The courts at Samuell-Grand Tennis Center are, like the game itself, an underutilized resource. A few middle-aged white guys playing doubles are all we ever see at this set of nicely maintained public courts. It's enough to make you want to give up golf, where these days one does little more than stand around and wait. For $5.45, you can hack away at the little yellow ball until you drop and burn enough calories that you won't be wearing your half-time snack.

If you were concerned that the effort to garner the 2012 Olympic Games for Dallas-Fort Worth was a joke, you only had to venture to Las Colinas for the Olympic triathlon trials to confirm your fears. On a day when some of the world's best pure athletes gathered to swim, run, and bike, only a few thousand folks came out to see them. Too bad. Chevy spokesman Hunter Kemper may get smoked by the Aussies (the world's best triathletes), but on a hot day in May he showed why he's our nation's best. The sponsors couldn't have been happy, either: Games and booths were empty, vendors bitched, and a band played for three spectators after the event was over. A testament to the metroplex's Olympic commitment. How much of our tax money is being wasted on the 2012 effort again?

Whether it's a day pack from JanSport or those Brunton Eterna 8x25 waterproof compact binoculars you need, you'll find it at REI. (Good heavens, we've become advertising copywriters. "If you didn't buy at REI, ask yourself, WHY?!?!") Still, REI makes us feel less tethered to air-conditioning as soon as we walk in. All the equipment, info, maps, and expert advice you need to go camping, bear killing, whatever your outdoor pleasure. Even if you have no other use for that Moss Hooped Outland tent--"the best four-season, solo shelter available, featuring uncompromising strength, generous headroom, and great ventilation"--than setting it up in the back yard and watching your daughter have a tea party in it, well, you should still buy it at REI. At least the salespeople will think you're a real outdoorsman.

We grew up loving Hoop-It-Up. Started by former D magazine Publisher Terry Murphy nearly two decades ago, it was a weekend that every weekend b-baller looked forward to, a chance to compete in three-man tournaments for bragging rights. But sometime during the past several years, it became an overly commercialized beast, one that had grown too huge and angry to be allowed to live. Even after referees were added, fights seemed inevitable, and the amateur fun and spirit of the enterprise had long ago dissipated. Better to have the memories than the impression made by Hoop-It-Up in its twilight years.

One of the great things the Internet brings to sports geeks is the chance to evaluate the beat writers for your favorite teams. You can read the work of sports reporters in other cities and see if they broke news first, if your hometown paper is just re-reporting something another paper already ran. And all our Net surfing has just confirmed our respect for Gerry Fraley. Even though Fraley is no longer the full-time Rangers beat guy--the very good Evan Grant holds that spot--Fraley still manages to bring the most insight, knowledge, and insider info to his stories. His clipped style is a joy to read, and his takes are always based in fact and not hype (for a long time, he has been the only writer, national or local, to consistently point out Ivan Rodriguez's defensive and game-management deficiencies). Simply put, when we see his byline, we read, even it's a minor-league report or a note from Dallas Cowboys training camp.

Bowling is one of the few things in life where it is almost impossible to think of a way in which it could be better. After electronic scoring entered the picture, amateur keglers were pretty much set for life. The shoes, the lanes, the pins, the balls--none of it requires any tweaking whatsoever, and, in fact, the enjoyment of the game would be lessened if there were any present. To properly experience the game, a pair of outdated shoes must be rented. The search for the perfect ball must take a minimum of 20 minutes. The next lane must be close in order to properly keep a running commentary of all the fashion/athletic misfortune taking place. The lane attendant must be buzzed over at least once a game to retrieve a ball or dislodge a pin. As John Goodman said in The Big Lebowksi, "Smokey, this is not 'Nam. This is bowling. There are rules." Beyond that, all that's required is exactly what you'll find at Don Carter's: a well-lit place in which to smoke cigarettes and drink beer from cans. A staff that's friendly without being pushy. An ample number of lanes so the wait is short if not nonexistent. A location off a major highway so just the right cross section of locals is present. Like we said, no tweaking necessary.

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Athletes come and go all the time. That's the nature of, uh, the game. Generally, it doesn't faze us. Most of the time, actually, we're happy to see them go. Most of the time, the athletes who are on the way out (much like the ones who will replace them) are condescending jerks we'd like to kick in the junk but can't because of our stupid lawyers and their "law concerns." Former Maverick Antawn Jamison wasn't one of those athletes. He was a good guy, always quick with a smile or a kind word. He was a real person, and that was the biggest loss of all. He'll be playing elsewhere next season, but many of us will be rooting for him. Especially our sports columnist, who, we think, has an unhealthy man-crush on the now-departed baller. He's extremely odd that way--our columnist, that is, not Jamison.

There is no one in sports more annoying than Patrick Roy, goaltender for the Colorado Avalanche--primarily because he has been anointed by the national media as the best money goalie in the NHL. This year, in Game 7 of the Western Conference Finals, Stars goalie Eddie Belfour proved that it was he, not Roy, who was the best when a series was on the line, beating Roy 3-2 (just as Belfour's team beat Roy's in Game 7 during last year's playoffs 4-1). Before this year's series began, Belfour made what to the East Coast media idiots was a startling proclamation: He said that he was as good a goalie as Roy. (A true statement if ever an athlete uttered one: Belfour not only was the defending Stanley Cup champion goaltender, but also had arguably his best regular season ever. His .919 save percentage was a career best, even though he faced about 200 more shots than the year before.) Ten minutes before Game 7 was over, the Reunion Arena fans began a chant that signaled they too agreed with Belfour's assessment of himself: "Ed-die's bet-ter...Ed-die's bet-ter." It was a wonderful f-you directed toward the overrated, head-bobbing Roy (who has now lost four straight Game 7s and allowed 16 goals in those games), and a nice public appreciation of the Stars' best clutch player.

Really, what other choice is there? We love Don Nelson, but more for his don't-give-a damn attitude and freaky X-and-O decisions (Shawn Bradley covering Muggsy Bogues) than his "coaching." He's a fun coach, but he isn't much of a professional. Ken Hitchcock, however, exemplifies both words. He's a pro: He handles the media, impressionable rookies, and irritable star players in perfect fashion. He'll laugh and joke and aw-shucks reporters, and he'll be a hard-ass jerk in the locker room when need be. Even if you don't agree with his style, you can't argue with his results. Yeah, he never played in the Bigs, blah blah blah, but he has taken two very different teams to the Stanley Cup Finals the past two years. His teams never give up, play best in close games, and almost never get out-coached. His constant line-juggling can make players tense, but he also sends a clear, important message: On a Ken Hitchcock-coached team, it's your play, not your name, that determines how much ice time you see.

Ever since Don Nelson has been a head coach in the NBA, he's lamented the fact that he hasn't had a dominant center. Ever since you've been a Mavericks fan, you've lamented the same thing. And then, just when we all thought we'd die without seeing a true center in a Mavs uniform, rumors began to float that Shaquille O'Neal was coming to town. The Lakers were going to trade him here, people said, because he couldn't play nice with Kobe Bryant. It was a matter of when, not if, people kept saying. But those people were wrong. After a few weeks of reading the newspapers and checking ESPN, we realized something: We'd been duped.