable one (Game 4), and an extermination of the interlopers that Celtics fans will cherish forever, the one with maybe the best U.S. Open in history, the one with a few great soccer games from Euro 2008, the one with some excitement about NASCAR and the College World Series and tennis as minor diversions from the mainstream?

It’s over.

And all we’ve got for about two months, as far as actual athletic competition goes, is one of the long, slow baseball summers that have cured so many insomniacs in recent years, the end of Euro 2008, the end of the College World Series, Wimbledon, the British Open, two somewhat important sports drafts, and the Coke Zero 400.

I can tell you how all of those will go.

Baseball: The Rays fall back to earth; the Cubs keep winning and add a piece at the trading deadline, sparking more “this is the year” talk; the Yankees pick up a pitcher (C.C. Sabathia? Erik Bedard?) and get within a few games of the Red Sox, only to have a seven-game losing streak derail their season; the Tigers do something similar but crash more spectacularly; Josh Hamilton starts losing his grip on the batting average portion of the Triple Crown; Chipper Jones’ average slowly declines to about .380 and people start writing his chances of .400 off as one last pipe dream.

And everyone chokes and dies on the unfathomable amount of unnecessary hype an All-Star Game at The House That Ruth Built in its last year when there’s nothing to compete with it. Alex Rodriguez is clutch with an eighth-inning, go-ahead two-run double and wins the MVP, ensuring home-field advantage for Boston come October.

Euro 2008: There’s one more fantastic game left to be played, but it won’t feature Italy, as the Azzurri ride Pirlo and a rejuvenated defense after their 2-0 elimination of France and a grand theft against the eternally cursed Spaniards to the title.

Cristiano Ronaldo cries at some point.

College World Series: LSU and Fresno State end up in the finals, the big school and little school Cinderellas trying on that slipper, as the two beat writers who will no doubt be burned out by Omaha’s incredible nightlife will spin it.

Then LSU will win. And that will be that. Fun.

Wimbledon: Hey, a Federer-Nadal final! Hey, Federer wins in four sets! Hey, I’m falling asl…

The Ivanovic-Sharapova final on the women’s side breaks the Internet for reasons no one can explain.

British Open: Were you sick of the coverage of Tiger’s knee last week?

Well, even though I’ll be eating not just my hat but a whole haberdashery if Tiger decides to play between now and the Open Championship, despite the fact one tournament’s usually a required Buick appearance and the other is Tiger’s own tournament, he’s probably going to show up at Royal Birkdale, shoot something middling on the first day while struggling with some of the cold, wet conditions and their effects on his knee, then proceed to eschew a driver for the last 54 holes and win by three to six strokes.

(Update: Or not. Replace the above with “Sean O’Hair wins first major.”)

It will be exciting because someone will “lose” Chris Berman’s passport after the ESPN delegation arrives at Heathrow on the Monday after the tournament.

NBA/NHL Draft: No one really knows who the NBA drafted, as the picks are drowned out by Stephen A. Smith trying to talk through a mouthful of Cheesy Doodles.

It’s the same thing at the NHL Draft, except with Don Cherry’s suit.

Somehow, the Spurs and Red Wings profit.

Coke Zero 400: I won’t lie: This is the first time I’ve ever been upset about a corporate sponsorship change.

It’s always been the Pepsi for me, a nice week of coverage of NASCAR in my local paper because of its proximity to Daytona, a return to roots before the series goes back to running its races in Kansas and Chicago and New Delhi to extend the brand, or something like that.

Oh, and Jimmie Johnson wins.

Now, that’s fairly bleak, and it’s been stripped of a lot of possible storylines. Sure, Chipper could be hitting .420 at the end of June, or Donald Young could storm through the gentlemen’s bracket at Wimbeldon, or Sergio Garcia and John Daly could be dueling down the stretch on a Sunday in July.

But I don’t think that will happen.

I think we’ll suffer through a summer of accusations of malfeasance in basketball officiating, the insufferable revving-up of ESPN’s NFL and college football coverage when there aren’t any games for months to come, and political posturing over the Beijing Olympics.

Then, though, on August 8th, I think we’re going to have one of the best Olympics of modern times. While it might not please the rah-rah “U-S-A” patriots among my four readers to know this, China has been directing its efforts, for about a decade, toward shocking the world at these Games.

Their infrastructure for training is almost as impressive at the flush American one, and they’ll have the Olympic home-nation advantage, almost always good for a handful of anomalous medals.

So this Games could spark an authentic athletic rivalry between the Eagle and the Dragon, a best-case scenario I could plausibly see happening.

But there’s a long time until then.

I guess I understand how James Patterson sells books in the summer.

So Jason Sobel live blogs golf for ESPN, and Cousins of Ron Mexico live blogs Sobel’s blogs for The Big Lead.

I figured it was just meta enough for me to live blog the live blog of the live blog. (But I’m watching it, too, so you’re getting a little bit of that.)

12:01 EST: Rocco Mediate dribbles his first drive to the left part of the fairway, and we’re underway at Torrey Pines.

12:02: Tiger Woods’ drive cuts right, takes a favorable bounce, and lands in the fairway.

12:06: Rocco’s in the bunker, and Tiger’s about 20 feet away. This isn’t the start Rocco wanted.

12:10: Rocco punches out to about six feet, though ESPN can’t show it to us live. Thanks for that.

12:12: Tiger rolls it by; never had a chance. Rocco’s par scoots left, though, too, and he’ll be one shot back after one.

12:14: ESPN shows the montage of Rocco’s missed putts yesterday; okay, yeah, he missed five or six tough little putts, but he made two or three, too, and the real killer never happened. The guy tied the best player in the world after 72 holes at the most exacting test in golf. Slack should be cut.

12:16: CRM knows.

Commenter/contributer, Rockabye Reggie Nelson is now live-blogging the live blog of the live blog. Ugh. It was only a matter of time folks. I apologize in advance of Al Gore’s head exploding like the guy from Scanners. Excuse me while I borrow a third monitor from the next cubicle.

You know, if this breaks the Internet, it breaks the Internet, but that’s a link to the very post I’m writing. That’s not right.

12:17: Wonderful silent interview between Rocco and Jimmy Roberts here.

12:18: All right, indeed, Dan Hicks.

12:20: Oh, NOW you apologize. Jerks.

12:21: Tiger’s in the first cut of rough, and Rocco’s in the second cut. Less than inspired golf so far.

12:24: A poor chip for Tiger leaves him an eight-footer, which he drains.

12:26: Rocco’s par goes in, too, and it’s still a one-stroke deficit.

12:27: CRM is hungry. I am, too, but there’s some chips and guac waiting for me.

Oh, and Tiger just buried one halfway to Dubai while Rocco’s tee shot creeped past the hole on the left. Barring a Tiger miracle, Rocco Mediate will again be the U.S. Open leader.

12:32: CRM with the eternal optimism.

Tiger is pulling away. This thing might be done by the time I leave work.

Tiger excavates to a very possible par putt.

12:34: But Tiger misses, and Rocco’s two-footer is true, and Mediate’s even while Tiger’s one-over.

12:38: Rocco and Tiger find longish grass, and it’s guac time.

12:41: CRM is starting the noise in the machine.

With only two players going today, this could just become a score update. I think I’ll have to start making wild accusations. Example: Tony Navarro just head-butted someone. Again.

Why limit it to golf? Tony Orlando just Zidaned Dawn. There.

12:45: Rocco’s second is about 40 feet away, and Tiger’s got a two-footer for par after a rather exquisite third shot.

If this Woods guy ever figures out how to keep it in the fairway, he might win some tournaments.

12:46: CRM is lonely.

Nobody’s e-mailing me. I suddenly feel so alone…

Yeah, well, check your email, CRM.

12:50: Yeah, the golf. Both par the fourth.

And Tiger’s waiting for Snoopy, in the form of the Metlife blimp, to move.

12:51: Someone just yelled “Cheese!” Golf, the sport of the genteel.

12:52: Okay, now it’s really guac time.

12:54: Now Jason Sobel’s talking about me.

9:43 a.m.: Usually, when players miss the cut after two rounds and aren’t around on the weekend, they’re not eligible for the Monday playoff. Guess that’s not the case for live blogs of live blogs. Or live blogs of live blogs of live blogs, for that matter. Funny, but this is the exact same thing that happened during the Hogan/Fleck playoff in ‘55.

Meanwhile, the fairway just did the wave, according to my brother. I think that happened in ‘55, too.

12:55: No, no, my brother meant they were just following the pair in a wave. That’s boring.

12:56: Rocco just punched out from a bunker to somewhere in western Arizona.

I haven’t seen him in this much trouble since he was on I Love New York 2.

1:00: And he puts it within eight feet with his third. Great shot.

1:02: Tiger’s birdie isn’t even close.

1:03: CRM and TBL are having technical difficulties.

12:50 - The Big Lead goes down for the count!

ESPN Traffic > Sprite-Powered-Servers

Tough miss for Mediate, who leaves it on the lip.

Oh, and today is already the best day ever for my blog, and I’ve had no problems, so thanks to CRM and Jason Sobel for the links and to WordPress for doing a good job with these servers.

1:07: It’s all tied up as we go to the sixth.

1:08: The USGA has done many things very well this week, from staying mostly out of the way of itself on the ESPN/NBC broadcast and putting together a universally praised course every day.

But their commercials aren’t quite sappy enough as to be worthy of parody, and aren’t funny enough to be memorable. Certainly, people will want to pick up clubs after this tremendous show, but that has everything to do with Tiger, Rocco, and the like, and little to do with the USGA.

1:14: Tiger’s close. Rocco’s not.

Johnny Miller would be crying if he read this.

1:15: Well…uh…

Hold on guys, it’s my turn to ride the stationary bike that powers the server. I’ll be right back.

Rocco misses the par putt and makes bogey (see, I was right after all). Tiger makes par. We’re all square once again.

I pretty much just said the same thing. Who’s live-blogging who here?

Is this a Mobius strip or an M.C. Escher drawing?

1:19: Tiger’s dead on from about six feet, and he’ll have at least a one-shot advantage.

1:20: Mediate makes sure it’s just a one-shot edge.

1:21: CRM is quoted, Sobel’s in italics.

Tiger drops one out of the sky, knocks it stiff to about 6 feet short of the hole.

He hit a bird!@?

Tripp Isenhour approves.

1:24: I’d like to mention that I’m licking the bowl of guac. You needed to know.

1:27: Tiger’s about 12 feet away, while Mediate’s probably going to have to settle for par here.

1:29: I’m a translator, too.

Tiger pures his drive on 7. Rocco finds the first cut.

I’m confused. Can you put this into tennis terms so I understand?

Okay, Tiger’s winning because Rocco’s on the take. What? Tennis isn’t fixed?

1:30: Okay, the ESPN cross-promotion with Dan Hicks and Johnny Miller just jumped from odd to unnerving.

We learned that Tiger’s a Lakers fan (who’s got season tickets to Magic games) who thinks Kobe’s the best in the NBA, and that Johnny Miller thinks defense wins championships.

Corporate synergy makes me uncomfortable.

1:32: Tiger’s second straight birdie puts him in red numbers to an oddly subdued reaction.

The afterburners may be on.

1:35: Neither player hits the green on the par 3 8th.

1:37: The USGA “stroke” commercial about handicap is fraught with uncomfortable sexual tension.

1:38: Tiger puts his ball back where Rocco’s was. Then Rocco puts his a few feet past the hole. Then Tiger puts his a few feet past the hole.

If they continue struggling like this, it’s going to stay interesting.

1:42: Did I say something about the afterburners being on? Oops.

Tiger’s still got at least a one-shot lead heading to the par 5 9th, though.

1:43: And it’s just a one-shot lead.

1:45: It looks hazy out there in San Diego, and Tiger’s just grimaced.

But both Rocco and Tiger just hit decent shots in the fairway.

1:48: CRM is envious of Jason Sobel. (Well, duh.)

So the weather in Southern California is sunny and 75? Good thing we’ve got a man on the scene!

Well, it’s dark and thundering and a touch on the warm side down here in Central Florida. But I’m sitting in my living room watching golf on a Monday afternoon, so I’m not complaining.

1:51: Tiger continues doing incredible things with a golf club, bouncing it into a bunker, then up and over a patch of heavy rough, then back into a finger of that bunker.

I wish I could play ugly golf beautifully.

1:55: CRM’s heading home from work.

We’re heading to the turn and it’s time for me to change venues. Back in a bit.

Whatever will I do?

1:57: Reece just found the note! Jessica’s been found out! That guy with the eyepatch is scary!

Wait, that was Days of Our Lives?

2:00: Tiger puts in his par, and while we missed Mediate’s birdie putt in the switch from ESPN to NBC, Bob Costas seemed like he called Rocco’s par miss live.

Tiger stays at even and Rocco drops to two-over.

2:02: I think Costas’ intro was longer than the Gettysburg Address.

2:03: Johnny Miller apologizes for Tiger’s “Goddamit!”

If you have mics on the course, that’s the risk you run. If you train cameras on coaches or players, that’s the risk you run.

But apologizing for it? Sorry, NBC, you have to take the bad with the good.

2:06: Tiger just hacked out of a cornfield and has a third from the middle of the fairway.

2:09: Rocco’s got a 25-foot chip for his third, and Tiger’s got a par putt from the fringe.

And Rocco just sort of chunks it; he’ll have about six feet for par.

2:12: Tiger’s putt gets an “Oh-ho-ho!” out of me; he hit it fast and put it in on the edge to save par.

If Costas says “stroke of genius” again, though, I will throw something.

And Rocco’s never had a chance, staying left the whole way.

2:14: “The Rock is shocked,” says Costas.

I swear, that window was already broken…

2:15: Filling in for CRM. This from Sobel:

11:06 a.m.: E-mail from Michael in Dallas comes with the subject line “Really Good E-mail Question”:

According to the guide on my cable there are going to be a lot of ticked off “Days of our Lives” fans today. Thought you might like to issue an apology on behalf of all of us golf fans.

Not sure where the quesiton was in there, but wouldn’t soap opera fans be into this sort of daytime drama, too? In fact, couldn’t this be a soap opera? There’s the star of the show who everyone knows and the guy who left the show, like, eight years ago and inexplicably came baqck from the dead to become a main character once again. This should be right up their alley.

Well I, for one, enjoyed my minute of that show today. But Rocco’s not the guy who left the show like eight years ago and came back from the dead; he’s more like the Mark Schlereth cameo that leaves you wondering why he’s even there.

But he put himself on the green for a 15-footer for birdie, so maybe he’ll be fine.

2:19: Tiger’s second shot from the bunker on 11 is about 12 feet past, but the way he’s putting right now, with twelve putts through ten holes, he could be putting off a tarmac and down a waterfall and it might go in.

2:20: Rocco’s birdie putt, again, never had a chance. It’s 19 putts over 11 holes for him.

2:23: Ah, but Tiger misses, and he’s one-over with Rocco two back, and Miller and Hicks, who have seemingly turned more and more towards Rocco as the day has worn on, are quick to point out that “two shots is different from three shots.”

Now I know.

2:25: We go to commercial with Rocco in the fairway and Tiger in the bunker.

2:27: And it’s raining.

Not there, here.

2:30: But it’s really pouring here.

2:32: Rocco has a birdie try here, but it’s longer than the putter, so it’s not going in.

And no, it doesn’t turn, and yeah, I think a four-letter word just slipped from his tongue.

2:38: Rocco saves par, Tiger makes bogey.

It’s a one-shot difference.

2:41: Rocco got a lucky carom back into the fairway. And now Tiger’s in the rough again.

It’s safe to say momentum has shifted, I think.

2:44: Hey, CRM’s back!

We’ve got a severe weather warning in my area as Rocco putts to get within one. And he makes it on the tiny little screen in the corner of my TV! I think! I can’t tell because they’ve decided to put up the doppler radar and a picture of lightning. While it is totally badass, I’d really like to watch the golf match.

Well, it’s raining and thundering here, but we haven’t gotten the slightest warning.

Then again, I live in Florida, so we just sort of deal with the weather.

2:46: Rocco: from fairway to bunker.

Tiger: from “perfect” lie in the rough to…

2:47: …about 40 feet. Wow.

2:48: What we do get in Florida on network channels are commercials for The Villages.

3:00: Hey, the Internet died! No, really, I just had to restart my computer.

It’s a one-shot advantage, still, as the pair traded birdies on 13.

And the thunder is getting more concussive here.

3:03: How is there a par 4 that plays less than 300 in a major championship?

Mediate and Tiger both lay up; Rocco chips to a foot, Tiger to six feet.

3:04: Rocco birdies. Tiger’s birdie try swirls around the end.

Memos to NBC: Talking about a commercial during the telecast is beyond tacky, the “eye of the Tiger” references are a bit dated, and being tied doesn’t count as “on the ropes.”

3:06: Are you excited for Nashville Star, too?

3:07: Checking in on that thing I’m supposed to be live-blogging…

How many times is TBL going to see Hitch opening night? I’m putting the over/under at 3.

I assume CRM means Hancock, because I already own all four of the tickets from TBL’s trips to see Hitch.

And I’m taking the under.

3:11: More CRM:

It’s hard to blog with my fingers crossed as I mutter “Please stay on. Please stay on. Please stay on.”

Hey, you could just live-blog my live-blog of your live-blog of Sobel’s live-blog.

3:12: Rocco’s second on 15 is within 15 feet, but I don’t think he’s made a putt beyond 10 feet today.

“The pressure is on” only if Tiger isn’t making par here.

3:14: What pressure?

3:16: Okay, so the immediate comparisons are to Hogan’s Alley and a shot at the Buick, but that reminds me more of Tiger’s great shot at the Canadian Open.

3:17: Well, he’s made a putt beyond 10 feet now.

That one was perfectly paced and placed, and Rocco Mediate leads the U.S. Open again.

3:19: Tiger. From 10.

Never had a chance, and it rolls three feet by.

3:20: The comebacker for par is true, though, and Tiger looks up at Rocco with three holes to play.

3:22: Well, if this isn’t CRM…

12:09 p.m.: E-mail from Ron in Mexico:

Everybody thought there should be a four-hole playoff, right? Consider the first 14 holes a warm up.

Good point. Here’s our aggregate playoff. Of course, couldn’t we have just done this yesterday?

Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have been able to do this. So I’m happy.

3:23: CRM again.

Tiger taps in to keep it within one. The audio on my TV is now getting jumpy. The hail continues.

As long as you can see, I’m pretty sure you’re getting as much out of it as I am with Hicks and Miller.

3:28: More Sobel:

12:22 p.m.: Despite Mediate’s current lead, Garrett in Parts Unknown sees it going the other way:

You’re wasting your time with analysis, when the real answer, as always, lies in anagrams. The 45-year-old Rocco Mediate is just a “medicare coot.” A Rocco win would be a “meteoric coda” to the tournament — in fact, it might set off a “co-ed mace riot” — but he’ll come up short, and leave a bad taste in our mouths. Like a “mediocre taco.”

Tiger Woods just had knee surgery — his “stride goes ‘ow’”! Like all golfers, he wears “weirdo togs.” Still, the women (and some men) see him and say, “We dig torso!” Are there words to describe Tiger? “Two: God, sire.” Looks like a win for Tiger.

You had me at “mediocre taco.”

If it were the Masters, you have to figure “mediocre coat” comes into play.

Oh, and Rocco just rolled his putt from the fringe to about two feet. He’ll make par.

3:31: Tiger leaves it half an inch short. Perfect line.

3:32: Here’s that Canadian Open shot I mentioned.

3:33: Rocco’s sitting up in the first cut on the right.

Tiger’s smack in the center of the fairway.

3:39: Well, we’re still waiting…

3:40: That was worth the wait, I guess. Tiger’s got something between 15 and 20 for birdie.

3:41: Rocco is just barely on the shelf of the green; his putt is going to be pretty murderous.

3:42: This is going to go down as one of the best two-man rounds of golf ever.

3:44: Mediate’s putt was never going in, but he’s got a knee-knocker from two feet for par.

3:46: Tiger’s putt never quite got it going, and he’ll par.

3:47: Rocco could probably use some Tums right now.

3:48: And my feed has disappeared into blackness and silence. I’m going to assume Rocco made par.

Oh, now we’re back with Johnny Miller flying the helicopter over the 18th.

3:49: From CRM:

From earlier on Sobel’s blog:

If the players are tied after 18 holes, the playoff would be decided in sudden death using holes 7, 8 and 18 in rotation.

That’s exactly the kind of research I pirate from other thieves to bring you.

Oh, and the feed goes out on Tiger’s drive? Any ideas?

3:53: Oh, Tiger’s in the fairway? Did he putt?

Rocco’s second is good into the fairway.

3:54: Tiger’s got an iron from about 220 for the green in two.

I say he either puts it close enough for the eagle, or goes Tin Cup.

3:56: Tiger’s on in two, not clearing the drink by much.

3:58: Rocco’s on in the center of the green; he’ll have a long putt for no less than a tie.

4:01: If Tiger puts this in, it may be the best putt ever.

4:02: Tiger’s putt wide right by two feet, and his birdie isn’t a gimme.

But this is Rocco’s moment.

4:03: Like so many putts off Rocco’s flat stick today, that never had a chance.

Tiger’s turn to feel the weight of the world.

4:06: Tiger, to ensure no less than a playoff. In.

4:07: And now Tiger becomes nothing more than the clubhouse leader.

Rocco Mediate will not die. Let’s go play the 91st.

4:08: From CRM:

Fans have been behind the 18th green since 6am. Hope nobody needed anything done on the West coast today.

Seriously, there are times when bosses need to just write off some time…

4:13: Sudden death double secret overtime. Wow.

And Johnny Miller has now criticized Tiger’s eating and drinking between holes. More wow.

4:14: Stolen from Sobel, each player’s 7th history this week:

1:09 p.m.: Here’s what each player has done at No. 7 each day:

Tiger Woods:
• Thursday: Par
• Friday: Par
• Saturday: Birdie
• Sunday: Par
• Monday: Birdie

Rocco Mediate:
• Thursday: Bogey
• Friday: Par
• Saturday: Par
• Sunday: Par
• Monday: Birdie

Tiger’s literally at the first cut of rough on the right side of the fairway.

And Rocco’s in the bunker, and they’re speculating on the position of the ball, whether it’s under the lip or not.

4:18: The lie in the bunker doesn’t have any lip problems, but it’s a difficult one for Rocco’s trademark hook. And a disastrous shot, past the cart path. Par might be an achievement.

Also, you didn’t think Johnny Miller could sneak in the reference to his round? He just said the USGA official in charge of setting up the course “shot four 63s this week.”

4:21: Tiger’s second is to the front of the green, about 20 feet shy of the hole. He will be able to two-putt for par or plug one in for the birdie and the outright win.

4:24: The “Let’s go, Roc-co!” chants roll from the stands as the underdog will take an incredibly difficult shot to keep the dream on life support…

…and it will roll twenty feet past the hole. He’ll have that for par.

4:26: Tiger Woods, to win the U.S. Open…

…he leaves it at the doorstep and leaves Rocco Mediate in the glimmer of light between the door and glory.

4:28: Rocco Mediate, to force another hole…

…far right.

4:29: Your 108th U.S. Open champion, Tiger Woods.

4:30: Rocco calls Tiger “unreal,” says “They wanted a show, they got one,” describes himself as “nervous as a cat,” and tells Jimmy Roberts, “I never quit,” and “I got what I wanted.”

The Tigerbole (n., hyperbole surrounding American golfer Eldrick “Tiger” Woods) will drown this out over the next few days, and, certainly, Tiger won this as much as Rocco lost it, but that’s the noblest underdog I’ve ever seen. You won me over, Rocco Mediate, and you won America, too. Congratulations.

4:34: And Tiger, the greatest gifts you have are at your side and on your shoulder. You could have the most bloated of egos, and are the fiercest competitor to a fault, but you are, essentially, good.

Congratulations, champion, and congratulations, husband and father.

4:43: Tiger speaks eloquently and emotionally on his family and his father, Rocco will be able to go home to his three kids after giving them the best Father’s Day possible.

It’s appropriate that the epic music from Requiem For a Dream takes us out. A phenomenal day for sports, a tremendous competition, and competitors who will go down in legend: This was something great.

Sunday was indisputably a day full of drama, mostly thanks to some guy I was cheering for finding another way to make golf riveting theater.

But was it one of the best days in sports history? Let’s examine.

The best way to do this, I think, is to break it down by event.

108th U.S. Open Final Round: Forget Tiger for just a second, if you can.

Rocco Mediate, a glib 46-year-old journeyman and regional qualifier with no majors, five PGA Tour wins, none since the 2002 Greater Greensboro Open, a history of maladies, and a healthy Official World Golf Ranking of 158th with a FedEx Cup ranking of 128th, a guy with no statistical ranking higher than his 16th in eagles on tour this year (and Tiger’s three eagles so far in the Open are more than half of his five total), a golfer who went to little-known Florida Southern (a school with as geographically incorrect a name as the University of South Florida; zoom out on the link and you’ll understand) and isn’t even the best golfing alum, thanks to two-time Open champ Lee Janzen, became the first person since 2004 to finish the grueling U.S. Open under par with an even-par 71, and did so while playing with a more talented former champ, Geoff Ogilvy. A combination of equal parts simple accuracy off the tee, sound scrambling ability, and a few clutch putts (even while he missed a few) enabled Mediate to stay in red numbers down the stretch while others wilted, and his grins and repeated on-camera “Wows” made the father of three a lovable underdog and foil to the Colossus in Crimson.

Were there no Tiger, no 12-foot miracle on the 72nd hole, Mediate would be the oldest U.S. Open champion in history today.

But that performance (and Lee Westwood’s own gutty two-over 73, and Heath Slocum’s amazing bogey-free 65, tied for fifth-best round on Sunday at the Open) cannot hold a candle to Tiger Woods, who, if he is not the best golfer to ever walk the earth, is certainly the most magnetic, most dramatic athlete of his lifetime.

And Tiger, if that putt had not gone in, would have suffered his first final round defeat after holding the lead entering Sunday in a major, and to a regional qualifier, a blow that would erase much of the invincibility myth he carries, much stronger than his lost lead to the last qualifier to win the Open, Michael Campbell, in 2006.

Instead, Tiger, despite struggling off the tee throughout his round and playing truly splendid golf for only about four holes in the middle of his round, despite bogeying the 13th hole at Torrey Pines for the first time in his career, despite two borderline awful shots on the 18th, burnished his father’s prophet credentials and added a verse to his Ballad of Wounded Knee. (In my mind, that song sounds like this.)

It’s not even clearly Tiger’s most dramatic Sunday at a major championship, because his 2000 duel with Bob May down the stretch at Valhalla in the PGA Championship and his total disregard for the laws of golf, physics, and life in making the Chip Heard ‘Round the World at Augusta in 2005 were both unforgettable.

But Tiger’s 12-footer was the most important putt he’s ever made. And this round was the guttiest Tiger’s ever played.

It was beyond phenomenal.

NBA Finals Game 5: Let me be clear: The Los Angeles Lakers will not win this series.

If they have even the vaguest prayer of winning two straight in Boston, they might want to find a way to redirect the Celtics’ team plane to Vancouver or Acapulco, or spike Paul Pierce’s Gatorade with horse tranquilizer, or convince Kevin Garnett not to show up again.

But Sunday night fanned that tiny flicker of hope.

Kobe Bryant again played as inconsistent a game as possible, starting hot and not making a good play down the stretch except his swipe of the ball from Pierce on a potential game-tying possession and subsequent dunk, the most Jordanesque thing I can ever remember him doing.

But on a night when Garnett was as anonymous as a double-double can be, when Rajon Rondo was, well, bad, and when the loss of Kendrick Perkins was actually an insurmountable obstacle for an NBA team, Pierce had 38 and nearly won the Celtics a title by himself.

There was little drama in this game until the waning moments of the fourth quarter, and Kobe’s steal removed the possibility of a game-winner, but on a night when anything would pale in comparison to Tiger Woods, it was about as good as it could have been.

Euro 2008, Turkey-Czech Republic: For a soccer fan, this was nirvana.

The highly ranked Czech Republic had a two-goal lead with 15 minutes left in regulation, and one of the best keepers in the world, Petr Cech, defending it.

And then the impossible happened.

Turkey poured in three goals in the next 14 minutes and rampaged back from the dead to eliminate the Czechs from Euro 2008, Cech’s hands of glue turning to stone and his defense swapping places with the Florida Gators’ secondary for fun.

I didn’t watch one minute of the game, and missed that comeback in particular while watching the last few minutes of Tigerbole before the final round, but you need look no further than this animated report to know this game is already legendary.

Oh, and in other soccer news, the United States stomped Barbados.

NASCAR: On a Sunday with Tiger Woods and Kobe Bryant working on their legacies, NASCAR would need something special to even find the radar of the average sports fan.

Dale Earnhardt Jr. winning his first race since 2006 fits the bill.

It’s the best possible outcome NASCAR could have had, placement on the ESPNews ticker for a few hours, and it shores up the unavoidable storyline of this season: Will Junior finally win a title?

Little E’s had a great season so far, his best, outpacing his title-winning teammates, Jeff Gordon and Jimmie Johnson, and morphing from mere fan favorite to series powerhouse with Hendrick Motorsports, but his strong finishes lacked an exclamation point to announce him as a legitimate contender.

Sunday rectified that, and NASCAR has to be salivating about the idea of a new-school rivalry between series leader and bad boy Kyle Busch, the current driver most like Junior’s dad, and its uncrowned king, deciding the title this year.

But maybe the more exciting news came off the track, with the word that Joey Logano, the 18-year-old wunderkind fresh off a Nationwide series victory, will probably race in the Sprint Cup series before the year is done.

NASCAR’s been in a slump in recent years, losing the glitz race to the Danica Patrick/Helio Castroneves surge of popularity for IndyCar, and this Sunday showed that it is at least on the way back.

MLB: The New York Yankees won their fourth straight and finished a sweep of Houston, but may have lost Chien-Ming Wang in the process, the Cubs are 20 games above .500, Willie Randolph is hanging on a strand of floss, and, in news that has given the year 1997 a heart attack, Ken Griffey Jr. might accept a trade to a contending team like, eh, the Tampa Bay Rays.

For a Sunday in June, pretty packed.

College World Series: Cinderella may be a pug if Fresno State has its way.

It’s just part of a topsy-turvy College World Series that will also pit No. 1 Miami and No. 2 Florida State in an elimination game today.

Tennis: While Roger Federer extended his streak, Rafael Nadal started one of his own.

It may not seem like much right this second, but Wimbledon’s in two weeks, Nadal’s never looked stronger, and Federer’s faltered at times this year. A changing of the guard may be imminent.

NFL: There were no reports of arrests.

NHL: Gary Bettman, sadly, is still commissioner of the NHL.

That’s a lot in terms of variety and drama, I think, and the most momentous day in sports in my lifetime.

And ever? Maybe.

Tiger Woods turned in some of the most spectacular golf you will ever see on the back nine at Torrey Pines on Saturday, rolling in two long, snaking eagle putts and pitching in a miracle chip for birdie from a ridiculous lie on the 17th.

But there are more powerful reasons why I’ll root for Tiger today.

There’s no shortage of hyperbole about Tiger in the paper and on the airwaves today; Rick Reilly, in one of his first on-camera pieces for ESPN, went so far as to compare Saturday’s performance to “getting to see Sinatra sing, Koufax pitch, or Chuck Yeager fly,” adding, “The gods have chosen Tiger.”

And, yes, Tiger can turn golf into a glamour sport by hitting all the marvelous shots he does, but he’s never been more like the local duffer than he will be today, and he’s still got 18 holes between donning some swoosh-adorning, form-fitting crimson shirt and his third U.S. Open title.

The pain from his surgically reconstructed knee turned the Tiger who rips majestic drives off the tee and surveys his handiwork in that victorious pose, driver twirling, to a slightly less fierce version, one just as likely to be bent over and grimacing in pain as the ball veers far left or right as to be coolly confident.

Now, of course, even Tiger’s miscues are epic; the rough landing of an errant drive is still probably 300 yards from the tee box. But make no mistake, even though his knee will probably be treated with a cortisone shot or four before the round, it will hurt Tiger, and, as he mentioned in a post-round press conference, will do so capriciously.

Suddenly, for a guy who’s fought a swing with prodigious length and sometimes ponderous accuracy most of his career, tee shots are even more challenging, and for a guy whose fantastic wood and iron play has saved him this week, that strength could be sapped in a second.

This, of course, doesn’t mean he’s not Tiger Woods, owner of 13 major championships and arguably the greatest golfer to have ever picked up a putter, and it doesn’t mean he won’t throw something unfathomable at the course and win by eight strokes.

But it means that unfathomable round, more than on every other Sunday at a major in his career, could just as conceivably be an 80, should all the nightmare scenarios converge.

And yet, if Tiger potentially winning as an Everyman for once isn’t enough, there’s the emotional heft of Tiger Woods in contention at the U.S. Open on Father’s Day.

He’ll be there for the first time as a father, as wife Elin gave birth to daughter Sam a day after last year’s Open. And though his late father, Earl, wasn’t at either of his previous triumphs, he’ll certainly be there in spirit, thanks to one of his dad’s quirks.

Certainly, on a weekend that saw Tim Russert, one of America’s most prominent touchstones for the father-son relationship pass away, it would be great theater to see a man so thoroughly shaped by his extremely close relationship with his father be able to point skyward to acknowledge the past and then hold his present and future in his arms.

I am no fan of journalists rooting for storylines, for the easy column for Monday’s paper; unquestionably, with a Tiger win today, the fawning columns will write themselves.

But I am a fan, not a journalist, and I have always been a fan of Tiger Woods, and I have watched his successes and failures with my own father on many a Sunday.

My dad won’t be on the couch next to me today; he’s on an extended business trip and won’t be back in town for a couple more weeks.

But I’ll be texting him, calling him, and finding a way to share this with him.

So I’m rooting for Tiger to give me something unforgettable to share.

The NBA, according to ESPN.com, will be instituting some as-yet-undetermined system of fines next season to discourage the practice of flopping.

Don’t expect it to make much difference.

Flopping is currently a player’s best ploy to gain a competitive advantage within the game from the officiating. While it’s certainly not illegal, it’s been roundly criticized, and floppers earn much derision from observers.

And yet, everybody does it.

You know what that reminds me of? A little scandal called Spygate.

Bill Belichick’s camera wizardry has been dubbed shady, despicable, and all sorts of other things, but the NFL’s penalty was ultimately a first-round pick less valuable than the one the New England Patriots acquired from the San Francisco 49ers plus stiff fines for Belichick and the team.

And yet, given that names as big as Jimmy Johnson mentioned that taping was, and perhaps is, widespread, and that the Patriots have been the NFL’s most successful franchise this decade, and that the actions may have contributed more to the team than the penalty did to damage it, it seems that the calculated rule-bending paid off.

That’s not unforgivable; it’s just shrewd.

So long as there are rules, in anything, much less in sports, there will be entities trying to bend or break them.

Take the San Antonio Spurs, probably the most-ridiculed team when it comes to flopping. The Spurs got embroiled in their own rule-bending controversy this season when they traded for Kurt Thomas.

As part of the deal, San Antonio sent Brent Barry to Seattle; Seattle, both because of cap reasons and because they had no need for Barry, waived him; Barry, after clearing waivers, re-signed with the Spurs.

The cries of “Collusion!” followed swiftly. But the Spurs got Barry back, and he’s been a spot shooter for them in these playoffs, though he’ll be remembered for getting 23 points Tuesday night when he needed 25 or 26.

In the meantime, the Dallas Mavericks seemed to have a similar deal worked out with the New Jersey Nets; as part of the Jason Kidd trade, Jerry Stackhouse would go to the Garden State in theory only, get waived, then return to Dallas for the playoff run.

But Stackhouse yapped, and the specter of NBA punishment forced a reconfiguration of the deal.

What was the difference between the two situations? Brent Barry, almost certainly coached by the savvy Spurs management, kept his lips zipped; no whispers of a pre-arranged deal meant no deal was planned.

That’s the philosophy these Spurs have: We will do everything in our power to win NBA championships. And it’s worked, four times in the last nine years.

In all probability, flopping, as strategically as the Spurs do, contributed to that run.

Why would simple fines stop that profitable practice?

So Manu Ginobili or Tim Duncan, if named floppers by the team of arena observers and video reviewers, would have to pay the league a few thousand bucks.

I’ll bet the fifth foul that sends Kobe Bryant to the bench late in Game 5 tonight would be more than worth it.

NBA players are too well-compensated for fiscal slaps on the wrist to dissuade them from these actions. And it would merely be beating dead horses to assign fines after the competitive balance of a game was changed by a flop.

So how about a “flop provision” in the rulebook that allows officials, should they deem a flop egregious and false, or replay workers, if they spot clear blown calls based on flops, to hand out technicals to floppers during the course of a game?

It would make chronic flopping suspension-worthy (16 technicals merits a one-game suspension), and put the punishment for blatant in-game offenses at a potential point for the other team.

Perhaps it would sway the minds in the NBA back towards gritty, legal defense that the league should want, and blunt fan enmity for floppers, which doubles as dislike for soccer-style pleading for fouls and disgust with the “European” style of play; the latter, obviously, can’t help the league’s ambitious globalization efforts.

Perhaps it wouldn’t.

But fines would be nothing more than lip service to a problem that screams for attention.

This morning in the Orlando Sentinel, Andrea Adelson writes, “There is a spending freeze in the Lochte and Worley households.”

She goes on, in a column entitled “Families deal with reality of Olympic dream,” to describe how the families of swimmer Ryan Lochte and gymnast Shayla Worley might have to shell out tens of thousands of dollars to follow their progeny to Beijing in August.

But some things felt wrong. So I did a little research.

I thought Lochte, a fairly familiar name to me, as he is a former scholarship athlete and graduate of the University of Florida and did win Olympic gold in Athens, might have some money floating around, just maybe, considering he’s perhaps the second-best American male swimmer, behind phenom Michael Phelps.

And he does.

In a New York Times article from 2007, Karen Crouse mentioned Lochte’s hefty Speedo endorsement:

After signing a 10-year, seven-figure endorsement contract with Speedo last year, Lochte entrusted his money to a financial adviser who handles his investments and closely monitors his spending. It is probably a good idea given Lochte’s enthusiasm for online shopping.

Now, I’m a writer, not a mathematician, but even I know that a seven-figure deal over ten years probably pays no less than $100,000 a year.

And as a UF student myself, I know Lochte’s athletic scholarship probably covers at least tuition, room, and board, sums that total, for an in-state student like Lochte, over $50,000 over four years.

And Lochte currently lives in Gainesville, both a great place to live cheaply and a town where thousands of college students can figure out ways to survive on Ramen and Pop-Tarts.

And while I don’t know the exact terms of his contract, if, as Adelson writes in the Sentinel, Speedo is “paying the airfare for (Lochte’s father) and his wife, and it will provide them one hotel room,” I would guess Speedo or USA Swimming, which is providing two event tickets to the Lochte clan, probably helps the swimmer himself with airfare and/or other monies toward his training.

To his credit, father Steve Lochte hasn’t laid out any money on the trip yet, with Ryan yet to secure a place on the team. And Steve seems committed to whatever is necessary, financially, to have his family watch his son swim for glory and country, remarking, “If it’s going into debt for the next 10 years, then that’s what I have to do.”

But shouldn’t there be enough money in Ryan Lochte’s coffer for him to bring his family with him?

Then, consider Shayla Worley, who’s posted a YouTube video at The Gymblog, asking for help in bringing her family to China, that drew some rather negative comments.

Adelson notes that Worley’s mother has already dropped about $27,000 on nonrefundable travel packages, while Shayla won’t know for sure if she’s on the roster until July, but she also writes that the Worleys have a “nice house” in Baldwin Park.

Perhaps it’s just me, living in a twenty-year-old home on Florida’s east coast, but go, search for homes in Baldwin Park between 1,500 and 1,999 square feet, and tell me if “nice” is the right descriptor. I could only find one that was less than $300,000, and, at that, only a shade lower at $286,900. (Search “Magnolia.”)

The Worleys are also working on a banquet ($50 a head or $90 a couple) and a golf tournament ($75 to “attend,” Adelson writes) with mom Debbie saying, “We just hope people will help the local, hometown girl.”

Steve Lochte isn’t looking for help. “It’s really my problem,” he said. “I would feel awkward doing that.”

So, on one side, you have a talented, well-remunerated swimmer whose family is paying their costs, even if it requires debt, and on the other, a young gymnast, with no endorsements to her name and little chance of any in the future, whose family, living in a “nice house” in an upscale neighborhood, is turning to the community to help foot the travel bills.

Adelson’s right when she writes, “It is a shame the families have to carry this burden.” And she hits the right nerve for the anti-corporate masses when she writes, “Olympic sponsors like McDonald’s or Visa should do more to help.”

But she was aware of Ryan Lochte’s shoe collection in December 2007. And she has to know that a Baldwin Park family whose matriarch has written a letter to fans claiming her daughter “has a 99% chance of making the USA Olympic Gymnastics team this year” won’t come off as a sympathetic cause for Orlando readers.

Through either shoddy reporting or cherry-picking details, Adelson managed to turn the stories of two potential Olympians and the struggles of their families to support them into, for me, a mysterious question of why a swimmer with a million-dollar endorsement deal can’t spring for his family’s trip to Beijing to watch him, and a public forum for a family to plead for donations.

Weren’t the Olympics supposed to have feel-good stories?

Or at least well-reported ones?

Sure, it’s easy to make fun of commercials like this, even if Candace Parker’s among the most physically stunning human beings to ever pick up a basketball.

But maybe, just maybe, you can expect this WNBA to…well, not grate. And because I’ve got a soft spot for women’s basketball, I wrote a season preview.

Since no one really knows anything about the WNBA, other than it’s what happens when too many UConn and Tennessee players graduate from college (not exactly a worry on the men’s side, thank God), here’s the bare minimum you need to know.

• There are two conferences, the Eastern and Western, with seven teams apiece.
• Each team plays 34 games in the regular season, which, this year, runs from mid-May to mid-September, with a break for most of August for the Olympics.
• The playoffs take the top four teams from each conference and power seed them, so the top team plays the fourth and the second-place team matches up with the third. Conference playoffs are best-of-three, with home court switching each game, and the WNBA Finals are best-of-five, in a 2-2-1 format.
• The defending champions are the Phoenix Mercury.
• Only one Eastern Conference team, the Detroit Shock, has won a title in the league’s years, capturing the championship in 2003 and 2006.

Now that you’ve glazed over that, how about quick, snap judgments that will be horrifically wrong?

Eastern Conference

1. Detroit Shock: Coached by sometime Bad Boy Bill Laimbeer, the Shock are the WNBA’s answer to those late ’80s/early ’90s Pistons squads, hard-nosed and bruising inside. Their guards, though, will be the key to this season, as stalwart but fragile big Swin Cash departed for Seattle after a rather vocal falling out with Laimbeer; that means Katie Smith and 2006 Finals MVP Deanna Nolan, the only two players to hit a three-pointer for Detroit last year, will need to take some of the scoring load off Cheryl Ford, who will continue making Karl Malone proud of two-thirds of his illegitimate progeny. Still, in a weak East, that could well be enough.
2. Indiana Fever: They boast maybe the league’s best one-woman show in Tamika Catchings, but she’ll be out for much of the season, rehabbing a torn ACL and working towards the Olympics. It’ll be up to Katie Douglas to keep the Fever in the playoff mix, but Catchings could be fresher for a playoff run than she’s ever been after Allen Iverson-like shoulderings of the load, and that’s promising.
3. Connecticut Sun: Yeah, they’re owned by the same tribe that owns the Mohegan Sun casino, and yeah, they’re the only show in town in Connecticut as far as professional sports go, but they have four former Huskies from down the road, the gritty Lindsay Whalen at guard, and a coach, Mike Thibault, whose name rhymes with a certain messianic quarterback from the University of Florida. So there’s that. Seriously, though, the Sun are perennial playoff entrants, but probably don’t have enough to seriously contend for a title.
4. Washington Mystics: None other than Tree Rollins coaches this group, and after he rose to the position midway through the 2007 season, the Mystics ran off a 14-8 stretch run. This season, they’ll depend on Taj McWilliams-Franklin, who seems like she’s played forever, and ranger Amber Jacobs, and will have just enough to edge New York for the final playoff spot in the East. However, they’ve got the greatest growth potential of any team this season, because I think Agent Zero is just nuts enough to pull a Juwanna Mann.
5. New York Liberty: Nothing against a team with bruiser Janel McCarville inside and Tiffany Jackson helping her out, but adding sparkplug Essence Carson and Erlana Larkins isn’t enough to bring a mostly nondescript roster up to the .500 mark, and I think that might be the magic number for the playoffs in the East. I wonder, though, if Isiah has to stay away from these players, too…
6. Chicago Sky: Everyone’s favorite women’s basketball analyst Stacey Dales played in the WNBA last year, though no one knew it, given this team is about the most invisible in the league, playing at the University of Illinois-Chicago’s court and drawing just under 4,000 fans per game, the league low and well short of the league average of 7,742. They’ll benefit greatly from Sylvia Fowles’ towering presence, but she, Candace Dupree, and 2007 Rookie of the Year Armintie Price have to get help to take this team anywhere but the upper steps of the cellar, and that may take another year of struggling and the subsequent draft pick.
7. Atlanta Dream: On the bright side, the Sky pretty much can’t finish last in the East, because this expansion team is light on the inside with unproven Katie Feenstra the most promising big and full of undersized gunners in Betty Lennox, Ivory Latta, and rookie scorer Tamera Young on the perimeter. It’ll be a while before this team contends for anything but the ignominious title of “Least Adored Atlanta Sports Team,” though, given attendance figures, that might not be saying much.

Western Conference

1. Los Angeles Sparks: The West is where all the firepower is this year, and Los Angeles has more of it than anyone else in two-time MVP Lisa Leslie, returning after missing 2007 for the birth of her first child, and Candace Parker, one of the all-time greats at Tennessee and in women’s college basketball. It’ll be frequently compared to the San Antonio Spurs’ situation, and the parallel is good: Aging vet misses season, team is awful for a year, and team gets vet and prize of draft back. But Parker, if she’s fully healed after shoulder trouble in the NCAA Tournament, is even better than Tim Duncan was coming in, and Leslie’s a proven winner even without a sidekick inside, winning titles in 2001 and 2002. Temeka Johnson and DeLisha Milton-Jones will provide support, but look for Parker’s point guard on Rocky Top, Shannon Bobbitt, to impress and surprise with defense and energy.
2. Seattle Storm: 2007 MVP Lauren Jackson may be the best player in women’s professional basketball, a legitimate center with the requisite post moves and a soft shooting touch, and she’s had maybe the best point guard in the league in Sue Bird, but the Storm only have one title to their name, in 2004. So they picked up a trio of fantastic players in Sheryl Swoopes, Swin Cash, and Yolanda Griffith, giving them more than half of the 11 MVP Awards in league history (three for Swoopes, two for Jackson, and one for Griffith) and enough rings to make Jared jealous. It’s a lot of firepower and versatility, but it could only be assembled because the three newcomers have all fallen from their peaks due to injuries, age, and, for Cash, possible psychic cracks, and the potential for greatness is matched by the potential to fall flat, especially with a tissue-thin bench. Maybe their best news, though, is that Seattle’s favorite pariah, Clay Bennett, sold the team to a local group and it will stay in Seattle, a win for the WNBA, which keeps one of its liveliest home atmospheres alive.
3. Phoenix Mercury: This is probably a mistake, rating a defending champion as good as this as low as this. Both peerless scorer Diana Taurasi and 2007 Finals MVP Cappie Poindexter are back after great off-seasons in overseas leagues, and their trademark fast pace (make the racehorse/Rebecca Lobo joke at your own peril), the same one that produced a 108-92 routon the road, in Game 5 of the Finals, against the two-time champion Shock, shouldn’t change much. But it’s really tough for a champion to improve in this league, and the Mercury lost coach Paul Westhead in the off-season; history’s against them, too, as the last repeat champions were the Sparks in 2001 and 2002. All that, though, means nothing if this team can get into the playoffs, because they may well run rings around everything in their way.
4. Minnesota Lynx: This is a rather high ranking for the ladies from the Land of 10,000 Lakes, but I’m a big fan and believer in rookie Candice Wiggins, who threw Stanford on her back and carried them to the NCAA Championship Game before succumbing to Tennessee, and I think she, Seimone Augustus, and Lindsay Harding give this team enough artillery to hang with the West’s best. The supporting cast, including bigs Nicole Ohlde and Vanessa Hayden-Johnson, back after missing 2007 while pregnant, and bombers Anna DeForge and Nikki Anosike, is good, too, but there are concerns that there won’t be enough shots to go around; my guess, though, is that playing this Big Three together stretches the floor and improves shot quality and shooting percentage.
5. San Antonio Silver Stars: Thankfully, when the Utah Starzz came to the Lone Star State, they dropped the Zs from the most lamentably “trendy” name in pro sports. Unfortunately, they had, until last year, left much of their success there, too: 2007’s playoff berth, which ended in a sweep by eventual champs Phoenix, was their first in San An. But Becky Hammon and Sophia Young’s inside-out combo doesn’t have much help, and with the West getting tougher, the Silver Stars will probably find themselves muscled out of the playoffs despite adding one of the best names in sports, Morenike Atunrase. It’s pronounced More-EN-ik-EE ah-TUN-rah-SHAY, and it’s fun.
6. Houston Comets: Tina Thompson was the league’s first MVP, and here she is, 11 years later, with the same team and the same respect she had then. Still, Houston’s simply not a great team this season, but has the potential to be solid, with Michelle Snow returning from injury to form a strong tandem inside and a mix of veteran savvy and youthful moxie giving this team a chance to surprise, but little more than that.
7. Sacramento Monarchs: For a team that was always tougher than its NBA counterparts in Yolanda Griffith’s heyday, the Monarchs have the largest identity and talent crisis outside of Atlanta in this year’s WNBA. It should be a bright future for a young team led by old hand Ticha Penicheiro, sort of the league’s Steve Nash, but this year will be mostly devoid of joy.

Playoffs

Eastern Conference

• Shock over Mystics in 2
• Sun over Fever in 3
• Shock over Sun in 3

Western Conference

• Sparks over Lynx in 2
• Mercury over Storm in 3
• Sparks over Mercury in 3

WNBA Finals

• Sparks over Shock in 4

Awards Forecast

• MVP: Lauren Jackson, Storm
• Rookie of the Year: Candace Parker, Sparks
• Defensive Player of the Year: Sylvia Fowles, Sky
• Most Improved Player: Lindsay Harding, Lynx
• Sixth Woman of the Year: Shannon Bobbitt, Sparks
• Coach of the Year: Michael Cooper, Sparks
• Finals MVP: Candace Parker, Sparks

And there you have it. Tip-off of the opener is today at 3:30.

I’m not telling you to drink the David Stern Flavor-Aid and start painting your cheeks Phoenix Mercury chartreuse (it’s one of their team colors, folks), but check it out. You don’t know what you’re missing.

I was born and raised in Central Florida, on the Atlantic coast, and I am more excited about the NBA now than I ever have been.

But it’s not for the reason you might expect.

I’ve never been that big an Orlando Magic fan. I could put some stock in the team and would maybe watch their opener if it fell on Halloween and I was on give-the-candy-to-the-rascals duty, but I’ve never been able to really expect anything out of them.

I started really watching sports when I was about 6, in 1996 (I apologize for making you feel old), which explains my dearest rooting interests: I loved Brett Favre and those fearless, dominant Green Bay Packers, the guile of Greg Maddux and the Atlanta Braves, the arrogance and derring-do of Steve Spurrier, his Eagle Scout helmsman, Danny Wuerffel, and those “hang half a hundred” Florida Gators.

They were my first sporting loves, my dear ones, my “we” teams, when I do, very rarely, attach myself that firmly, and they persist to this day. I’ll be fans of those teams until I die or attendance goes negative for Braves games, whichever comes first.

But I never got that close to the Magic.

I didn’t start watching basketball at the same time as the other sports, and when I did, I was a Michael Jordan fan; I vaguely remember the “flu game,” and I vividly recall watching the push-off final shot in Utah live.

When Jordan retired, I couldn’t quite bring myself to root for the Chicago Bulls, because without Jordan, they obviously weren’t the Bulls.

So I took my approach from what I read.

See, though the Orlando Sentinel gets a deserved rap for helping shape public opinion with an infamous 1996 poll asking whether a soon-to-nova Shaquille O’Neal was worth $115 million (the answer, of course, a resounding “Nope!” that led to ridicule even from The Sporting News), they recognize that, and play with it, as part of their typically very good Magic coverage.

The Magic are the only horse in town, and, when not whining about that fact, the Sentinel hitches up, year after year, to cheerlead or castigate, rarely in between, sometime vacillating from one to another from game to game.

That’s the sports section I have read every day I’ve been home from 1996 until today; I used to sit on the floor in our living room, poring over it. Now, as I am bigger than the broadsheet, I usually sit up and leaf through it.

And I think because the paper’s attitude has always been aggreived following of a team destined for disappointment, sprinkled with a bit of eternal optimism at the beginning of every year, I’ve had that same tack, too. I can’t love this team or get too close to it, because I know how the story ends: At odds with unrealistic expectations and with cries for change. (You want star-crossed history, read former Sentinel columnist Jemele Hill’s piece after Billy Donovan’s cold feet episode.)

I’ve known that ending with my other fanhoods, certainly: I cried after that dastardly John Elway turned into a Chinook at the goal line and stole the Super Bowl repeat from the Pack; I get angry, still, thinking about Gators losses to Florida State (the Swindle in the Swamp) and to Tennessee (this thread makes me grit my teeth) and to Auburn (seriously, Tommy Tuberville, I don’t like you) and to Alabama (same goes for you, Shaun Alexander); and if any Braves fan knows anything, it’s that the October collapse happens and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

But that line about the Braves can be tweaked to be true for me about the other teams, too; I knew as a Packers fan that Favre, without the defense he had in 1996-97, would always be just good enough to torpedo the fourth-quarter comeback in a big game with a wildly overthrown interception, and I knew Spurrier’s teams would find a way to lose one or two games at just the wrong moment and get knocked out of the national title chase.

And, in accepting that, I was able to rationalize not being able to cheer a champion as part of the natural order of the fan’s world. Losses crush me a little bit less than most, because I look forward to the storylines of the next year, or of the championship team, after mine bites the dust.

Occasionally, I get rewarded, as with the ’04s in Gator basketball, an heirloom fanhood that spilled over from the Swamp, or with the redemption of Chris Leak in 2006, or with the renaissance of Favre and the Pack this year, or with John Smoltz’ remarkable refusal to go gently into that good night.

But if I don’t, I understand. I congratulate the victorious fans on their team’s superiority.

I don’t cry anymore, and I don’t riot. Ultimately, these are games.

Last Saturday, I realized I could articulate why Magic fanhood wasn’t for me.

After a Game 3 blowout of a largely Chauncey Billups-less Detroit Pistons squad, spirits in the Magic Kingdom were high. This was the signature win this team, led by Dwight “Superman” Howard, needed to get over the hump. Thursday, David Whitley was writing big; on Saturday, Mike Bianchi was crowing about the balletic Magic’s ability to turn Game 3 into a “dance recital.”

But it was Whitley’s Friday column, somewhere between congratulations for a successful season and advance notice that nothing more would be necessary, that summed up what it is to be a Magic fan, the concoction of hope and disappointment that turns a second round playoff win that cuts a series lead to 2-1 into the biggest victory in franchise history.

The killer line? “Wednesday night’s win is empirical proof the Magic are off the old treadmill to mediocrity. Anyone who can’t see that simply doesn’t want to.”

I watched most of the first half of Game 4, and even though the Magic took an 11-point halftime lead, I noticed that ESPN was showing Pistons highlights in montages at the half. I knew Rip Hamilton was on his way to a great game. I knew Tayshaun Prince was playing at another level.

So I vamoosed for the vanishing act of the second half, retreating to my room to chat on the phone with my girlfriend. I knew what was coming.

Check the live blog. Check ESPN. Check Bianchi’s obit, teased on the banner of Sunday’s Sentinel front page, under the tag “MAGIC CHOKE.”

It’s not like it was a surprise.

That’s why I’m off that wagon, unsure if I ever was on. This team is a perpetual also-ran, Charlie Brown on his umpteenth try with the football, except that every so often, as in Game 3, he actually boots it high and deep, only to have it run back in a heartbreaker.

I walked out of my room after seeing the final score online.

My brother, 16 and hopeful, a Magic fan who’s starting to bleed blue and white, approached me with vacant eyes. “Did you see the end of the game?”

No, I hadn’t, I said, I’d just seen the score.

He said no more. His eyes told the story.

Fast forward three days: He’s just watched the Magic commit 21 turnovers and force only three against a rookie point guard from Eastern Washington, yet still rally just furiously enough in the dying moments of Game 5 for Prince to dash legitimate hopes with a spectacular swat of a go-ahead Hedo Turkoglu lay-up.

Not more than ten minutes later: “Well, I guess I’ll join the Hornets’ bandwagon, then.”

I sighed, because the charge I gave him in my head in that second is the same one I’ve gotten for renouncing my Magic allegiance and hitching up to the New Orleans Hornets: Fair-weather fan.

After all, the Hornets now stand one game from eliminating the defending champion San Antonio Spurs; the Hornets have one of the most electric players to enter the league in a long while; the Hornets were a team without a home, and now, with the triumphant full-time return to New Orleans, have their Hive buzzing.

(Note: As amateur entomologists Reggie Miller and Marv Albert were explaining last night, hornets are wasps, and, as such, have nests, not hives, something anyone in the South who has ever had a problem with wasps probably knew at some level. But then, there aren’t any hornets that come in blue, green, and white, so I think we can dismiss scientific inaccuracy when looking at this team. Also, after fact-checking that on Wikipedia, I am now scared of giant hornets, so thanks, TNT, for adding another fear to my life.)

But I noticed Paul and the Fleur-De-Bees a while ago (that’s the third post on this blog), partly because of that logo, which has grown on me, especially as a patch, and though I thought I was being bullish on them in saying they could be “just rugged enough to be playing in April and May,” I watched and followed them for much of the year.

It’s no doubt because I’m anachronistic in still reaching for a newspaper before my laptop in the morning, but it was harder for me to follow the Hornets than the Magic. I’m not well-versed in basketball blogs, and I was only tentatively dipping my foot into following a team, so I didn’t immediately consume everything.

Yet Chris Paul got the Hornets on SportsCenter and the Four-Letter’s website just often enough for me to get my fill, and I watched the games when they were on TNT or ESPN and I wasn’t doing something else; this team wasn’t appointment viewing then.

Then I fell in love.

I can explain that in two words: Chris Paul.

I love the word “mercurial,” but I never know quite how to use it; Merriam-Webster’s second and third definitions, though, fit Paul perfectly.

He’s eloquent, acquitting himself nicely on NPR’s Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me and in various post-game interviews, as at the post-Game 4 press conference, when he wryly celebrated an unexpected end to questions with a smirky “Cool” and a hasty retreat that made me smile. He’s certainly ingenious, knowing the game of basketball well enough to draw laughter from a Toronto viewer, the Globe and Mail’s Michael Grange, for the ludicrous plays he makes; the paragraphs about Paul are buried in that article, but the section beginning “There was one” is required reading. And, of course, he’s got a bit of theivishness, leading the Association in steals in the regular season and averaging 2 thefts per game in the post-season.

And he plays the game at Formula 1 pace with constant dynamism, always looking for holes, opportunities, slivers of space to slither through. That suits the “rapid and unpredictable changeableness” part.

Hell, he’s got the typically cynical blogosphere cheering him: Look at this Deadspin article and its comments, and be sure to click on that Eric Neel article for some really good ESPN hyperbole.

Neel writes that Paul is a “miracle” because he’s “being Chris Paul,” who is small, ordinary-looking, and yet gifted beyond measure on the basketball court, and counsels us to enjoy it while we can.

And, yeah, Paul is a miracle, but for slightly different reasons than Neel asserts.

Paul will forever be the underdog in the NBA, a shrimp in a game of titans. He will not wow with abnormal physical grace or build; for all his talents, Paul is, in essence, a very fit young player who stands six feet tall on a good day and can run for ages.

If America valued sustained greatness rather than moments of the extraordinary, though, triathletes would be our ultimate heroes.

Instead, we have the SportsCenter top 10, a cultural institution that will always catapult sensational split-second acts like LeBron James’ spectacular hammering dunk over Kevin Garnett past any savvy move Paul can pull.

But what Paul does is great not in spite of its lack of believability, but better for it. He’s the Everyman Baller, a step or two (or three, I’ll be honest) faster than the fastest guy in high school and has developed peerless court vision; if you played basketball for as long as he has, and focused like he did, and did some running, you could be Chris Paul, too, you think.

Therein lies the rub, of course: Paul is renowned for his work ethic and his competitive streak, and was great enough in high school to pay tribute to his grandfather by pouring in points for every year of his life. Clearly, he’s got talents that can’t be fathomed at first sight, talents that are rare and wonderful.

Just for a second, though, the thought flashes through your head:

Chris Paul being Chris Paul could be you being you.

His team (and it is his, maybe more so than any other team, save LeBron’s Cleveland Cavaliers or Kobe Bryant’s Los Angeles Lakers, belongs to one player) is mostly the same way: There are few high-flying scorers and there is little sizzle to their uptempo game besides the usual assortment of aerial moves in transition.

It could easily be your rec league crew, if everyone were seven to nine inches shorter.

It’s a hodgepodge of good-to-great role players, with a jump-shooting power forward with touch near the basket in David West; a tenacious, tireless rebounder and defender in Tyson Chandler; a designated three-point sniper in Peja Stojakovic, with understudies in Morris Peterson and Jannero Pargo; and players like Bonzi Wells, Julian Wright, and Melvin Ely from the bench, who come in as infusions of energy or youth.

There are no showy stars here, no outsize players too big for the team.

This is why building your team of solid players from Accounting around that one new waterbug worked.

In fact, this Hornets squad reminds me greatly of none other than the Spurs team they’re playing against; it’s a highly competitive team of great talent from top to bottom that is precise and disciplined, best when its swarming defense shuts down opposing offenses and its offense takes advantage of opportunities from turnovers, but capable and comfortable in a number of styles. The thing this team is missing is a dominant big man, and their success despite that hole makes them all the more inspiring.

It’s like your team having no one above 6′2″.

Maybe most refreshing, there is neither an air of pretension or resignation about the Hornets; they certainly could be just happy to be here, playing with the established powers in the West, and get caught staring at the great teams around them, but they’ve never let up in these playoffs, and have those greats on their heels.

Just like your upstart team taking on the big boys from Corporate, these guys aren’t scared.

They don’t expect to get every call, and don’t whine when they don’t; Byron Scott was understandably upset he had to send Tyson Chandler to the bench after picking up a second quick foul last night in Game 5, especially since the first came from a dubious whistle on a “moving screen,” but he was perfectly cordial with the official and argued his case without screaming or profanity. Plus, while Paul did barrel-roll deliberately from one foul in the lane earlier in this series, the Hornets are, for the most part, not a team of floppers.

They’d yell “Foul” when there was one, but not every trip down.

And, of course, the team has a future. Minus Stojakovic and Wells, the team’s core is very young, almost all under 30, and will, because of smart dealings and contracts, be together for years if New Orleans GM Jeff Bower chooses to keep them together.

But Paul is the key to all that; he’s their creator. (And that’s a great nickname for a guy who deserves a little better than the rather generic CP3, even if it a family heirloom.

Nah, you’re not Chris Paul. Or God. That’s where the dream ends.

If they don’t win a title in the next five years, I will be greatly surprised.

Certainly, their great promise makes the Hornets easy to root for starting now. But their team’s makeup, their style, their philosophy, and their star makes them a squad to follow through thick and thin.

Now, they’re my squad to follow through thick and thin.

The Magic can have Bianchi’s optimistic look forward and John Denton’s rose-colored forecast. Theirs is still a horizon of great potential.

But I’ll never believe in them.

I believe in Chris Paul. I believe in the New Orleans Hornets.

And I believe, from now on, my basketball fan’s heart lives on Bourbon Street.

To the tune of this.

They say a man should never worry ’bout his debt amounts

So why’m I booked in G-Ville for a fradulent account?

It’s all because I stole a dead girl’s identity

And the 5-0 figured the 3K should probably be on me

Shoulda tried to more creatively rob

Or maybe a scheme that was a little less macabre

Shot to scare or maybe separated car from boot

Now I’ll probably guard my backfield while wearing an orange suit

(Offer applies with enrollment in Alachua County Jail.)