At least everyone likes him. Or they used to. Sosa's appeal was unfairly shredded last week when he was victimized by the lowest, strangest act of self-promotion ever perpetrated by a columnist. Sports Illustrated's insufferably humorless Rick Reilly cornered Sosa in a clubhouse interview and demanded that he pee in a cup. Today. Or face public rebuke. Reilly slipped Sammy the name of a Chicago-area lab and asked that he submit to steroid testing.

Reilly's words: "What could be more positive than the game's leading home run hitter's proving himself cleaner than Drew Carey's fork?"

Oh Rick...(guffaw)...so funny...Drew Carey...(spasm of laughter)...clean fork! Stop yourself, funnyman...going to...(convulsing)...wet our pants! And three possessives in one sentence! Funny man with the crazy grammar...laff riot! Go on....

"I tried to explain that I wasn't telling him to do it, I was just wondering if he didn't think it would be a good move for him and the game."

Innocent, selfless Rick Reilly.

Sammy reacted exactly as you would if a smug, self-important weasel demanded immediate access to your bodily fluids and implied that you excel at your job because you cheat. He dropped a few MF's and chased Reilly away. We would call Reilly's approach a tabloid tactic, but that's not really fair to tabloids.

Unfortunately for Sosa, Reilly belongs to a fraternity of bad sports journalists. Within hours, he was posing as a vigilante for baseball purity on syndicated talk shows. In a very surreal and pathetic way, many sportswriters have taken Reilly's side---they shape public opinion, and they stick together. Sosa is vilified.

As with most Rick Reilly schlock, Reilly himself is the subject of his recent piece. Between phrases designed to illicit sympathy for our crusading hero, Reilly paints Sammy as a 'roid-crazed monster: "Sosa's neck veins started to bulge...he growled...he's a bulky, 230-pound Mr. Olympus."

Have we mentioned that there is no evidence, circumstantial or otherwise, that Sammy is doping? Sammy gained his muscle over a 13-year career, and his power totals have gradually increased: 8 HRs in '92, 25 in '94, 40 in '96, 66 in '98. His Cooperstown plaque will accurately portray him as singularly responsible for resurrecting baseball after a silly, protracted labor dispute. Or two. Sammy smiles, loves babies, loves you, sprints to the outfield, and plays every game every year. He's suffered none of the random injuries characteristic of steroid use, and is enjoying the prime of one of sport's greatest careers. Sammy is exactly what we say we want athletes to be: grateful, generous, accessible, dedicated.

Did we also mention that Reilly wants you to buy his book, The Life of Reilly, a compilation of his very best ever-columns? Quick review: it's like a bad impersonation Garrison Keillor. Only less funny, and on sports.

We agree that arguments beginning with, "They make all that money, they should be willing to..." often have validity. Professional athletes should sign autographs, live responsibly, eat vegetables, and obey speed limits. But somewhere it has to stop. They don't have to attend your birthday party, marry your daughter, or pet your dog. And they really don't have to pee on command to appease bad sportswriters. George Vescey, Ralph Wiley---maybe. But not Rick Reilly, and not us.

Big Foam Finger