Gundy, seething about a Daily Oklahoman columnist's scathing and cowardly attack on one of his players regarding last week's blowout loss to Troy State, delivers an impassioned speech defending the character and integrity of his kids. Yes, his "kids." During his meltdown, Coach Gundy reminds us all that when we scrutinize the level of play and the quality of character of college football players, we are skewering nineteen and twenty-year-olds. We are damaging kids, most of whom did little to deserve such malice from the local community aside from drop a pass or two on Saturday afternoon.

As a nation, we obsess about sports and often ignore the "college" in college football. It's become such a financial juggernaut that we can hardly distinguish amateur from professional. We assume every player suiting up on the gridiron on Saturday is built and custom-made to eventually suit up on Sundays. We get carried away. And in the heat of the moment, we sacrifice our decency when we maliciously attack a recent high school graduate for throwing an incomplete pass. College athletes, while high profile in some cases, are not paid (allegedly). They, by and large, are not professionals expected to deal with the personal attacks that come with intense media scrutiny. This is what Coach Mike Gundy reminds us of when he courageously and correctly slays the local paper in Stillwater, Oklahoma for its highly inaccurate and cowardly "reporting" -- a term that Coach Gundy might suggest is being used loosely in this instance.

It should surprise no one that Mike Gundy, after saying nothing of his Oklahoma State team's win that day, left the room to applause. I would not be surprised to see an increase in interest in Oklahoma State University football from parents of soon-to-be high school graduates, either.

We're talking Australian rugby here, people, not to be confused with the on-going Rugby Union World Cup taking place in France. This past Sunday, the Brisbane Broncos took one on the chin against defending champions Melbourne Storm, 40-0. When you're an ardent fan and fired up on beer, you tend not to take these things too well. Witness humble Australian television reporter Ben Davis, doing his journalistic duty with a couple of disgruntled and clearly sloshed Broncos fans lurking in the background, ready to strike. Davis, who sustained a couple minor dings from the encounter, would hope that other reporters learn a lesson: always wear padding.

It was thought impossible, before that dramatic blocked field goal to end the game, that Goliath could invite David's retarded younger brother to his house and lose. But don't tell Appalachian State they're retarded (even if Miss Teen USA South Carolina announced on The Today Show that she would attending that university this fall). No, do not tell them that. Call them giant-killers. Recognize them as champions of the little guy -- a reason for all the other "cupcake" schools who have to journey deep into the behemoth's den, expecting a thorough beating, to believe in something. In addition to that, consider Michigan the poster-child for arrogance and cockiness. If head coach Lloyd Carr wasn't on the hot seat before, he surely is, now. And it may be the big-play, never-give-up, two-time defending 1-AA champs that lead to his demise.

Pain? Shock? Humiliation? It's all over the faces of the Michigan fans that crowded into The Big House. Hail to the victors, indeed.

Last night, the Texas Rangers turned the opening game of their double-header against the Baltimore Orioles into a blowout by NFL standards. I thought I was reading a football score when I saw the result flash across the ticker on ESPN, last night. Twenty-nine hits? Texas is the first baseball team to score thirty runs (again, that's 3-0) in 110 years.

The linked video is actually the ESPNNews highlights of the game, but it's only appropriate. The studio anchors really put into perspective the absurdity of this blowout with observations such as, "24-3. So the Orioles are down three touchdowns here..." Hell, Texas hit two grand slams for crying out loud. Not even in the chintziest Disney sports movie will you see something like that.

Cripes! Imagine you're Baltimore, in this scenario. You're at home playing in front of possibly the most demoralized crowd in the history of organized sports. You still have another game to play immediately after this one. Trailing 30-3 in the bottom of the ninth, you look to the manager who offers an inspiring battle-cry of, "Okay, boys! We're only down 27 runs. We can pull this one out!"

The irony in all of this? Baltimore actually led 3-0. Remember, Texas is a last-place ball club. Oh baseball, you so crazy.

He came. He saw. He sat on the bench. Then he played for 20 minutes and sat on the bench some more. Then, finally, upon his first start for the Los Angeles Galaxy, David Beckham put one in the back of the net. And it was in signature fashion.

In the 27th minute of LA's North American Superliga match against fellow MLS side DC United, Beckham tees up a free kick and, wouldn't you know, that sucker had some bend on it.

I've never been one to believe that athletes owe the fans anything outright other than an honest effort. Even if he's getting a bazillion dollars a year, like Beckham, and fans are paying through the nose to see him, he's under no obligation to risk aggrevating his injury. So for anyone out there who is tired of hearing ill-informed skeptics criticize Beckham for his lack of playing time since arriving in the States, you finally have something to retaliate with. Your position might sound something like this: "See, if he rushed back to play, he wouldn't have been able to score a cracker like that!"

Rizzuto wasn't an especially talented player, and as a play-by-play man for the Yankees, he was anything but polished. ("He's out! No, he's safe! Holy cow!") What distinguished The Scooter was his personality, and his perseverance. Born and raised in Brooklyn, he got rejected by the Dodgers' Casey Stengel, who told him he was so small he should become a shoeshine boy. Then he made the Yankees, and proceeded to help anchor one of the the greatest dynasties in pro sports, picking up an MVP (1950) and five all-star appearances along the way. When he started out calling games, Howard Cosell told him he looked like George Burns and sounded like Grouch Marx, and that he wouldn't last long. The result: Rizzuto was a fixture in the booth for 40 years.

So here's Rizzuto's hilarious acceptance speech at Cooperstown in 1994. It took 14 years of eligibility, but he finally got in. So here's to you, Scooter. As Big George said today, "Heaven must have needed a shortstop."

(Click here for one of Rizzuto's classic Money Store commercials.)

There were no boycotts (Bud Selig decided to show up, Hank Aaron sent in a respectful videotaped message), there weren't any boo-birds (he jacked it out at San Fran's AT&T park, which in recent years has functioned as a giant enabler for his gargantuan, rationalizing ego).

But still, something didn't feel right. This is the kind of record that's supposed to give even the most casual baseball fan chills. It didn't. If there wasn't the stink of steroids trailing Bonds wherever he went, whole families would have stayed up late, every night, to see if Barry was gonna do it. They didn't.

In the end most people probably reacted much like I did -- they just shrugged at one of the most hallowed records in all of sports being broken by an big-headed (steroids do that), obnoxious, stunningly-talented cheater.

The solo shot smacked against the Padres in the 2nd inning culminates with Bonds rounding the bases and embracing his son Nikolai, the San Francisco Giants' bat-boy, at home-plate.

As the video clearly shows, people, no matter how much they dislike Bonds, clearly respect the achievement of #755. Still not without controversy, of course. While, the cheers overwhelmingly drowned out the jeers, a befuddled Major League Baseball commissioner, Bud Selig (for whom Bonds has been a raging headache), clearly didn't know how to react.

But how can a 9-year-old play professional sports? Well, Manchester United signed forty (that's 40) kids just like him. The soccer academies don't pull any punches in Europe.

After picking my jaw up off the floor, I'm left questioning the heavens, "Why, heavens? Why couldn't his grandfather be a Liverpool fan?" Speaking of which, as a Liverpool fan, I strongly suggest you turn the sound off on your computer when you watch this. Just trust me on this one.

In this clever sketch, ladies and gents, Michael sure as hell serves his fighting dog "CHENEY" some special treats. Complete with a call-back to the glorious Ron Mexico lawsuit (squee!), this is one to show off at the office. Savor the irony.

Directed by Dan Brown, it's a really effective way of expressing what all of us should now believe: that Vick is maybe the biggest asshole thug in sports today.