Ken Jackson
SportsWriter

As I rest in the comfy, tan recliner, settling in for this World Cup’s swan song and hoping I got the right price for my vuvuzela, my mind wanders.

Who does it stink to be this weekend?

Well, it surely doesn’t stink to be the NBA. Any other year, the Finals wrap up, the sneakers and roundballs get thrown in the back of the closet and aren’t thought about again for months.

Thanks to LeBronecision 2010 and the hour ESPN dedicated to it Thursday — don’t complain, they’d spend that much time dissecting his decision anyway — The Network was wall-to-wall hoops talk. In July. David Stern’s been doing backflips, trust me.

But in Cleveland, they’re doing other jumps, probably from ledges. With the Cavaliers now falling behind in the East and pairing them with the hapless Browns and Indians, forget a championship parade. Throw a wake.

New York, even with getting Amare Stoudamire, can’t be totally happy. Doing what the Knicks did with their payroll then NOT getting King James is like going to the Armani store with a blank check, but buying a herringbone jacket because they’re all out of suits.

In Boston, the Celtics now have The Old 3.

It stinks for our Magic because an in-division rival just blew by them in talent.

And even in Miami, it stinks, but I say that because South Florida as a sports town stinks. It’s got all four major sports plus big-time college football, yet down there the three big teams every year are 1. the Dolphins, 2. the Hurricanes, 3. Whoever else is winning.

ooo

I had people over at the house last Saturday and we had the Insert Soft Drink Here 400 from the Daytona Turnpike (explains the potholes) on TV.

I sadly realized that, except for the first two and last four laps, NASCAR is only good for background noise any more. I only had to look up when the commentators raised their voices.

It’s sad how a racin’ circuit created by hillbillies drivin’ like hell on wheels to keep the moonshine from getting pilfered by the cops has morphed into a science. It’s dominated by sports-car type engineers, and when they wreck, they’re madder about having to pit their speeding billboard than blowing a chance at the checkered flag.

Fellers, ya’ll need to turn back the dang’ol clock. I need Southerners who hate each other’s guts and show it, or at least tell me why, “It done blowed up” before they go into the sponsor list.

Instead, watching NASCAR has turned into: 1. See the start of the race, check where you’re favorite guy qualified. 2. Doze off. 3. Wake up with 20 laps left. 4. See Jimmie Johnson win. 5. Hear Kyle Busch whine about why he didn’t.

ooo

I’m going to spice up Tuesday night’s baseball All-Star Game. Sadly, I can’t do it the way Assistant Editor Rick Madewell suggested (“Cheerleaders?”), but follow me here.

In the ninth inning, the players you really want to see are already showered, dressed and on a plane. I can fix that.

The team leading after eight innings will bat in the top of the ninth, regardless of home and away. The team trailing bats last, and the manager may choose any player on the roster, even the starters, to hit in the ninth.

For the short-attention-span teenagers out there, we can even have a text contest for fans to decide who bats leadoff, and with two outs.  

If the game goes extras innings, then everyone’s fair game to re-enter.

I’m sure Bud Selig will put his initials on that in short order.

ooo

The other night I was channel surfing and flipped through “America’s Got Talent.” I have bad news: Um, no we don’t.

We are, by and large, talentless hacks. If you’re going to be a star, it’d be pre-ordained from birth and you’d be there already. I shouldn’t have to watch you be discovered.

It’s not the network’s responsibility to produce stars, it’s their job to produce their shows. Chefs don’t churn butter or grow veggies, they cook with them.