I could have spent this week's entry focused on this guy:

    


Meet Antonio Cromartie, NFL player, and former FSU Seminole (that last part makes this one so much better).  Antonio, a cornerback who has played the last five years for the San Diego chargers, became a free agent at the end of the season and recently agreed to join the New York Jets.  Everything about Antonio's transition from the Chargers to the Jets seemed to be going swimmingly until he requested that the Jets pay him part of his salary as a $500,000 cash bonus upon signing.  Why would a guy who just signed a $12 million contract with the Chargers only 5 years ago need to get $500,000 of his new contract in the form of a signing bonus?  Well, apparently when you have 7 kids by 6 different women in 5 different states and have had to address at least 5 paternity suits in the last year, it's a real drain on your cash flow.  There are probably women lined up outside the Jets' practice facility right now waiting for the chance to meet Antonio "Condomless" Cromartie.  Hey - it's better odds than a lottery ticket.

I also could have spent a lot of time on this guy:

Ah, the Steelers' Big Ben Roethlisberger.  This guy must really love the limelight.  Ben can figure out a way to get himself into a jam in any city in the United States.  In 2006 he practically kills himself by riding a motorcycle through the streets of Pittsburgh with no helmet on.  In 2009 he is accused of sexually assaulting a woman in Vegas in 2008.  And in 2010?  Ben descends upon the sleepy little town of Milledgeville, Georgia, where he further enhances his sterling reputation by allegedly fondling a young co-ed against her will.  I live in Atlanta, and I don't even know where Milledgeville is.  I've really got to hand it to Ben.  When you're accused of sexual assault in both Las Vegas and Milledgeville, Georgia, you've demonstrated a universal ability to act inappropriately toward women that few men possess. 

If I were Roger Goodell, I think I'd unveil a proposal at this year's owner's meeting to expand the season to 48 games just so these morons wouldn't have an off-season.  As far as I can tell, most of them use it to explore new and exciting ways to employ defense attorneys.

No, no in-depth discussion of the exploits of NFL players during the off-season, no breakdown of Tebow's new throwing motion (or his Wonderlic score), no March Madness preview (that's next week), no ruminations over Tiger's return date, and no NFL draft preview in this week's entry.  I don't have time for any of that.  You see, I've got bigger fish to fry, and it's all because I have a weakness.

I love an auction.

Silent, live - it doesn't matter.  If an event has an auction, I'm buying something.  Four years ago, Mrs. SportDork and I attended a charity event with a live auction, and a few months later, we were standing on the Great Wall in China.  Quite frankly, I should not be allowed to hold one of those paddles.  A few months ago, we attended a local neighborhood fundraiser that featured an auction, and if it hadn't been for Mrs. SportDork physically restraining me, I would have been following her home on our brand new baby blue motor scooter.  I really can't control myself.  I've never seen a silent auction item I didn't like.  I've bid on weekends at cabins in the woods, weekends in hotels, even weekends in privately-owned condos.  If a college kid put a weekend at his dorm room up for bid at a silent auction, I'd probably bid on it. 

So when Mrs. SportDork and I attended a lovely charity event last weekend, and I knew there would be a silent auction, I promised myself that this time would be different.  I would demonstrate an unprecedented level of restraint.  As we were getting ready for the event, I even announced my plan:

Me (making my 'this is a serious proclamation' face):  "Just so you know, I'm not bidding on anything tonight."
Mrs. SportDork (trying to contain her laughter):  "Sure, honey.  That sounds like a great plan."
Me (giving my 'this is a serious proclamation' face another try, but this time with hand gestures):  "No - I'm serious.  I'm not getting sucked in this time.  No bidding for me."
Mrs. SportDork (with a look of both pity and amusement):  "Right.  And I won't be doing any online shopping this weekend either."

When we arrived, I felt good about my plan.  I wouldn't even look.  I would simply avoid the silent auction area all together.  If I didn't get near any of those tables lined with clipboards - didn't even make eye contact with any of the sheets that contain all of that juicy information like a description of the item and the retail value and minimum bid - nothing bad could happen.  I recognized something that Antonio Cromartie has not - complete and total abstinence was the only answer.  It was the only way to avoid history repeating itself.  But when we made our way into the facility, I immediately realized that it wouldn't be that easy.  The folks who set up this silent auction were pros.  The only way to get into the main ballroom was to walk through a room that was set up for - you guessed it - the silent auction.  I planned to put my head down and fly right by all those tables, but the room was narrow and filled with guests surveying the auction items, leaving me to stand patiently and wait for the crowd to slowly make its way through the room. 

I made it halfway through before I inadvertently glanced down and saw it.  I tried to turn away and forget what I had seen, but it was too late.  Powerless to resist, I reached down, took the pen in my right hand, and entered my first bid of the evening.  I told myself that would be it - my one and only bid for the night.  If I won, great.  And if not, so be it.  But five hours later, as I handed over my credit card to pay for my silent auction item, it was clear that I have a long road to recovery: 

 


Maybe it's something I can talk to Charles Barkley about while Mrs. SportDork and I are having dinner with him. . . . . . .