It has been one year since I signed on to write for the Free Press. Unlike my friend Dan, who quit training the killer whales after a year, I really like what I do for a living. It really isn’t much of a comparison. Writing involves no scrubbing or heavy lifting, and I’m quite confident that I will not be swallowed whole by a two-ton mammal in the middle of my work day.

Plus, I can actually accomplish a lot while watching TV.

***

I hadn’t seen an episode of “Columbo” in probably 15 years. But everything is more fun when Columbo is involved in some way. Even when you’re sweating while watching because your fan can’t keep up with the heat.

I’ve been googling Columbo quotes for an hour, and it definitely makes me feel cooler than I actually am.

***

It’s not even September and I’m already dreaming about October. And that’s not because I think the Yankees have a shot at winning the World Series.

Also, as long as I’m blathering on about the weather, does anyone else feel claustrophobic when you wake up, walk outside and find yourself wrapped in blankets of fog so thick it blots out the morning sun?

Uh, me neither.

***

I’m glad that whole Michael Vick story has run it’s course. I’ve been trying to think of something to write about it for three weeks, and I’ve got nothing good to say.

If Columbo were writing this column, he’d ask one question, and then make an observation that would really get to the heart of the matter.

I think that would go something like this:

Columbo: There are a couple loose ends I’d like to tie up—nothing important, you understand.

NFL: OK.

Columbo: Didn’t Ray Lewis plead guilty in 2000 to watching his friends stab two people death and doing nothing about it?

NFL: That was a long time ago.

Columbo: One more thing.... Wasn’t he was back on the football field the next season?

***

When I sat down to write this, the Yankees were 71⁄2 games behind Boston in the A.L. East. They’re two back of Seattle—probably the hottest team in baseball—in the wildcard race with 32 games remaining.

As much as it pains me to say this, my boys in pinstripes are not going anywhere near the World Series this fall.

Unless Boston implodes.

***

After winning the last fantasy football league I played in—and I won in dominating fashion the last time I played—I’m coming out of fantasy football retirement.

At my retirement dinner (I was the only invited guest to eat food I meticulously prepared for myself) I gave a speech in which I said, and I quote, “It is every fake general manager’s fake dream to fake win a fake championship, to receive the fake acclaim of his fake fans everywhere.

“It is also every fake general manager’s fake hope to fake retire after fake winning a fake championship,” I continued. “I would like to fake thank every fake person in the fake organization who has fake worked so hard to fake make this fake possible.

“I’m fake going to fake Disney World,” I added.

Behind the scenes, I acknowledged the fallacy of my triumph by holding a press conference for myself.

“I won my league because I was wise enough to draft LaDanian Tomlinson with the first overall pick and then not adjust my lineup for five straight months,” I said seven or eight times to total strangers who looked frightened by my enthusiasm. “So it was a pretty big accomplishment.”

***

Seriously though, does anyone take fantasy sports seriously?

I sure hope not.

And I really shouldn’t say anything more on the topic until after the league draft. I never know who might be reading.

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