It's a hard day's night for the poor saps with these sports jobs

I have always believed that those who have the good fortune to work in sports should be whacked with a shovel if they bitch about their jobs. Only a teensy fraction of sports lunatics have the opportunity to cozy up to the business; thousands of outsiders devote inordinate amounts of effort trying to get past the bouncer. It goes without saying that the worst job in sports is far better than the best one in, say, aluminum smelting.

Cleaning up after Isiah Thomas can't be high on a prospective coach's wish list. (Getty Images)

And still my first thought upon hearing that Mike D'Antoni had been hired as the next coach of the New York Knickerbockers was this: Sucka just accepted the sports version of bedpan-drainage duty. Because in recent years, "Knicks head coach" hasn't been so much a job description as a punishment, one that grinds the poor sap's patience down to a nub while simultaneously curb-stomping his ego and reputation. Would the don of the aluminum-smelting community have traded places with Lenny Wilkens? Would the major domo of bedpan-plumbing technicians have trod a soggy mile in Don Cheney's shoes? Not on a dare.

The media glare, the boos, occasional spots of owner/management interference -- these are things you accept when you enlist as the head coach of a sports team. The anonymous backstabbing, the hovering presence of corporate spies, the whimsical roster turnover -- these are not. Granted, the indignities are probably easier to swallow when your paycheck stretches into seven figures.

I'm rooting for D'Antoni. The never-won-nuthin'-in-Phoenix tag strikes me as unfair, given the Spurs teams he went up against in the playoffs. He's a bright guy and boasts one of the sturdiest pushbroom mustaches this side of Phil Garner.

It won't work. Unless Donnie Walsh proves more of a personnel magician than his Indiana tenure suggests he can be, the Knicks are asking D'Antoni to build a house with only a wrench and a tin of plaster. The job will continue to rank right down there with anything involving subterranean excavation.

But is it the worst job in sports? As D'Antoni gets trotted out for the handshake-fest press conference, let's look at some of the challengers to the Knicks throne.

Marketing director of the NHL: I can't imagine a more futile existence than attempting to interest non-diehards in the NHL, an entity that now ranks somewhere between competitive whaling and the senior bocce circuit in our collective sports consciousness. I say this as a fan who is begging for a reason to recommit, one who used to attend 8-10 games per season and participate in roto hockey leagues (side note: you could make a solid case for Martin Brodeur as the Hank Aaron of rotisserie sports).

Back in college, most nights out were preceded by a Rangers-n-refreshments session that primed my crew for the classy activities to follow. Now, I couldn't care less about hockey unless the Rangers are going well. I'm not just a fair-weather fan; I'm an unrepentant fair-weather fan. Why is it wrong for fans to treat a league or team as well as it treats them?

If the NHL has truly lost folks like me in the wake of the canceled season, I have no idea where the league's marketing folks go from here. Following the bungled expansion that left the league bloated with fourth-liners, you can't attempt to sell lapsed fans on the quality of play. Given the 142-game regular season, you can't lure them with the promise of night-in, night-out passion.

Basically, the NHL's best bet is to pray that Sidney Crosby and Evgeni Malkin morph into the second coming of Messier/Gretzky, or that Alexander "You Can Call Me Al" Ovechkin becomes LeBron on skates. Alas, this can't happen unless the former pair wins the Cup this season or the latter scores 100 goals and starts dating Simpson sisters. It's a darn shame.

Anyone who has anything to do with John Daly who doesn't work for Hooters: Caddies, swing coaches, business managers, agents, wives, girlfriends, divorce lawyers, private investigators, process servers, Diet Coke bottlers, Marlboro Lights distributors, even nutritionists ... Daly has left more toadies-for-hire in his wake than Anna Nicole. He's Roseanne Barr with a putter. His elephantine girth has issued a challenge to pants manufacturers worldwide: Get more elastic, or be gone.

I love Daly's man-of-the-people shtick, which involves getting bombed with anyone who buys him a beer and refusing to dine at restaurants that use linen napkins. At the same time, he has pissed away a wealth of talent and pissed off just about everyone who has gotten close. Self-indulgence isn't a full-time job.

Daly can be a hoot. Watching him off the tee at Baltusrol a few years back was like watching Mark McGwire during batting practice, but sweatier. I still pity the professional enablers who have to cross his path on a regular basis.

Those who express their personal artistry by performing as a professional sports mascot: Like this dude, or this one, or maybethese guys. I had the bad fortune to try on one of these suits -- I can't remember whether it was for work or as part of a role-playing exercise with the Missus -- several years ago. The costumes weigh 75 pounds and smell like wet dog. I'm still sweating.

Do mascots get health benefits? A dry-cleaning stipend? A locker to call their own in the clubhouse? I'm genuinely curious.

Debbie Clemens: Technically she isn't in sports, unless you want to count a cheesecake shot that ran in Sports Illustrated a few years back (in which case: come on down, Mrs. A-Rod!).

But Debbie C. does figure to be a central figure in litigation between her hubby and clubhouse-worm-turned-defender-of-the-truth Brian McNamee, and she does have to share a life with a guy who ratted her out for HGH use (before the SI shoot) and allegedly gallivanted about the country's ballyards with a private army of trailer blondes.

I can't think of a scenario in which Debbie C. avoids frequent appearances in the sports section over the next year or two. She probably didn't sign up for this.

Fans of Philadelphia pro sports teams: Three of the four teams to which I have pledged my eternal fealty play in the same division as squads hailing from Philadelphia, so I have long wished ill on the Flyers, Sixers and especially the Eagles. But after the events of the past several seasons, it is time for the Big Fella/Gal upstairs to toss Philly fans a bone.

It has been too cruel: The Eagles' slo-mo offense at the end of Super Bowl XXXIX; the Sillies' whiteout at the hands of the Rockies last October; even a humiliation as petty as the Flyers losing on a goal by the immortal Maxime Talbot the other night. Eagles fans probably watched the Giants' run earlier this year and thought to themselves, "If seven or eight plays over the course of the season went a different way, that's us winning the Super Bowl right now, not them." They wouldn't have been too far off.

Some would argue that being a fan isn't a job. I'd counter by saying that Philly fans take their root-root-root-for-the-home-team responsibilities more seriously than they do their full-time gigs, not to mention their cholesterol and mental health. Go, Phillies, go.

Image consultant for Danica Patrick: I'd rather see the half-fetching Ms. Patrick in a skimpy 'kini than I would most of her IndyCar peers (except for that ADORABLE Vitor Meira fellow.) I just wonder why Danica's disciples seem so intent on marketing her as babe-first-jock-second, rather than as a professionally accomplished guy's gal who knows her way around a carburetor.

Actually, check that: I know exactly why they continue to pursue that strategy. They're hoping to cash in while Danica remains slightly cuter than the women behind the Fashion Bug counter, and I doubt Ms. Patrick is an unwilling participant in this glamification.

Dumb strategy. By shunting her vroom-vroom chops to the background, they have rendered her just another girl. Because we live in an awesome country with rockin' tunes and juicy cheeseburgers, there will always be cute gals lining up to pose in their skivvies. There won't, however, be too many Danica Patricks, a woman holding her own in a man's game. This sounds humorless, but she's doing herself and her legacy a disservice by tramping herself down. I would hate to be the image/PR/marketing/whatever person who figures this out a few years down the road.

General manager of the Baltimore Orioles: As witnessed by the heap of cash he has amassed as a trial attorney, Peter Angelos clearly has brains and drive to spare. Yet as the owner of the Orioles, he has proven to be the worst kind of meddling boss: the ignorant one unaware of his ignorance.

To be fair, if any of us owned a sports team, we would have a hard time following the advice that we dispense to owners: Hire competent folks and stay the hell out of the way. Me, I'd make lineup suggestions, take batting practice with the team, maybe even contractually mandate players to attend my birthday party.

Thing is, owners who do stuff like this -- or, as Angelos allegedly did, attempt to engineer a trade for Mel Rojas based on a recommendation from his rotisserrie-playin' son -- can't keep smart people in their employ. As a result, the Orioles GM gig has become the modern-day equivalent of the Yankees manager job in the 1970s.

With Andy MacPhail now seemingly in charge and starting a full-throttle rebuilding effort, maybe Angelos has realized that intelligence in life doesn't necessarily include intelligence in baseball. You'll forgive Orioles fans if they wait a few years before declaring the organization healed.