The Cooler, at last, has left Copley Square. I had to put on fake-nose-and-glasses and scoop it up under the cover of darkness -- lest those Patriots fans learn my identity, then tar me, feather me, and dump me in Boston Harbor with a newly fitted pair of cement shoes.

	The Olympic torch, carried here by Scott Hamilton and Peggy Fleming, got all the pub -- but The Cooler made a remarkable journey of its own.

But I got The Cooler, and without a felony committed against me.

I strapped The Cooler on my back and began its traditional run to the site of an Olympic Games. That's right. Screw the torch. Olympiads do not begin until the first Dixie Cup of Sparkletts is pulled.

What a winding run across North America it made: Carl Everett, in a Rangers jersey, carried it out of Boston and through most of New England, flipping off young children and elderly Americans who gathered roadside to watch it. Mike Tyson carried it through Bed-Stuy, late at night, shouting the whole time: "Where's Mitch Green at? Where's Mitch Green at? I'll eat Mitch Green's calf!"

On into New Jersey, where Jason Kidd passed it to Bruce Springsteen down at the Shore. Down it went on the Atlantic Coast, where Dan Snyder tried to buy it and hire it as his head coach. It stopped briefly in Chapel Hill, took on Carolina, and beat the Tar Heels by 11. The Cooler, people. The Cooler beat a five-man NCAA Division I basketball team by 11.

Tiger Woods showed up to carry it through Augusta, Ga., careful never to spill a drop on his green jacket. Phil Mickelson tried to take it from him at the 16th green, but dropped it in the pond. A rescue crew summoned it, and it made its way through Texas, where Jerry Jones bought it a facelift. Looked a little creepy, but younger, for sure.

All the way out to California it went, where the surfer-stoner guy I sat near in the '89 Michigan-UCLA game carried it up the coast. He wore the pancho Spicoli wore the day he ordered the pizza in Mr. Hand's class, and shouted, the whole time, "We Carry Some Cooler on the West Coast!" Also, near Newport Beach, he fashioned it into his own water-bong, and spent the rest of his journey run red-eyed and smiling.

	Tiger Woods didn't spill a drop on the green jacket when he carried The Cooler through Georgia.

Through San Francisco, Terrell Owens and Steve Mariucci ran out to meet it, but matters turned sour when Owens later told beat writers that Mariucci didn't let him carry The Cooler long enough. Finally, into Utah, just past the sign at the state line that reads: "Turn Your Clock Back 50 Years, You Are Now Entering Utah."

Who, Olympians wondered, would carry The Cooler the final leg? Who would turn it upside down and ready it for consumption on its stand adjacent to the flame? John Stockton picked it up near Salt Lake City, then no-look dished it to Karl Malone, who put it on the back of his pickup truck, near his gun rack.

Malone rolled his pickup into Rice-Eccles Stadium to the roars of thousands. Tension built. Malone popped out of his cab, hoisted The Cooler high, then insisted he had been fouled on his way into the arena. No matter. Here they came, skating toward The Mailman -- the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team.

Dry eyes were few as Mike Eruzione took The Cooler from Malone, and skated it to the staircase leading to the flame.

Then, from the darkness, he emerged. A shadowy figure, taking The Cooler from Eruzione. He gave Eruzione a soul-shake, and a betting tip on the Latvia-Estonia women's hockey game.

He moved up the stairs, to the deafening cheers. At the top, he turned, and hoisted The Cooler high as the flame lit his face.

The journey was complete.

There he stood. Who else?

High atop the stairs, wearing a Dubai Olympic parka, Johnny -- the shoeshine guy from the old "Police Squad!" episodes -- officially opened the Games of the Winter Olympiad.

To the Weekend List of Five:

1. America's surprisingly good taste

	America definitely got it right by selecting the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team to light the flame.

I might have been in a Pacific Beach tavern Friday night -- hey, somebody had to chronicle Jose Maria's ice-cool 67-65 weekend at Torrey -- but for a few magic moments, I was transported to a Charlottesville, Va. hotel room. There, in February 1980, on a Murphy Family trip to Washington D.C. heavy on Americana -- Smithsonian, White House, Capitol Building -- my Mom, Dad, sister and I were eating dinner. It was a Friday night. A man ran into the restaurant from the bar and shouted, "It's the third period, and the U.S. and Soviets are tied!"

Bedlam. The Murphys wolfed down their food, and raced back to the hotel room just in time. I will never forget that moment. Of such moments are sportswriting careers -- and accompanying poor salaries, poor eating habits and poor dress codes -- made. You know the rest: Al Michaels, something about miracles, and a 4-3 final score. Feel free to take a few to dry your eyes.

So there was Eruzione in Salt Lake City on the TV. There he was, beckoning out the team. And there I was again -- hopelessly lost in the moment, even with the acres and acres of San Diego betties fluttering about the bar.

Americans sometimes pull it off, don't we? You'd think we'd blow it, and have the CEO of Coca-Cola light a flame in Atlanta. You'd think we'd blow it, and have the Chief Water Buffalo of the Mormon Church light the flame in Salt Lake City.

But we came through. Ali in '96 was an unreal choice, tremendously emotional. Eruzione and the hockey players created the same emotion. Here we are, just five months after we had to look inward and wonder if we could be a team again. What a great answer: We are a team again, and we've got Jimmy Craig in goal, in case you're wondering.

2. The Pro Bowl

	Evidently, Rich Gannon and Co. played a football game over the weekend.

Wait. What? The Pro Bowl happened?

No. Seriously, dude. They played the Pro Bowl?

3. The NBA All-Star Game

Didn't watch a second of it, but read plenty of advance stories about Michael Jordan playing, and how the younger players worship him, and how his comeback is working out pretty well. Nice. I'm happy for the guy. Really. But perhaps this is time to dust off my hugely unpopular Jordan is Not God Theory. (Real smart, huh? After alienating every web-user from Portland, Maine, to Providence, R.I., I now take on Chicago. What a dolt.)

Anyway, here goes: Michael Jordan was selected by ESPN as the Greatest Athlete of the Century. And my reaction, uttered through tortilla chips and beer from my favorite bedsore-inducing couch, was: Greatest Athlete of the Century? I'm not even sure he's the greatest basketball player I've ever seen!

Chicagoans, start your e-mails.

But come on. Magic and Bird engaged in some of the greatest basketball duels in history. Jordan hit game-winning shots over Craig Ehlo. I'm not down on MJ. I love the guy's game. He's easily Top 5 all-time, and I would entertain the arguments saying he's No. 1. I'm just saying, when you throw in Wilt, Magic, Bird, Russell and Oscar, you've got an argument.

Now, as for the Greatest Athlete of the Century? Boys, there is no argument.

Which reminds me: I have to buff and polish my 8x10 glossy of Babe Ruth eating a hot dog in the dugout.

4. John Daly: Never seen anyone like him

I'm serious. Have you seen this guy live? Never seen anyone like him. The body shape. The backswing with the clubhead scraping his butt. The hair color -- not found in nature.

	If John Daly ever wins The Masters, the Murph won't be able to contain himself.

Then again, I've never been to Arkansas.

Let the record show, you cannot drink from The Cooler unless you are a big-time John Daly Fan. He has two Top-5s already, and it's not even Valentine's Day. If this guy wins a tournament this year, I'm dying my hair Daly Color. If this guy wins at Augusta National in April, I might have to organize a bonfire on the 18th green.

You think I'm kidding.

5. We wrap with the Winter Games

I don't ski. I don't snowboard. I don't play hockey. I don't know how to put chains on my tires in a snowstorm.

So how long did it take for me to sign up for the Winter Games, whole hog?

About as long as it did for me to hear Jim McKay's voice.

Which, by the way, was the first voice heard when NBC went on the air Friday night. Genius move. That's why these producers make, like, 500K a year.

Sure, McKay spit the bit when he did live TV the first time. Cut him a break. He's 80. Let's just say that given what we went through as a country the last five months, given that Pat Summerall retired, and given that "Fear Factor" is apparently still on the air ... well, Jim McKay is just about the tonic the country needs right now.

I just hope Johnny runs into him and buys him a hot toddy, out of respect.

Brian Murphy of the San Francisco Chronicle writes the "Weekend Water Cooler" every Monday for Page 2.