Finally, someone used an all-access Gold Pass to The Cooler!

I've been sending 'em out for a year now. To Pacino, Duvall and Willie Mays. To Bill Murray, Denis Leary and Bill Walton. To DeNiro, Willie McCovey and the ghost of Sinatra.

	Jason Giambi put on quite a show in his first plate appearances in pinstripes.

Attempts to send a Gold Pass to Britney Spears and Jennifer Aniston were met with rebuttals, and threats of subpoenas. Fine. I've been there before. I can dance that legal tango, and grind 'em down through motions for delay every time.

But I digress.

So nobody used one of my passes -- until this weekend, when I checked the security files to see who might have dropped in under the fluorescents.

There it was. A Saturday, March 2 entry. About 2 p.m. PT.

User: Giambi, Jason.

Purpose: Hit of Sparkletts after two-jack debut at Legends Field.

Nice.

I knew if anybody needed a hit of "water" -- we never fail to treat the Dixie Cups with a little special gold dust -- it would be G, one of the all-time All-timers.

So it was spring training. So what? You step up in your pinstripes -- the Yanks did not jack around with ridiculous batting-practice gamers -- and you stand and deliver. And then you say afterward: "I just wanted to get my feet wet, so I dove in headfirst."

This is why G needed a hit of Sparkletts. The Cooler provides the antidote to horrible quotes, so it was a damn shame G didn't take a pull before uttering that metaphor. I mean, I guess you can get your feet wet after you dive in headfirst, or that the very act of diving in headfirst will eventually get your feet wet. But "getting your feet wet" implies a wading pool sort of dalliance, while diving in headfirst implies a whole 'nother thing: Bellying up to the clubhouse spread, demanding a jersey number that is retired, hitting on Jeter's girlfriend ... you know, diving in headfirst.

But I digress.

Point is, this is the beginning of something beautiful -- a marriage of man, city and pinstripes. I have no doubt that Giambi is set for gigantic things this year, mainly because he fulfills The Cooler's No. 1 rule of coolness: He plays the game the right way for us, the downtrodden sportswriter.

Many is the time, after being treated like something on the bottom of Terrell Owens' shoe, that I've wondered: Man. If it's me? If I'm the big-time athlete? Here's my plan -- I learn a few names, dole out a few colorful quotes, learn another few names and presto: I've got the nation's media groveling at my palm.

So many don't understand.

Giambi understands.

This is why, understand, it was such a delight to see him use that Gold Pass to The Cooler. Of course, I'd better give him a call. He left a note on the jug reading: "Murph. I assume this Gold Pass is good for the Hustler Club, too."

Shoot. Better explain to him the limits of The Cooler, but first, let's jump straight to the Weekend List of Five:

1. The Big Easy

	Ernie Els held off a furious charge from El Tigre.

Why do I love to watch Ernie Els play golf? I think part of the reason is that I'm one of the few who enjoys the cut and look of the Euro-styled adidas golf shoe. Seriously. Sergio Garcia, Retief Goosen and Ernie cut a different look with the Euro-styled shoe, even though the Goose and Els aren't Euros. This gets to a whole 'nother psychological self-loathing aspect, where I find myself rooting for the European Ryder Cup team over the American Ryder Cup team every two years.

Am I nuts? Do I like their knee-jerk anti-Yankee stances? Do I like misty shower water pressure? Do I crave the gag-reflex stench of B.O. in a Euro train station?

I can't explain it.

I can explain that Els' golf swing is perfect, and that he's got a little of that charisma juice working, part of which is God-given, because of his alliterative name -- particularly a first name that no American boy would sport, save for a Sesame Street character.

So I dig the guy, and while I dig big-time legend-building as much as the next guy, I'm cool with Els holding off Tiger. Tiger will win his, and build his legend. Let's just enjoy Ernie's little charge at Doral, and hope for a repeat showdown next month among the Georgia pines.

2. Spring training: Holy Jesus, do I love it

	Mark my words, people: Barry Bonds will hold the homer mark for at least 10 years.

A week from Thursday, in fact, I'll be exposing this Irish-Northern Italian alabaster skin to the unfettered ultraviolets down in the desert, Cactus League-style. I'm bringing two things: SPF 35 (the kind where your skin actually comes out more white after you apply it) and enough cash to cover 72 hours worth of canned beer from Scottsdale supermarkets.

(Note to self: Tell ESPN.com editors that there is no way in hell, no way on God's disturbed green Earth, that they will get a Water Cooler column the morning of March 18. Second note to self: Remind them that, at The Cooler, St. Patrick's Day is a national day of rest. Fire off e-mail in the morning.)

So anyway, the news out of the Cactus League is that Barry Bonds told Sammy Sosa he has permission to break the 73-homer record. Yeah. And I have permission from Heather Graham's boyfriend to shag her at any time.

People. Understand this. Seventy-four home runs will not be hit in the next 10 years, at least. I can't speak for 10 years beyond, because it will be 2012, and that seems like a freakishly futuristic year, with the possibility of Astro Jetson, the dog, hitting 75 home runs.

But those 73 bombs? The ones most of America did not recognize a.) because of the seriousness of the nation's plight after 9/11 and b.) because most of you hate Barry Bonds with every ounce of bone marrow in your body? Those are standing tall for a good decade. At least until the whole Astro Jetson thing.

3. My guy Denny Miller gets the big haircut
A brief word on last week's ouster of America's Funniest Man: Fine, America. You choose not to appreciate genius when you have it? You got it. I was listening to an old '80s concert of Miller's on CD the other day, and he strung together riffs on Jack Ruby, Monty Hall and Hare Krishnas that leave you shaking your head.

Listening to him is like watching Ted Williams hit, or watching Boris Yeltsin drink. Funny stuff? Hey, that's a Miller bit. He once compared watching Yeltsin drinking to watching Williams hit.

So, in conclusion, America does not deserve this guy.

Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.

4. Elvis Grbac gets the big haircut

	Don't shed any tears for Elvis Grbac after his release by the Ravens.

At this point, I feel bad for the guy.

I mean, I've spilled a lot of ink ripping this guy, and ripping Brian Billick, but now I just feel bad. Man. Signed for $30 mill one year, given a road map to Palookaville the next year.

But maybe I shouldn't feel bad. Elvis is a rich man. Maybe I should take this time to point out how hollow the words of many sports figures are, and how empty the platitudes thrown our way by Brian Billick continue to be. Maybe I should take this time to point out how screwed Trent Dilfer got, and how the only thing bigger than Billick's sense of self-importance is his belief that nobody knows how big his sense of entitlement is.

So now I'm not feeling so bad. Now, I'm sort of tickled by the whole thing. Now, I'm downright delighted that Billick is reeling and the Ravens are hurting, and we idiot sportswriters might have known something all along.

Hey! Good.

That worked out OK.

5. Tennis: the forgotten art
Got a chance to check out the Siebel Open this week. Tennis is cool, man! Seats close enough to hear the players ripping line judges, serves so fast they'd tear your wrist ligament to try to return 'em, and internationally hot chicks waiting in the wings for their dashing millionaire tennis boyfriends.

Not a bad gig. And it was just the Siebel Open! Imagine Wimbledon, with the British press breaking into the locker room and sorting through Martina Hingis' knickers. Man, I wish I could be a British tennis writer.

Anyway, give tennis a break. I think I speak for all of us when I say our eyes glaze over at the sight of ATP results on ESPN's "The Bottom Line," reporting advancement to the quarterfinals in Brussels by Magnus Norman. Now you can think to yourself: Magnus Norman! I bet he's got a scorching hot babe waiting for him after his match! And he made it to the quarterfinals!

See? Tennis is cool. Consider this just another public service from The Cooler.

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