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Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Across The Web: Ballplayers & Strip Clubs (FOXSports.com)

On the Mark: The strip club epidemic
Mark Kriegel (FOXSports.com)

First it was cocaine. Then it was steroids. Now it's clear that America's ballplayers have fallen victim to another insidious epidemic.
Contrary to the theory that athletes don't like playing on artificial surfaces, strippers have become the drug of choice for the sporting set.

Now, just months removed from his famous altercation at the venerable Minxx Gentlemen's Club in Las Vegas, Pacman Jones is wanted for questioning about a shooting near Atlanta's equally gentlemanly Club Blaze. There is, of course, no evidence that Pacman, who's been questioned by police a mere ten times in the past two years, has done anything untoward. Rather, this seems yet another example of the Titans cornerback's knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Apparently, he was there at Club Blaze, just him and his entourage minding their business and acting gentlemanly, when suddenly, at 4:15 a.m., there was a dispute over a dancer. Next thing you know, shots are fired a few blocks from the club. According to witness statements, Pacman's entourage fired at another crew, who felt obliged to return the favor.

These things happen, of course. Let's not get carried away. Pacman was not said to be at the scene of the shooting, nor is he a suspect. Better yet, unlike the Minxx shooting — which left a man paralyzed — no one was seriously hurt.

Still, some of you haters out there can't contain your incredulousness or your anger.

How stupid can this guy be, you ask?

But incredulousness and anger won't help the situation. A little compassion is in order. Pacman, currently serving a one-year suspension from the NFL, has a problem. Consider the Minxx shooting. According to police, the incident began when Jones started showering the strippers with $81,020 in cash.

Now you may wonder how a man physically gets that kind of money onstage. After all, how many bills will fit comfortably in the pockets of your cargo pants? But such a question neglects the fact that Pacman was beyond all reason. He had become silly with strippers. This is textbook addictive behavior.

And Pacman's not the only one. Alex Rodriguez leads a classic double-life, publicly extolling the virtues of therapy and marriage. But with every reason to know that the whole world is watching, he brings that busty blonde girl to the Brass Rail, a gentlemanly establishment in Toronto. Again, not the behavior of a rational man.

The stripper problem in sports has been building for years. To my knowledge, the only league that has taken action is the NHL, which admonished Mark Messier for bringing Lord Stanley's Cup to be fondled at Scores. But no one pays any attention to hockey, and so the problem continued to grow unchecked.

Nothing good happens in strip joints. Either the manager gives you up to the gossip columns, or you end up discharging your side arm in the Club Rio parking lot like Stephen Jackson. Or you wind up like Patrick Ewing, testifying in a federal racketeering trial that a Gambino-connected skell arranged for sexual favors on the arm, so to speak. (Just what you want from a game that's bet with a point spread). Then again, you could be Mo Vaughn, and roll your pickup on the way home from yet another evening at the ever-gentlemanly Foxy Lady. Or, like baseball's soon-to-be home run king, you find a girl in a strip joint and make her your wife. Everybody knows that turned out great for Barry Bonds.

But all's not lost. The time has come to talk about this problem that plagues so many. Not just ballplayers. Support groups would be a start. Just think how much Stephen and Barry and Mark and Patrick and Mo could have helped a poor soul like Pacman.

Truth is, a lot of guys can't handle this drug; they find freebasing less addictive. Being a star ballplayer doesn't protect you, either. No matter how much money you have, or how upscale and gentlemanly the establishment, eventually you reach a state of spiritual poverty.

Inevitably, you get to a place that feels like last call in Atlantic City. Suddenly, $81,020 worth of implants and banana lotion is not enough.