In his decision, Arbitrator Richard R. Kasher found that Smith's firing violated the paper's CBA with the Philadelphia Lollipop Newspaper Guild, and ordered the Inquirer's parent company to make things right. This could potentially pave the way for Smith's return as a columnist, or (more likely) lead to some type of monetary award. And based on how much Smith was scheduled to earn, it could be a nice chunk o' change:

According to the Guild account, [Smith's] agreement called for Smith to write a minimum of 75 columns a year for an annual salary of $125,000. At the end of one year, in February of 2006, Smith would have the option of resigning, of extending the agreement, or of returning as a full-time columnist, at a salary of $190,000.

The Guild reported the contract said if he went back to full-time employment, his salary would increase to $205,000 in June 2006, and to $225,000 in June 2007. Smith ultimately chose to return to work at the paper full-time.

With newsroom layoffs taking place at the beginning of 2007, Editor William Marimow [Ed. note: Hey, that's David Simon's old boss!] balked at awarding a $20,000 raise.

While Stephen A. has since moved on to bigger and better things, this has to be a welcome result for him. Now he can focus his attention on that other gross injustice plaguing his career- his continued exclusion from the Deadspin Hall of Fame.

Firing of 'Inky' Sports Columnist Stephen Smith 'Unjust,' Arbitrator Rules [Editor & Publisher]

Bob Ryan posted this on April Fool's Day, but wasn't joking around. He finally addressed his facial issues.

I appeared on ESPN's "The Sports Reporters" on Sunday, March 8, as well as on "Around The Horn" on Monday, March 9, and in each case I looked like hell.

My face was red and cracked and,just plain yucky. I have been made aware that theories to account for this ranged from plastic surgery to an auto accident. Relax. It was nothing quite that drastic.

In the summer of 2007 I decided to have a dermatologist take a look at a couple of . . . let's call them "things" on my face and forehead. I mean, who wants skin cancer? The doctor was able to eliminate these particular "things" easily by zapping me with that freeze stuff, but she did say that, while those "things" were not cancerous, I was a candidate for skin cancer if I didn't remain careful.

She strongly recommended a procedure called "ALA," a laser deal. This is a preventive strike against skin cancer.

I had it, and you never knew it. The procedure took place on a Tuesday. It left my face red and sore and within a few days it began to peel. The peeling process was completed by Saturday night and I did a "Sports Reporters" five days after the procedure. No one said a word about my face.

On Tuesday, March 3, I had another one, a second preemptive strike. This time it also included spending five minutes in a thing called the "Blue Light," which was very unpleasant.

The doctor thought I might need a week to recover, but I figured, "Hey, it only took four days last time," and so I decided to keep my commitments to do "Sports Reporters" on Sunday and "Around The Horn" on Monday. As a bonus, I decided to keep a long-term commitment to moderate a panel at a Sports Symposium at MIT on Saturday.

Big mistake.

The doctor knew best. I should have listened to her. I wasn't much better by Saturday. The first person I ran into on my way into the building where the event was held was Mark Cuban. I'm surprised he didn't jump into a cab and head back to Dalllas on the spot.

So I did the panel and I did "Sports Reporters" and I did "Around The Horn," in part because I love doing the shows, in part to keep a commitment, and in part due to greed (got to be honest about that).

If I had to do it all over again, I never would have done those shows. It was unfair to the producers in question, as well as to the audience.

Now I must report to you that the procedure was a big success. My face is in better shape than it's been in years. And I would like to urge all you people out there who may have spent more time in the sun over the years than you realize to go get checked out. You, too, might benefit from an ALA. It's well worth a few days of moderate discomfort, during which, I can attest, you may look as if you've either had plastic surgery or been in an automobile accident.

But I promise you — it beats the alternative.

(Scott's Shots)

Hooray, Bob. Glad he's okay. Now, let's do Friday from behind.

Clint Dempsey couldn't understand what I was doing standing at the edge of the Fulham pitch, shivering like Jack Bauer after a bout of waterboarding in a Chinese prison, and, frankly neither could I.

"All the way from New York, huh?" said Dempsey as a doctor amputated my big toe that had long ago lost all circulation from the artic winds that whipped around Craven Cottage in the gathering dusk.

I had come to London Thursday to spend 48 hours getting my game face on—think Danny DeVito on The View—for Arsenal's epic collision with ManU when word burbled up from the sludge of my Guinness-soaked brain that the Deuce was back in town and ready to rock the Prem. Thanks to Deadspin's growing reputation as the Drinking Fan's Guide to British football, I was able to cadge a credential—if not a pint!—in Fulham's press room. There, I ran into Brian Glanville or "the Man from The Sunday Times" as the awed Fulham flack referred to him. I asked him why Fulham was so sweet on American players—McBride, Bocanegra, and now Dempsey.

"They're cheap, they're available and they speak the language," explained the eminence gris of British soccer writers. Here he paused a beat. "Unlike, say, Beckham." Oh the English are having a jolly olde time with Becks' decision to forsake the Premiership—he was reportedly wooed by Tottenham and Bolton—for the MLS. "He has given up grownup football for filthy American lucre," is how Glanville sees it.

Which makes Dempsey's four million dollar leap across the pond in the other direction all the more interesting. He is arriving in England at a time when mocking American soccer appears to be the country's SECOND favorite sport. "Obviously the level is higher and the speed of play is faster than in the MLS," Dempsey said after being blooded in the Premiership for the final 13 minutes of Fulham's 1-1 draw with Spurs. "It's more comparable to the World Cup."

Ah, the World Cup where Dempsey emerged from the wreckage as the one American player whose reputation was actually enhanced. His venomously struck goal against Ghana all but screamed "Hello, my name is Clint Dempsey and I am ready to leave MLS."

It took seven months of byzantine negotiations for MLS to part with their most valuable export but all that was forgotten when the public address announcer at Craven Cottage blared "Coming on for Moritz Volz, number 23 Clint Dempsey."

As Dempsey ran out onto the field, a chant went up in the north end of the stadium. :U-S-A, U-S-A" . Dempsey has heard the chant before, of course, but this was different. This wasn't Uncle Sam's Army serenading him but a bunch of hardbitten Englishmen who pride themselves on having invented the game and need to be convinced that Americans have any business playing it.

"That was cool," said Dempsey of the chanting. "It helped me get the jitters out." Dempsey knows how to play only one way—balls out—and within seconds of coming on, he was launching himself into tackles with his usual abandon. In the 83rd minute he won a 50-50 ball deep in the Fulham end by sliding into Spurs striker Robbie Keane. Both went down in a tangle of legs but Dempsey emerged with the ball and advanced upfield before executing a cheeky backheel to Michael Brown who thumped a pass into the box. The ball fell to McBride and his volley hit a Spurs defender in the hand. When Montella converted the penalty, Fulham led 1-0 and Dempsey had the satisfaction of knowing he had started the move resulting in the goal.

"It's nice that two Americans were involved in the goal," Dempsey said afterwards. "But I'm not looking at it that way. I just want to get fully fit and contribute. Considering that I haven't played since November, it felt good to get a runout."

So determined is Dempsey to get back into shape he ran windsprints for half an hour after the game. When he finally walked off the field, he looked like your typical English pro, his body covered with sweat, grime, and cleat marks.

Will he be composing a rap in honor of his Premiership debut?

"No," he smiled. "I'm retired from rapping. I just want to focus on soccer and chillin'."

The Deuce is loose in London. Respect.