Good riddance.

            The condition of the sporting world is a sad one these days.

            Now more than ever, the dramatics of professional and collegiate sports are being determined less and less by the players on the field, and more and more by the pursuit   and exchange of millions of dollars.

            Free agency. Team payrolls. Salary caps. Contract restructuring. On-field advertising. Holdouts. TV rights.

            All of these and more are regularly making headlines in the sporting world these days, with the roots of the issues dug firmly within a foundation of money. At times, money and sports can be so synonymous that the two can hardly be separated. In fact, two glaring examples of the power money holds over sports have irked me lately.

            The first is the BCS.

            Let’s get one thing straight. The BCS did not “get it right” this year, just like it never does. You could plugged ANY formula into a computer this year to determine the number one and number two teams in the country and a ticket to Pasadena would have printed with both USC and Texas on it.

            So the BCS this year, like most years, did a fairly good job in ranking football teams. The selection process, however, was atrocious yet again, and the almighty dollar is to blame.

            There is no reason a team like Oregon, who went 10-1 playing in the Pac-10 and only crime this year was losing to USC should be playing in the Holiday Bowl, while Notre Dame, who had more losses and a worse BCS ranking at the end of the season is making the trip to the Fiesta Bowl because they are a better sell.

            It’s ridiculous to have Florida State, at 8-4, in a BCS Bowl Game purely from an ACC automatic bid just because it is a major conference.

            And now even Congress wants to step in and “fix” the whole BCS process. “College football is not just an exhilarating sport, but a billion-dollar business that Congress cannot ignore,” said House Committee on Energy and Commerce chairman Joe Barton this week.

            Sure, why not let Congress step in and legislate? They seem to have no problems financing billion dollar projects. Just look at Iraq.

            And yet I digress.

            Also this week, the Florida Marlins cost-cutting fire sale continued with the departures of Luis Castillo and Paul Lo Duca, bringing the total of high profile Marlins traded away this off season to six, and counting.

            Other baseball teams certainly benefit from a low budget organization throwing away their best players and biggest contracts, but in the end, a fire sale is sad and pathetic.

            Take the Boston Red Sox for example. They acquired set-up man Guillermo Mota, third baseman Mike Lowell, and young fireballer Josh Beckett for next to nothing, which is like scoring big at a police auction. Sure you come home with some cool stuff, but in the end, you’re not exactly proud of the way you got your hands on it.

            For long time Marlins fans, it’s deja vus, all over again. After winning a very dramatic (and yet still forgettable) 1997 World Series, the Marlins ownership decimated the championship roster. By the sixth week of the following season, the Marlins had traded away eleven players from their World Series team, including Moises Alou, Gary Sheffield, Bobby Bonilla, Kevin Brown, and Robb Nen.

            The Marlins’ ownership has been asking the city for a new baseball-only stadium for years, but because the city won’t go for it, the team is being killed financially. The Marlins anticipated payroll for 2006 is $30 million, which is miniscule compared to other teams. Heck, A-Rod makes that by adjusting himself.

            The Marlins also had the lowest attendance in the National League this year, despite winning two championships since the team’s creation in the early 90s. 

            Normally I would blame the ownership in scenarios like this for not caring enough about their team to put a sufficient amount of money back into it, but I can’t say I fault team owner Jeffrey Loria here.  It’s a sad thing when a team falls apart financially because of a lack of interest. The Marlins have always been a young and exciting team to watch, but very little people care in South Florida. Maybe it is time for the time to pack up and move elsewhere where somebody will.

            So to Mr. Loria, I offer you three pieces of advice to make this fire sale easier on your fans without letting them know it’s their fault. First, tell them this is for the betterment of the team. Continually let them know you care about the future and are trying to create a winning ball club. Who knows, they might buy it. And if they don’t, well, they probably won’t show up either way.

            Secondly, continue selling off your big prospects to the payroll juggernauts of baseball, like the Mets, Red Sox, or Yankees. It makes it a little easier on your fans to think their being pushed around by the financial bullies of baseball. Plus, any new reason to hate the Yankees is always fine by me.

            And finally, sell mass amounts of alcohol at the games to keep your fans happy, despite the pitiful team that takes the field every day. That one’s been working at Wrigley Field for decades.

            At the age of seventeen, a baseball game caused me to weep like a child on a street corner.

            My legs quivered. My knees buckled. I threw my hands behind my head in overwhelmed disbelief as I watched run after run placed on the manual scoreboard for the wrong team.

            By the time it was all over, I sat in silence holding back tears through what seemed like the longest ten minute car ride home of my life.

            October 14, 2003. The Bartman Game. I was there.

            I decided midway through the game to make the trek to Wrigley Field while watching at home. I wanted to be there when the Cubs went to their first World Series in 58 years. I wanted to be there when the “Lovable Loser” label was shed and my entire belief system of what is and isn’t possible in this world was forever transformed.

            Instead I received a sucker punch straight to the gut, a traumatic heartbreak that I will never forget.

Why do some allow sports to do this to themselves? Why are the athletic achievements of strangers placed so heavily in people’s hearts?

There are many who will call you immature for being an avid adult sports fan. Grow up, they’ll say. It’s just a game.

But these people don’t understand that to some sports are much more than that, and for many reasons.

They can be a distraction from the stresses of real life, a small piece of fantasy that can be very fulfilling.

They can simply just be something to place love and faith within.

And, most importantly in my opinion, sports are metaphors of life.

Think about it. There’s the classic underdog story of going up against all odds and coming through. The Cinderella story of being out of place, but succeeding nonetheless. The young, inexperienced rookie going up against the wily old veteran who’s been there before. Or the beat up, hobbling old veteran who gives everything possible because he knows this is his last chance.

You can even pinpoint individual plays that demonstrate the emotional intensity that coincides with sports.

Like Michael Jordan’s incredible 38 point effort in game five of the 1997 NBA Finals, all with severe stomach flu, refusing to let his team lose a pivotal game.

Or John Elway’s famous helicopter dive in Super Bowl XXXII, on his way to his first championship after fifteen years of coming up short.

Would you ever tell either of these athletes that the sport they play is “just a game?” No, there is something more to sports than just the score at the end.

We can all relate to sports some how, just not everybody realizes it. We all relate to the struggles of players and teams in some way. You don’t have to look past last Monday night for a prime example.

Many argued that last week’s game between the Indianapolis Colts and the New England Patriots was incredibly over hyped; a 7-0 team versus a 4-3 team that wasn’t even a divisional game. Some were even dubbing it the biggest Monday Night Football game ever.

While its importance in human history (and the NFL standings) was minimal, this was more than just a game. This was a struggle between two archetypes of people that had been built up for years.

You have Peyton Manning, the superstar quarterback with the gaudy credentials but has never proven himself when it matters most, especially against the Patriots. He undoubtedly has the skills to succeed, but for whatever reason, has never been able to when it really matters.

Then you have the opposite, Tom Brady. The quarterback who doesn’t know failure. The man who has become the epitome of coming through when it matters. The man who has never lost to Manning’s Colts, including ending their season the last two years.

For whatever reason, I’ve always related to Peyton. I understand the feeling of coming within reach of something you’ve always striven for only to find it barely out of your grasp. I’ve watched him the last few years and hoped that he could finally find a way to get over the hump.

That being said, I found more than just pleasure in Monday’s 40-21 thumping of Brady’s Patriots. I gained a sense of relief, an affirmation that with hard work and perseverance, it is possible to defeat the Tom Brady’s of the world, both literal and symbolic.

Am I exaggerating? Maybe a little.  

Do I understand the risks of placing so much importance on the lives of strangers who more likely than not couldn’t care less about me? Absolutely. October 14, 2003 taught me that.

I guess you just have to be a sports fan to understand.