So, Lemme Get This Straight: Threats Against Officials > Driving In Circles?

What we have here is a real conundrum of our collective sporting priorities. This week saw the announcements of the Associated Press's Male and Female Athletes of the Year.

Jimmie Johnson won the guys' award, and Serena Williams beat out a distinguished (?) field that included...two horses (?!?!?) for the women's award.

I have a problem with neither of those announcements, particularly Jimmie...and to be fair, I am very, very far from a NASCAR fan.

What I find amusing is the assorted cyber-hysteria that's been launched on both sides. For every post crying about how Serena's going Chernobyl on a lineswoman is just the culmination of a career full of racist calls against her and her sister Venus, there's one going, "WTF? How is a race car driver an athlete?"

Let's address Serena first. Did she have a great year? Damn right, she did. Two major titles, a semifinal in a third, and the WTA Tour Championship is not too shabby for one year. But do an informal survey, and ask how many people heard about her winning the Australian and Wimbledon. Then ask how many heard about her threatening to shove a tennis ball down a lineswoman's throat. Uh-huh. Thought so.

Still, with that, we're in a non-Olympic year, so there's no gymnast, figure skater, or swimmer to come along and make the world feel warm and fuzzy. It pretty much means that we're stuck with a tennis player or a golfer as our Female Athlete of the Year, Candace Parker's welcome upset last year notwithstanding.

Considering tennis's staid, prim and proper image, which many of the surly bastards who play it seem to be dying to be rid of, Serena's outburst at Arthur Ashe Stadium is that game's version of Ron Artest diving into the crowd in Detroit. There wasn't much of a groundswell of Athlete-of-the-Year support for him that year, was there?

It could be supposed that the AP was merely rewarding someone who actually, for the first time in a few years, simply showed up and did her job all season long. Serena's been diversifying the portfolio for a while, with photo shoots, fashion lines, TV and music video work. Hell, she and Venus even bought into the Miami Dolphins this year. For a while, it looked like she was simply going to lapse into retirement, as tennis requires a lot more hard work than simply being fabulous.

To be fair, much of her offcourt stuff coincided with her attempt to rehab a knee injury. Still, tennis is pretty unique in that a player can essentially set his or her own schedule, and for a while, some were nervous that Serena wasn't coming back at all.

Now, she's all the way back, and winning major awards left and right. Good for her...but she would not have gotten my vote. And, no, I wouldn't be putting in a ballot for a horse, either.

Give me the national women's college basketball Player of the Year, Maya Moore of the UNDEFEATED UConn Lady Huskies. Tennis is becoming a game dominated by tantrums anyway, why continue rewarding them?

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Now, back to Mr. Jimmie. People can debate all they like about whether or not Serena's a role model, that's all personal preference.

For a good ol' semantic argument, we can get into the whole school of thought that says "Racing ain't no sport! Hell, I can go get in my car and turn left a thousand times, don't make me no athlete!" Even better are the idiots who've firmly convinced themselves that they could put down the clicker, haul their fat asses out of the La-Z-Boy, go down to the track, and trade paint with Tony Stewart, all because they have a couple of speeding tickets from doing a blazing 30 through a school zone in their Corolla.

Driving in NASCAR is pretty damn far from your morning commute, I don't care what kind of idiots populate the driving public in your metropolitan area. Have someone shove a catheter in you, put you in a snowsuit and helmet, go sit in a sauna for four hours, and have said sauna whipped around like a NASA space capsule simulator until you're feeling two G's for four hours, then tell me you'd like to go back and try it 36 times in 42 weeks, to say nothing of extra time that you might need to practice. Over-under on you vomiting up a kidney: three minutes, 18 seconds.

"Hell, I drive 500 miles at a stretch all the time!" Do you do so without bothering to stop (or even slow down) to relieve yourself? Do you do so with no A/C in a building whose ground level temperature can often reach 120 degrees? Do you do so with 42 other yobbos slamming into you from all sides, doing things that, if done on the Interstate, would get you locked up for attempted vehicular homicide?

If you answered yes to any of those, let me know where you live so I can make sure to never move to or even drive through that state or any that border it, please and thank you.

The days of pudgy guys and rednecks who live on beer and cigarettes in between races being top race car drivers is pretty much over. Now, guys like Carl Edwards are here to make all us armchair commentators feel completely inadequate. That's the guy who does a backflip out of the car after driving that speed, in that heat, with all those other guys surrounding him, for four hours straight. Tell him he's not an athlete.

Anyone who wants to advance the theory that "the machine does all the work"...well, I have to wonder if they've ever even driven a car, hell, even ridden a bicycle. Whatever vehicle you're piloting, it goes where YOU MAKE IT GO. A stock car doesn't have power steering like your car and mine, so it takes some tremendous upper-body strength to wrestle those fuckers through turns and maintain a line that doesn't send you careening into someone else's path, potentially leading to a flying crash with shrapnel spraying everywhere.

Usain Bolt is a phenomenal athlete, but his work is done ten seconds at a time...er, sorry, 9.5. Roger Federer is an awesome athlete who works for four or five hours at a time (even if the matches are only that long at four tournaments a year), but he gets to wander around between points, sit down every second game, and sit down longer between sets.

It takes some serious endurance to sit in those kinds of temperatures, hour after hour, week after week, all summer long, primarily in the baking heat of the southern region of the country, keeping your mind right every minute. You and I zone out while we drive, just thinking about errands we need to run after work, getting lost in a song on the radio, or just staring blankly at the world going by. These guys can't do that for even a split second, because if they stop to think, "Oh, are we out of milk?" then boom, they could die.

Racing is one of the few sports (bullfighting is about the closest parallel) where the competitors walk into the arena saying to themselves, "Self, there's a really good chance we could die today." Any of you who think you could do that week after week, year after year, and be the very best at it four years running, go do it. Haul your fat ass away from the keyboard, go down to the track, climb in a car, and start trading paint with someone (even better, 42 someones) at 180 miles per hour or more. You wouldn't last two laps...and neither would I.

Are race-car drivers athletes? You're goddamn right they are, and anyone who's trying to argue otherwise has no fucking clue what the word athlete even means. Bravo to Mr. Jimmie.

And to all the people who have no problem honoring Serena the Mad, Smiter of Lineswomen, but can't acknowledge that Jimmie Johnson has done something they could never do, and done it better than anyone else in the free world for four years straight...you are all so retardedly clueless.

Third-Degree Burns and Paper Cuts

The New York Times best-seller list may get a couple of new entries from the sports world in the next couple of weeks. Jackie MacMullan's When the Game Was Ours once again joins Magic Johnson and Larry Bird as the faces of the NBA in the 1980's.

Then, a couple of weeks from now, we'll be treated to Andre Agassi's Open. That one's already generating huge buzz over Andre's "I used crystal meth" admission. More on that later.

First, Bird and Magic. They started out as two guys who would just as soon gouge each other's eyes out as have to look at each other, and now they seem buddies. Magic and Isiah Thomas, however, seem to have gone the opposite direction.

Almost immediately after Magic was diagnosed with HIV in 1991, rumors flew about how he contracted it. Many reports prior to this have painted Isiah as the architect of the one that had Magic being gay, and according to TrueHoop's Henry Abbott, those reports were already somewhat public in 1992.

No one seems to be doubting that Magic knew of Isiah's role in the rumors from Day One...so why has he sat on it for eighteen years? Why has he still greeted Isiah warmly when they meet, taken friendly pictures with him, etc.? Why the hell did he recommend Isiah to the Knicks (allegedly), unless it was a diabolical conspiracy to completely trash New York basketball? (If it was, at least that mission was accomplished.)

It's pretty fucking weak to smile in a guy's face and mutter curses at his back, but it seems like that's the approach Magic has taken. Although, maybe it should be a bit more understandable. After all, Magic being angry at anyone kind of goes against the happy-go-lucky, never-met-a-stranger persona that The Smile has cultivated for him all these years. We as humans find it quite easy to smile in the face of unpleasant people when our money might be at stake. Just go to work tomorrow and look at your boss. Point proven.

People that tell others where they can get off usually don't get endorsement deals. Unless you're Chuck Barkley. This is why you can never get Michael "Republicans Wear Nikes, Too" Jordan to admit that he has any personal beliefs aside from "Being a shoe-and-underwear-shilling robot is a pretty sweet gig." So, obviously, while he was trying to get his various businesses off the ground, Magic wasn't about to commit such an egregious breach of decorum as slamming Zeke for telling everyone he caught the most fatal disease of the 1980's by playing the wrong skin flute.

Now, here we are, almost two decades later. Magic's a full-fledged entrepreneur, feel-good survival story, and the all-around embodiment of the American dream. Isiah's run two teams and AN ENTIRE LEAGUE into the ground, been sued for sexual harassment, been placed on suicide watch, and now starts over with his basketball legacy, becoming head coach of a fourth-rate basketball program at a university whose provost didn't even know his name.

Seems like a good time to smack Isiah with one more piece of character Kryptonite, doesn't it? Forget kicking a guy when he's down, this is kicking a guy after he's been shot with a cannon, run over by a train, had his entrails pulled out his nose and fed to a pack of coyotes, set on fire, and watched a four-year-old kid come over and piss on what's left.

And what about that reboot, Isiah 2.0, if you will? How does a story like this play in high school basketball stars' living rooms? Would you like your son to play ball for a guy who allegedly spent the 1990's endeavoring to dig up dirt on his best friend's sex life, especially when said guy has failed out of the NBA in spectacular fashion?

Forget HIV, Magic may have just given Isiah a real disease to worry about. It's hard as hell to make Isiah Thomas into a sympathetic figure, but honestly, I kinda do feel for Zeke right now. Even with that said, I'll be surprised if Thompson...er, Thomas isn't the biggest leper in college basketball come recruiting season.

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And now, back to Mr. Agassi.

The fact that Agassi used any kind of substance is not, in and of itself, surprising. After all, this is a guy who once thought that wearing a muskrat pelt on one's head (see left) was a good look. (Appears he's also got some kind of furry animal poking out of his shirt collar, but that's beside the point.)

Seriously, no sober person I know would wear something like that.

What is most surprising to me is the kind of message that Andre's sending when he describes the results of the "spiked soda" that he used as a scapegoat when he failed a drug test shortly thereafter:

"There is a moment of regret, followed by vast sadness. Then comes a tidal wave of euphoria that sweeps away every negative thought in my head. I've never felt so alive, so hopeful - and I've never felt such energy. I'm seized by a desperate desire to clean. I go tearing around my house, cleaning it from top to bottom. I dust the furniture. I scour the tub. I make the beds."

Dude, seriously, knock that shit off. You've probably just done every bonehead mixing toxic and explosive chemicals in the back of his garage an enormous favor. If this was a symptom for everyone who used meth, my wife (and probably millions of others like her) would be bringing me crystal by the truckload and shoveling it into my cereal.

I know people who've done crystal. Oddly, none of them were great housekeepers.

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As a bonus service provided only here at Starr*Rated, a few pitches for potential sports best-sellers of the future:

The Athlete's Guide to Parenting by Shawn Kemp and Travis Henry
--Who better to give advice on raising children than two guys who have 18* children between them? (*-number is conservative estimate, as we all seem to have lost count) Henry's half of the profits will go directly to the Travis Henry Legal Defense Fund...since it likely wouldn't be enough to cover Christmas gifts for all the kids. Kemp's half, judging by the 300-plus pounds he was lugging in Orlando, will likely go to his local Golden Corral.

Left Behind by Dale Earnhardt Jr.
--A novel. Doug Earhart II loses his father in an auto accident, and descends down a slippery psychological slope resulting in a deathly fear of right turns. The most harrowing passage is a minute-by-minute account of a downtown excursion that covers three blocks...in five hours.

Nice, Huh? by Derek Jeter
--The Captain presents a coffee-table book of all the fine tail he's partaken of during his career (allegedly). The Internet masturbation crowd will, sadly, pan the book, saying "I can seez pix of half these bicthes NAEKD!!~!~!!!!`111111~1~1!1!!"

On the Line by Serena Williams
--What? This one's already been written? Well, bummer. All I can say is that I'd only be buying this version.

Next week, I fully anticipate being able to chuckle over another Vikings game featuring 50+ passes and the complete ostracizing of Adrian Peterson.

Until then, peace and be wild.

Wimbledon's Centre Court Hotties: Ruining Tennis or Helping It?

Sex sells.

It's become one of the truest statements in marketing.

As a sport that occasionally seems to have trouble marketing itself, tennis could be warming to the idea.

Last week's admission that the All England Club takes female players' physical attributes into consideration for coveted Centre Court match slots has been derided as one more example of the objectification of women athletes.

What it really could be is shrewd marketing.

Women's sports, both amateur and professional, have struggled for mainstream acceptance ever since sisters Maud and Lilian Watson took the court to decide the first Wimbledon ladies' champion, predating Venus and Serena by a good 120 years.

Tennis gains pride of place ahead of sports such as swimming and gymnastics, which take prominence only during Olympic competition, because it's one of the few where the athleticism of its best competitors does not seem markedly different (that's different, not inferior, before anyone asks) than that of its male athletes.

Women's basketball, for the most part, lacks the above-the-rim flash of the men's game, although the women's superior grasp of the fundamentals can help make up for this. Softball sports a smaller field than baseball, with a mound closer to the plate that can make a great pitcher completely unhittable.

Thanks primarily to the Williams sisters, however, we see that female tennis players can crank 120-mph serves just as well as the men can.

The second-round match between Maria Sharapova and Gisela Dulko has been singled out as one of the most egregious examples of this new hormone-driven scheduling. Never mind the fact that Sharapova carries a little bit of name appeal as a three-time Grand Slam champion.

The fact that Maria is a beautiful woman who has actually achieved some on-court success has lent her a credibility that Anna Kournikova could never dream of on her best day. It's not like the 51st-ranked Dulko was being tossed out there against a qualifier from the satellite tournaments.

Maria's championship resume has made acceptance of her endorsement and modeling deals slightly less grudging. She's more of a "tennis player who models" as opposed to Kournikova, who became more of a "model who plays tennis."

Sharapova's been the kind of marketable face that women's tennis has lacked since Chris Evert retired. It's unlikely that today's other glamour girls, like Sorana Cirstea, Victoria Azarenka, Maria Kirilenko, Daniela Hantuchova, and Tatiana Golovin, will have similar success in American commercials, since many of them speak heavily accented English, while Maria is almost completely Americanized.

Still, the game can't help but be better for more faces being seen on the show courts, and thereby on TV, than just the Williams sisters.

The cries have gone up that players like Svetlana Kuznetsova, world #1 Dinara Safina, and the Williams sisters have been getting shunted down to outer courts in favor of matches like the 28th-seeded Cirstea v. the 8th-seeded Azarenka.

Before we cry too much for Venus, Serena, and Dinara, let's consider that the three of them are still active and set to play in Friday's semifinals...both of which are being contested on, you guessed it, Centre Court.

Personally, I'm happy that players like Azarenka, Cirstea, and Dulko are getting Centre Court opportunities that they may normally never have gotten.

It's become almost a foregone conclusion heading into every year's fortnight that of the last two or four women to play on Centre Court, one or two of them will carry the surname Williams. Venus, Serena, and Dinara are now getting their chance, while other players who weren't quite as certain to be there on the final weekend get to tell their children and grandchildren that they got to hit a few in tennis's pre-eminent cathedral.

Every sport needs to make new stars. In tennis, there's no better place than Wimbledon, and at Wimbledon, there's no better place than Centre Court. It worked for Maria when she came out of nowhere to win the tournament at 17.

Players like Kuznetsova and Safina can get the chance to win over new fans with their play, but it just might take players like Azarenka, Kirilenko, and Hantuchova to draw those fans in. And it's a lot easier to be able to respect a player who just stepped off the pages of Sports Illustrated's swimsuit issue if the fans get to see her play where the stars play.