Did you hear it? That sickening thud? That was the sports world groaning to a halt. Immediately after Tom Brady said he was going to Disney World, sports headed due south as well, and went straight to hell.

	Surrey Spice Girl filled the void of sports.

We've hit dead air. We've stumbled into a sports wasteland littered with Memphis indoor tennis tournaments and purebreed dog droppings. The sports world smells like Rod Brind'Amour's sweater after an overtime game in Tampa. It's halftime, and Vanilla Ice is "performing."

There ... is ... absolutely ... nothing ... interesting ... happening. Now that the Winter Olympics and Daytona 500 are in our rearview mirror, there's not a major, nor a grand slam, nor a meaningful champion to be determined. From right after the Super Bowl until early-onset March Madness, all is dreck.

This is the season when usually respectable professional sports leagues panic and turn into game shows. Were those actual NBA players spinning the wheel of fortune to determine their dunks earlier this month? The slam-dunk winner, Jason Richardson, didn't Sajak, but Steve Francis did say he'd never take part in such folly again. The NBA: a Mark Goodson/Bill Todman production.

The NHL's All-Star Weekend gave us the SuperSkills competition, which sounded exciting, what with that capital "S" rearing up out of nowhere. Apparently, "Super" and "kills" drifted toward each other and, when their tectonic plates collided, the impact threw up that majestic "S" -- like a snow-capped mountain range.

The hardest-shot competition is perhaps the least telegenic activity in recorded history. Guys skate up, put nearly identical swings on the puck, and then ... nothing. You can't follow the puck with the naked eye, and the "action" is over in a nanosecond. Basically, what you're watching is the mph clock, like when you're driving down a street where one of those large speedometers has been set up, and you realize you're going 22 mph over the limit.

		This year, as part of Pro Bowl weekend, they gathered NFL legends to play flag football on the beach. Jim McMahon set a nice tone when he was caught sucking down a beer on the sidelines during the game. There, now I've got my Pro Bowl moment.

Memo to Gary Bettman: To spruce it up, fire the pucks at a huge wheel of semi-soft cheese, perhaps a nice brie. Then extract the puck from the muck, and measure the indentation with those devices used to gauge a stick's curve. (Also, Gary, please eliminate the Columbus Blue Jackets; your league is cumbersome.)

In the span of nine days in February, the American people were treated to three All-Star "extravaganzas." And even in a sea of meaningless All-Star games, the Pro Bowl stands out for its lack of meaning. There are in-game player interviews and Hawaiian shirts and leis. It's like watching "The NFL on Vacation." Can anyone remember a single great Pro Bowl moment?

This year, as part of Pro Bowl weekend, they gathered NFL legends to play flag football on the beach. Jim McMahon set a nice tone when he was caught sucking down a beer on the sidelines during the game. There, now I've got my Pro Bowl moment.

This year, in a vain attempt to inoculate us against the effects of the dead zone, we were given our quadrennial booster shot -- the Winter Olympics, thrilling the dozens of Finnish-Americans in the States.

Yeah, I know: It's an easy target ... but c'mon, curling? Am I the only one who sees in curling a tricked-up version of that barroom staple, shuffleboard? Instead of sprinkling that can of wax or "cheese" to lubricate the lane, they hire a couple guys with brooms. Ever wonder how curlers get started?

OK, I liked the hockey and the women's figure skating finals and the downhill. In 1976, when Franz Klammer made his hell-bent gold medal run, we were on a ski week in Vermont. We spent the rest of the week in tuck positions, screaming Frank Gifford's memorable line, voice rising in intensity, "Klammer around the bear turn!" (It was only later that I learned Frank had gone to an audio booth and voiced over his call some 40-odd times before he got it just right. My disillusionment with the Winter Olympics was complete.)

	Did you get enough information about Norwegian curler Lars Vagberg?

February also gives us the Westminster Dog Show, with Joe Garagiola reporting. Joe actually kicked off the show by comparing the champion dogs to the Arizona Diamondbacks. It was life imitating art imitating life. In the comic tour de force "Best in Show," Fred Willard must be doing Joe. At one point, Willard asks his wonderfully understated color man, "Now tell me, which one of these dogs would you want to have as your wide receiver on your football team?" He also makes the poor guy guess how much he can bench. (Remember in high school, when you knew what everyone's bench was? But that was a simpler time.)

Anytime the count went to 2-2, Joe's old chestnut was, "This is the pitch of decision." Well, the bitch of decision this year was "Surrey Spice Girl," a miniature poodle that won with a hairstyle that gave her the look of one of those balloon-animals twisted by a clown named Gary. There was a murmuring of dissent from the dog crowd, something along the lines of, "How could that bitch have won?" I know it's totally junior high, but I thrill to the sound of the word "bitch" spoken so openly in front of such a proper crowd of people.

Sadly, for the moment, all we can do is endure. We're rolling along the sports super-highway, and stretched in front of us -- as far as the eye can see -- is a bleak vista of endless Canucks-Flames games ... and we've just passed a sign reading "March Madness: 306 miles." Consider this a moment of reflection, an opportunity to cleanse the palate. Spend more time with your family, see that museum exhibit you've always wanted to see. And if you've never wanted to see a museum exhibit, then start jonesing over a potential first-round matchup between Gonzaga and Ohio State.

Or learn to curl.

David Lloyd is an anchorman for ESPNEWS.