Sometimes when I'm driving on the highway at speeds approaching -- oh let's say, for the sake of argument ... 75 mph -- I put on the cruise control and sit in the left lane. Then some guy -- and it's always some guy -- comes flying up behind me and sits on my rear end. I don't move for him. Now right away, some of you think I'm the jerk, because the left lane is for passing and this guy simply wants to go by. However, I am in no way obligated to facilitate this guy endangering lives by zipping along at 90 mph. Moving out of the guy's way would be like opening the door for some other guy at a convenience store so he can go in and rob the place. It's not my job as a citizen of the world to help people break the law. This is why I think he is the jerk ...

	Just call Tony Siragusa a manatee when he's done with football.

... which brings me to my point (and none too soon, I might add):

My New Year's resolution is to be less judgmental in 2002. In the coming year, I'm not going to immediately conclude that the guy's a jerk just because of the way he's driving at the moment I happen to see him. Maybe his wife is having a baby. Maybe he's really gotta go, if you know what I mean. Or maybe he's a jerk. The fact is, I don't know what the truth is, so I'm determined to be a little more understanding and tolerant.

Therefore, when Randy Moss says he only tries when he feels like it, I'm not going to assume he's lower than a dog who eats his own diddly poo. (I will, however, continue wondering why anyone who's ever seen a dog do that will let that dog, or any dog, lick their face.)

When I see Anna Kournikova, I'm not going to immediately think, "Hmm, there's someone who's won as many women's singles titles as I have."

When Nate Newton gets arrested twice for marijuana possession, I won't automatically think about his incredible girth ... and maybe the word "munchies" won't pop into my head.

When I see the grotesque things that contortionists can do with their bodies, I won't hate the person who first told them that putting their feet in their armpits could be seen as entertainment.

When I see Jesse Ventura, I won't be disappointed that he's not dumber. (I really thought he would be, but that's when I was still judging people based strictly on things like their affiliation with the WWF.)

When I see an athlete crying at a news conference, I won't think he's being phony or stupid or acting like a spoiled, little rich kid who just had his favorite game taken from him. (Though this one will be hard for me, because as much as I enjoy being a sportscaster and columnist, if someone gave me a few million dollars at the age of 40 and said I could never write again, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't cry.)

Also, when I see the next athlete crying at a news conference, I won't think: "There it is. That's the soundbite the lazy and predictable media will run a million times." (I swear, someone can break down, gather themselves, and then say: "I think bin Laden is misunderstood," and the crying bite would still run.)

		When I see an athlete praise God for blessing them with the talents to win a game, I won't cynically wonder if they also praise God for allowing them to occasionally choke at the free throw line.

When I see John Rocker, I won't think: "Redneck." I'll think about that heartfelt apology somebody wrote for him.

When I hear athletes refer to themselves in the third person, I won't be appalled by their arrogance, I'll just assume it's their way of trying not to talk about themselves. It's not I, I, I or Me, Me, Me ... it's some guy with my name that's holding out for more money.

When Terry Glenn says he can't adhere to the schedule for his drug tests because he's handicapped by depression, I'll try not to think he's a lying sack.

When I hear the one trillionth football analyst talk about putting "eight in the box," I won't think about putting a Q-tip through my brain.

When I see the Miami Hurricanes have put Troy State on their football schedule next fall, I won't think about what wussies they are and how much ink is wasted talking about how good their offense looked while running up the score to something like 72-3.

When I see Michael Jordan interviewed for several minutes after every game, I won't think that his tremendous ego is just eating this up. Instead, I'll assume he's just being kind and patient to the media that kisses his behind.

When I see an NFL cheerleader shaking her pom-poms (if that's an appropriate euphemism for them), I'll try to assume she's just working her way through medical school.

When I see a group of overweight fans paint letters on themselves, I won't snicker about the guy who didn't get invited because he wanted to write the letters in calligraphy.

When I see Donald Fehr, I won't think, "Now, there's a good place for a high-velocity brick."

When I see Tony Siragusa, I won't think that his post-football career will include playing the part of a sea cow at Mystic Aquarium.

	We're not sure what sort of school former XFL cheerleaders went to, however.

When I see Pat Riley finish this season with about 15 wins, I won't ask people if this proves he reached the status of "coaching genius" by riding Magic and Kareem.

When I see the Super Bowl commercials that cost more than a million dollars to make and more than a million dollars for a 30-second spot, I won't say in a loud and mocking voice: "Stupid advertising execs! What an absolute waste of money! But, boy, would I love a Dorito right about now."

When I hear an athlete say it's not about the money, I'll sit back and wait to find out what it really is about because if it's not about the money, it must be about something more noble.

When I see the portly left-hander David Wells, I won't wonder if he'd be showing a greater commitment to winning and to his teammates if one day he actually broke down and did a sit-up.

When I see Mo Vaughn, I'll just think that he's big boned.

When I see an athlete praise God for blessing them with the talents to win a game, I won't cynically wonder if they also praise God for allowing them to occasionally choke at the free throw line.

When I see a football player dancing in the end zone or after a sack, I'll think: "Yep, that's how most professionals react to doing what's expected of them."

However, while I'm writing this and it's still 2001, the free safety who celebrates and struts around like he's "all that" after tackling a guy 15 yards downfield ... is a jerk! And so is the guy flashing his high beams on me trying to get me to move over on the highway. And so is Randy Moss. And so is Albert Connell, and Nate Newton and Terry Glenn. And don't get me started on Carl Everett! And no one's a bigger disgrace than Mike Tyson who praises Allah and then threatens to eat your children! And I'm trying not to pass judgment on the family that walked into church 15 minutes late the other day and went all the way up to the first pew -- talking the whole time -- and then sat when everybody else was kneeling.

Whew! Even at church, I couldn't stop my rush to judgment.

I'm telling you, 2002 is gonna be one tough, nonjudgmental year!