Observe:

Pick up a handful of Reilly's columns, and you'll soon be overwhelmed by the patois of the hygienist's office: cavities, fillings, molars, root canals, gingivitis. News database searches of the sportswriter's output for the Los Angeles Times, SI, the Times of London, and ESPN, as well as an examination of four of his books, reveal that Reilly has cracked a minimum of 116 dental jokes in his career: 95 in his newspaper and magazine writing and 21 in his books. My not-so-scientific tooth-joke-finding methodology: to Nexis and Google every chopper-related word I could think of. The final total would've been a lot higher if I hadn't restricted it to tooth references that were 100 percent superfluous—that is, jokes and turns of phrase that come out of nowhere in otherwise toothless stories. Any dental fragment that appeared for a defensible reason—Reilly sharing an anecdote about a basketball player's bloody tooth falling into his notebook, or explaining what it's like to be a Chicago dentist who shares a name with Michael Jordan—didn't make my count. (I was a little less forgiving when it came to Reilly's fiction, considering that he manufactured all of the tooth-baring scenarios.)

Oh and there are tag clouds, graphs, and even a handy sidebar that lists all of the tooth references by column date. It's almost like a piece of performance art. And for extra-extra credit, Levin even contacts Reilly about his tooth problem to get his explanation:

"I know gingivitis is funny," he writes, adding that "root canals are generally a strong image." He then offers a psychoanalytic explanation: "I was a terrible Sugar Babies addict, so I had more cavities than the surface of the moon. Really, I'd have three and four every time. So maybe I'm taking it out on dentists."

The question is — will these tooth jokes continue now that his abuse of dental humor has been exposed?

Rick Reilly's Complete Dental Records [Slate]

Mr. Simmons isn't able to comment about this latest Obama column for multiple reasons (he'd "love to", however) but it's safe to say he's simmering a bit from this latest perceived slight. It's a little more complicated than that, though.

What we do know is that Barack's campaign team approached ESPN very early on. The reason for Simmons wasn't allowed to have Barack on his show was due to ESPN's insistence that they do not participate in candidate interviews until the primaries end. It was a decision that seemed somewhat lunk-headed at the time, as noted in the original NY Daily News story from an ESPN source, "They landed the hottest politician in 50 years, and they couldn't even see the interview through? This is insanity." Simmons never got the interview, even though seemingly every one else in the ESPN family has had some opportunity to interview Obama. According to one ESPN insider, Barack was even scheduled to appear on one of those ESPN fishing shows at some point. But there are still no plans for Simmons to interview Barack — for the mag, for his Sports Guy column, or for his podcast. They're not even going to let him play Madden with him on E:60. ESPN claims it's not purposely overstepping Simmons in this instance and that the Reilly piece was one that had been in the hopper for a while and there was no "rank pulling" in Reilly getting that story over Simmmons.

This is where it gets tricky because now, it appears as though Simmons does have an opportunity to interview Obama — just like everyone else, even the Big Game anglers — but most likely does not want to this late in the game. Think about it — if you scored the Barack interview early, were passed over, then had to essentially wait in line, would you still want it? Maybe, for the fact that, hey, if you get a chance to interview a potential Presidential nominee, regardless of how many others have done so before you, you do it. So it looks like this is more Simmons not wanting anyone's sloppy seconds at this point than ESPN shafting him outright.

Why Does Rick Reilly Get Barack Obama While Bill Simmons Gets Matthew Berry? [The Arena]

Thanks to Deadspin's new "open" relationship with some of ESPN's higher-ups, we are able to get answers to these pressing questions. ESPN's official response via email was as follows:

" It was removed but not for reasons you outlined ....was done because Queen Mother has been dead for years so reference doesn't make sense."

Great. And just to make sure I wasn't missing anything, I did a quick Google-search for "tongue bathe" to see what popped up. It's amazing what adding an "e" to the end of that phrase does, for when you Google "tongue bathe" , the definition for "tongue bath" shows up which is...this:

1. Licking the anus and genitals (with an abundance of saliva).

So, to sum up: Rick Reilly would give the Queen Mother a rim-job. Oh, and Windsor Castle too.

Life Of Reilly [ESPN]

The portions Sleeper ganked from Reilly were (I think) from this 2002 column, "Out OfTouch With My Feminine Side, " which seems to have some telltale passages that would've fit nicely into Sleeper's column based on his title alone.

But, as Regret The Error points out, this is not an isolated incident of Reilly-lifting from a sports columnist — even this year.

This is the second time in less than two months that a sports journalist has been busted for plagiarizing from an old Rick Reilly column. In early June, Dave Pratt, a Vancouver radio personality, lost his column in the Vancouver Province after he stole from a 2000 Reilly column in Sports Illustrated. When contacted for comment, he told the CBC, “It was a Saturday and I wanted to get out of [the office] before noon.”

At least Pratt was honest then. But this is an interesting phenomenon. One more and we might have ourselves a trend. Let's analogize: Small market sports columnists lifting material from Rick Reilly are like the equivalent of a struggling stand-up comedian using jokes from "Everybody Loves Raymond" in their act.

Plagiarism at the Daily Herald; Rick Reilly Robbed Again [Regret The Error]

That's why this week's column is so astounding. For those of you who have not read it, it's an attempt at self-deprecation which somehow still manages to be perversely vain:

In one stretch this month, Alex Rodriguez's name was on the front page of the New York Post eight days out of twelve. Paparazzi even followed him to Pittsburgh. Who knew life could suck at $27 million a year?

Madonna once said, "I won't be happy until I am more famous than God," but right now A-Rod is probably wishing she wasn't—and that he'd gone into dentistry. None of this is new. When John Elway was at the height of his powers, he told me, "I'd give $100,000 just to have one day where I could go to the mall and not be noticed. Just be somebody else."

I knew exactly how he felt. People constantly think I'm somebody else.

He goes on to list all of his recent run-ins with people who've confused him for someone else. The whole column stinks of shameless embellishments for the sake of the narrative (800 words and out, baby) but it is also an exercise in sublimation. Are we honestly to believe that Rick Reilly — multi-millionaire sports media personality, jock-holding extraordinaire — actually feels like an unimportant nobody? Let's translate.

What Reilly said: At this year's U.S. Open in San Diego, for instance, I was minding my own business, walking and eating a ham sandwich, when a thirtysomething man with caterpillar eyebrows suddenly stepped in front of me, clomped two meaty hands on my shoulders and yelped, "Oh … my … God!"

"I can't believe it's you!" he gushed.
"Well," I said, "I'm not really all that…"
"Your book changed my life!" he roared.
"Really? Because I don't really write the kind…"
"Tuesdays with Morrie! Greatest book ever written!"

My face must've fallen like a drum-factory soufflé.

"Didn't write it pal," I snipped. "Wish I had." (I meant it. It sold more than 12 million copies.)

What Reilly meant: " I could've written Tuesdays With Morrie. Could've typed that sanctimonious drivel with my feet. If Mitch Albom were here right now, I'd stuff that Star Trek-looking little freak up this clown's ass. "

What Reilly Said:

At the recent Lake Tahoe golf tournament, I was walking through a gauntlet of autograph seekers—unbothered and unmolested—when a tall, saucer-eared man in his fifties thrust a blue Sharpie and a program in front of me.

"You signing today, Rick?"
"I'm signing everyday, pal," I said. "Nobody ever asks."
"Hah!" he chortled. "Surrrrre. You won this thing six times, right? Or is it seven?"
"Uh, no," I said. "You're thinking of Rick Rhoden. The ex-pitcher. Different guy."
"Yeah, Rick Reilly, the pitcher! You're the best! I have your rookie card!"

Sigh. I signed my name over Rhoden's face and left it at that.

What Reilly Meant: "I hope Rhodey appreciates the fact that I do this stuff for him. I'm making that guy famous. I should invite him to play with me at TPC Sawgrass. He'll love it. It'll give him some good ink. "

What Reilly Said:

The other day a blogger wrote the most amazing email to me regarding the column I wrote about the recent passing of my father, Jack Reilly. The piece included a picture of the two of us at my wedding in 1983.

"I have good reason to believe," this guy wrote, "that the man in the picture is, in fact, golf commentator Bob Rosburg. What I'm trying to figure out is why you would do this."

What I was trying to figure out is how I could find this hairball and pull his spleen out with corn tongs. First of all, why would Rosburg, ABC's long-time on-course shot reporter, be at my wedding? Had Jack Nicklaus' Titleist rolled under the shrimp table? Secondly, wouldn't I be able to recognize my own father in a picture? And thirdly, what possible benefit would I get from pulling this ruse over on the reading public? Had the man somehow uncovered that I was the illegitimate love child of Bob Rosburg? I wrote him and suggested that he borrow, steal or purchase a life.

What Reilly Meant: "I really fucking hate Bill Simmons."

What Reilly Said: The capper, though, was Katie Couric, late of the Today show. I was in the green room, waiting to go on and plug a book, when she came running up to me like a long-lost sister, 1,000-watt smile and open arms.

"I am SO happy to meet you!" she cooed, giving me a big hug.
"Oh, well, me, too!" I said, flummoxed.
"I'm really looking forward to our segment!" she said. "I loved it as a kid! Do you have the recipe?"
"Yes! No. What?"
"The recipe! Which recipe will we be making?"
"Uh, no. I'm a sportswriter. I really don't do, uh, recipes."
"You're not the Easy-Bake oven guy?"
"No, sorry."

And with that, she spun on her five-inch heels and left me behind like a roadside San-o-let.

What Reilly meant: "I don't care who she thinks I am. Katie Couric has calves I could gnaw on for days."

"Bangers, pasties, and good stout beer / roughs so high you could lose Mike Weir" made me giggle because the thought of a Canadian being devoured by a sentient patch of grass just struck me the right way. "Rain and cold and gusts that stagger / bunkers with lips as big as Mick Jagger's" is also quite crafty, although I'm not sure if it's a $2 million/year joke. The worst part was seeing his grin at the beginning and end of the segment, because he knows this is so clever.

But in all, it wasn't horrible.

If ESPN can just keep this guy to do spots like this, and show his smiling face as little as possible, they might have a winning formula. If they want to use his writing ability for live events, then shoot, make him a live blogger.

British Open Poem [ESPN]

Rick Reilly uses the celebrity washroom.

It's conveniently located down a short flight of stairs just off of the main dining room at Edgewood Tahoe, which was the host course of last weekend's American Century Championship celebrity golf tournament. If a spectator or a lowly journalist attempts to use the washroom, he is shooed away by two muscular security guards. Only the likes of Tony Romo, Ray Romano and, yes, Rick Reilly, are allowed to use it.

Rick Reilly is a big deal now; a giant among Lilliputians, having recently signed a contract for $10 million over five years at ESPN. That's more than Homer, Twain, Steinbeck and Shakespeare ever made in a year combined. It was Twain who once famously said of golf that it was "a good walk spoiled," but Reilly has no such qualms; he's fashioned a career around it. This was his first trip here, where he rubbed elbows with fellow competitors such as Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretzky and Dan Quayle. Perhaps he even ran into Quayle in the exclusive restroom, remarking to the former Vice President on how soft the towels were (I know because I had sneaked in there during Thursday's practice round, before it was being guarded).

On Friday, mine and Reilly's assignments were basically the same. I was live-blogging Charles Barkley's round for NBCSports.com, and Reilly was in the actual threesome (David Wells was the other). I stood on the periphery, trailing the group behind the ropes, while Reilly hobnobbed with Sir Charles up close. Occasionally Rick would produce a notepad from his back pocket and jot down notes, usually as he walked the fairway. It was clear that he was working on a column about Barkley.

This is the new journalism: Celebrities writing about celebrities. Reilly occasionally had to put away his notebook to sign autographs; something with which I imagine Grantland Rice or Red Smith never had to contend. Today, Chris Berman and Harold Reynolds are the story. Dan Patrick's job search is bigger news than Richie Sexon's. And journalists — writers — command multi-million dollar salaries. What would J. Jonah Jameson say to that?

And here's what ESPN is getting for their $2 million per. In his column on Barkley, Reilly described Sir Charles' golf swing thusly:

Technically, it's not even a swing. It's a lunge. Scientists study it. He gets to the top, starts down and then—two feet from impact—just stops! Totally freezes! He looks like a man waiting for a rattlesnake to pop up so he can kill it.

A day earlier on my NBC blog, I had written:

I suppose I should talk a little about Barkley's swing. It's segmented, of course — three different swings, really. There are two hitches, and then a final approach that may or may not actually strike the ball. A friend of mine describes it like this: "It looks like Barkley is in the middle of his swing, and suddenly sees a snake."

It was Tim Parsons of the Tahoe Daily Tribune who used the snake line, so technically Reilly is aping him, not me.

Anyway, I missed Rick at the tournament (washroom attendants can be forceful), and tried to call him at Harrah's, where all the "celebritries" were sequestered. No luck. I got hold of his personal email, and tried that. As of this writing — a week later — he hasn't responded. Hey, big stars are busy people.

I wanted to get Reilly's take on all of this journalist-as-celebrity business, with one main question burning a hole in my notepad. Dick Anderson, the former Miami Dolphins great and member of the 1972 unbeaten team, was not invited to the tournament this year; this despite having played in all 18 previous American Centuries, even winning the event in 1994. From what I heard, he wasn't asked back because he "wasn't famous enough." So Rick; how do you feel about the fact that you, a journalist, had taken his spot? When did the lines between athletes and the people who cover them become so blurred? And what entree did they serve in the players' dining room, where the rest of us lowly reporters were not allowed to go?

Anyway, that's what I would have asked him, had he returned my email. Maybe I should have enlisted Quayle to intervene in my behalf.

Life Of Reilly: A Day On The Links With The Round Mound Whose Swing Will Astound [ESPN]

Simmons took his little jabs on his podcast at Reilly, but Reilly displays his displeasure more tacitly, and always seems bemused and utterly dumbfounded as to why every single interviewer seems to want to ask him about Bill Simmons.

In Jon Friedman's "On Media"column about Reilly's jump to ESPN, the middle-aged sap-master lobbed another little poo grenade while explaining the differences between he and Simmons.

Old school-new school. I'm not doing more than 800 words, I'm not from Boston, I don't write a lot about the NBA. I'm more likely to tell a story that has a beginning, a middle and an end. He's a blogger. I still love reading him."

Nice save at the end there, Rickster. But that condescension just seems downright palpable, considering how you feel about "bloggers", and all.

This might actually have to be settled outside at the bike rack.

Rick Reilly is ESPN 's new 'Sports Guy' [Marketwatch]

Anyway, now that Rick Reilly has knocked out an excellent column in his ESPN debut, everything's cool with him and potential adversary Bill Simmons, right? Well, not according to an interview Simmons did with WEEI yesterday morning. Simmons did a little chest-puffing about Reilly's output.

“I don’t even care about the money (he’s making). I care about the fact he only has to write 800 words all week. What does he do all week? I’m just getting warmed up at 800 words.”

Simmons wasn't done, adding, with obvious sarcasm:

“I don’t think (his hiring) has really changed my life in any way other than he touches my soul with his writing. That’s really it. He’s raising the bar morally, financially. . . he’s raising it all over the place. I’m just happy to be along for the ride.”

Yipes. Amusingly, Scott's Shots dutifully details ESPN's official response: “We are very happy to have many creative people at ESPN, including Bill and Rick, whose contributions are evident in many different ways." At this point, they're just cutting and pasting those Simmons reacts. And the countdown continues.

ESPN Cat Fight!: Simmons Bashes Reilly [Boston Sports Media]

Reilly also chatted with the Leader readers, which we presume a typist handled.

Whether or not you think there's room for both Reilly and Simmons, the man is off to a great start. Of course, he's had five months to write the darned thing.

The Life Of Reilly [ESPN]

Reilly is reported to be making $3.4 million a year over the next five years, so rest assured, ESPN's gonna make sure he earns every penny of that contract. That is to say: He's about to be everywhere. The guess here is that he does a lot of Preakness Belmont stuff to start off, so expect lots of obvious puns about cracked hooves.

A logical question: What does this mean for Bill Simmons? It would seem difficult for the ESPN.com world to have enough space for the both of them. Of course, Simmons is making it easier on ESPN by not writing so much of late, in the midst of his operation shutdown. We understand Simmons' frustrations but think it might be counterproductive. We remember during the Red Sox 2004 postseason run, his columns were essential the next morning. We could be having the same experience now with his Celtics, and Simmons could be proving just how indispensable he is to ESPN.com right as Reilly comes in. But it would seem like Reilly's got a straight shot now.

Anyway: Rick Reilly is coming. Very soon. You've all been warned.

By now, you've noticed the motto of this fair website is "Sports news without access, favor, or discretion." And, if you've read Leitch's book (31 used and new from just $14!), you know why he chose that exact phrasing. The inherent catch-22 of a sportswriter's job lies in access. You can't brutally criticize athletes and expect them to give you any access. But, if you go the other way and soften your treatment of athletes in order to maintain access, then you end up looking like a jocksniffer (Hi, Stephen A.!).

Most sportswriters get around this by mixing and matching. They're effusive in their praise for the handful of guys that give them decent quotes. They save their most gleeful invective for the handful that don't. The site motto acts as a formula. If a reporter has access, he's likely to fall into favor with an athlete, and in turn exercise discretion. If you take access out of the equation, then favor and discretion never have to come into play. No favoritism. No grudges. That's how this site operates, and it's how you end up seeing pictures of Matty Leinart rocking the puffy vest as the legendary "fifth member" of 98 Degrees. What a cockpumper.

But there's another reason access is frowned upon round these parts, and it lies in Rick "Mr. Punderful" Reilly's criticism of the blogfolk from last week. Let's revisit the money quote:

There's some good journalism, and some really horrible crap on there from guys holding down the couch springs in their mother's basement that have never been in a lockerroom but are pining on this and that.

Reilly assumes that, if you haven't been in a locker room, if you've never had access, then you can't possibly have any sort of valuable insight to offer on sports. This is wrong, of course. I'm pretty sure Bill James didn't set foot into a locker room before changing the fundamental nature of baseball scouting forever. He didn't need to see Rich Garces' tits in order to glean insight as to how he pitches (though I've heard Rich Garces' tits are AMAZING). Shit, he didn't even need to see him play on TV.

But Reilly inadvertently also touches on something else here. He's drawing a distinct difference between a fan writing from home and a "classically trained" journalist, as he says, writing with access to the event, athletes, etc.

And there is a difference. But it's not the one he's thinking of. Reilly is what I like to call a privileged sportswriter. I'm not saying he's rich, or snooty, or anything like that. (Full disclosure: I went to prep school and own a handful of Brooks Brothers shirts. Because I'm gay, you see.) What I mean is that, in his position, Reilly has access to privileges that you or I, as normal sports fans, don't have. He gets to go to the Masters, VIP-style:

I was covering the Masters recently, was in the press room, in the clubhouse, on the course...

He gets to go golfing with Bill Clinton. He gets to ride in an Indy 500 race car. He gets to walk up to Sammy Sosa's locker and dare him to pee in a cup for him. He gets to do all that.

And that's why he sucks.

If you're a privileged sportswriter, you're experiencing sports in a completely different way from normal, everyday fans. They don't get to do any of that shit. If they want to go to the Masters, they have to pay thousands for tickets off eBay, then stay in some Days Inn 45 miles away from the course. If they want to ride in an Indy 500 car, they have to go to Dave & Buster's and dump $3 into the bastardized version. If they want to go golfing with Bill Clinton, they have to find a big-titted blonde hooker willing to blow him at the turn. If they want Sammy Sosa's urine, they have to purchase it at his memorabilia show. They watch sports at home, or in bars, or at house parties.

The difference between how Rick Reilly watches sports and how you watch them is wider than Tony Parker's vagina, and the fact that he fails to appreciate that difference makes him weak. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad there are reporters out there who have access. You need only read Tom Callahan's book about Johnny Unitas to appreciate that. Or read Reilly's own account of the death of referee Kenny Wilcoxen. Both are brilliant pieces. Neither could have been written by us basement-dwelling mongoloids.

But there's a kind of sportswriting out in Blogfrica now that also has value to me, as a fan, specifically because the people writing are non-credentialed jackasses, just as I am. They experience sports the same way I do, so I'm more apt to connect with what THEY'RE saying than with the dude who gets to hang out with Phil Mickelson at the pitch and putt.

They're talking about sports WITH me, rather than trying to lecture me about whatever unique, enlightened perspective they discovered watching from their privileged viewing platform. Sometimes I need the latter. Other times, I don't. The whole reason people like sports blogs is because it's regular fans shooting the breeze with other regular fans. It's a viewpoint some columnist with unlimited clubhouse access can't share, and often looks down upon, as Reilly does, because it's "uninformed."

But that lack of access can prove valuable to a reader as well. Take, for example, MJD's smorgasbord. He goes to watch the games at a bar. He encounters bartenders that fuck up toggling between games. He sees waitresses he'd like to bang. He runs into incredibly annoying Steeler fans (They're everywhere!).

I relate to that guy. He and I could, like, hang out and shit. I like reading it. I don't always want to hear from an expert. Sometimes, I want to just hear from a guy who thinks Joey Porter is a total fuck.

If MJD started taking private jets, Lupica-style, to sit in the front row of any major sporting event he wanted (and my sources at Yahoo tell me he'll begin doing this starting June 1), I'd lose that shared experience that made me connect with him as a reader. Something would be fundamentally altered in our gay little imaginary relationship. He wouldn't be a peer anymore. He'd be, like, a journalist or something. Above me. His experiences would be isolated from mine.

And while that undoubtedly has its own value, we fans sometimes need to hear from other fans. It's why blogs and self-publishing are important. Because, as illegitimate entities, bloggers often see sports the same way we do: at home, drunk, and masturbating to this surprisingly decent Mena Suvari ass shot during the half.

Bill Simmons used to be a non-privileged sportswriter. The guy didn't become the most prominent sportswriter in America because he had Peter King's contact list. He became popular because he was a fan first and foremost. The fact that what he did was revolutionary at all tells you everything you need to know about the lofty perch from which most sportswriters observe both their subject matter and their plebian readership. But then Simmons moved to LA, gained unlimited access to any event he pleased, and became a sort of all-powerful superfan, writing things like:

I watched the festivities over at my new boss Jimmy Kimmel's house, in a living room featuring a 100-foot big screen with accompanying 42-inch, widescreen plasma screens on either side (all that's missing are cocktail waitresses, hopefully coming next year). Thanks to split-screen on the widescreens, Jimmy can show as many as five games at once, with people coming and going all day, with enough food and drink to handle the entire neighborhood. The lesson, as always: It's good to be the king.

Good for you, asshole. Glad you could watch the games from the command bridge of the Starship Kimmelprise. But what the fuck do I care? How the fuck am I supposed to relate to that shit? I got one TV, and half the time I have to switch it to fucking Noggin to accommodate the drunken midget living with me. Fuck your kingdom.

This isn't about selling out. This is about people in the mainstream media failing to recognize the fundamental difference between privileged sportswriting and the kind of shit you find here on Deadspin, and why the latter is important. And the fact that people like Reilly continually try and disparage it (and can't even think of a new metaphor to do so) serves only to put them at an even greater distance from the general sporting public. It doesn't have to be that way, and that's what makes it all the more annoying.

Then again, maybe it can't be avoided. Maybe the people covering sports now are just as distant from the fans as the athletes they cover. It's no coincidence the bulk of ESPN's programming now involves sportswriters talking to one another. They're the only people they can identify with. You certainly aren't part of the conversation. In the introduction to "Johnny U," Tom Callahan wrote, "That's the thing sports will never get back. Once, the players were one of us. They lived right next door. They don't anymore."

And neither does Rick Reilly.

I swear, it was really good. As long as you're believing me, I could go as far to say it was the most remarkable piece of writing in the history of the printing press. But essentially the moral of the story was to say that we should all relax about what Reilly and others say, because sportswriters aren't generally out to please the sports bloggers, and the reverse is also true, yet we have this symbiotic relationship that makes it work. It would have cured cancer (or at least lymphoma), brought happiness to the depressed, laughter to the sullen, and coconuts to Alaska.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to disown my current web browser and switch to Safari or Camino.

Rick Reilly's Borscht Belt Hilarity Now Targeting Bloggers [Deadspin]
Leatherheads [Rotten Tomatoes]
Sorry, Rick Reilly: The Weakness of 'Leatherheads' Is the Script [FanHouse]

"There's some good journalism, and some really horrible crap on [the Web] from guys holding down the couch springs in their mother's basement that have never been in a lockerroom but are pining on this and that. And this gives them cache, and then they're being quoted? What? This guy is in his underwear. They could us a Greyhound bus full of editors and it still wouldn't help them. So this is the 'new style of journalism' we gotta learn?

Seriously: We don't even have the energy to summon much outrage here. But if you were wondering the quality of comedy and original insight you'll be getting from Reilly when he joins ESPN in June, this should give you a rather solid clue.

More On Reilly ... Oh, Really? Yes, Reilly [Farther Off The Wall]

We kind of feel like we should do two separate Rick Reilly rankings. One for now, when we are remembering the SI Reilly, and one after he officially starts on ESPN, when he is filling our screens every minute of every day. We suspect the ESPN Reilly might be a different beast.

Alas: One man, one vote.

So, do you like the Rick Reilly? Do you not like the Rick Reilly?

Gawker Media polls require Javascript; if you're viewing this in an RSS reader, click through to view in your Javascript-enabled web browser.

According to Silicon Alley Insider, Reilly's getting, as Bill Conlin might call it, "ballplayer money."

Most reports have Rick pulling down a staggering $2 million or so for his 5-year contract at his new employer. But we hear those estimates are low. Rick, we're told, is actually going to pull down $17 million over the next five years at ESPN, or $3.4 million a year.

$3.4 million a year? Heavens. Hey, Simmons: Call your agent, now.

How To Make Money In Old Media: Stay In Old Media [Portfolio]

The Sports Illustrated staff was recently informed that Reilly would be leaving SI at the end of his contract in November (and you thought it was aggravating to be CC'ed on e-mails that didn't involve you) and start working for ESPN. Because of his non-compete clause, Reilly will have to wait until June to start in Bristol. From what these cats are saying, he won't just be a magazine columnist (although how fitting would it be if he took ESPN The Magazine's back page?) but rather appear on the television and say things.

Growing up I read Reilly's SI column almost religiously, but that was before the Internet had videos of monkeys playing drums, and I don't think I've read a Reilly-penned article in over four years. As for his TV schtick, he just doesn't have that same gravitas on the moving picture, and it was for that reason that I always felt he and Dave Barry should stick to the written word.

But if Reilly does have this insatiable desire to be on TV, here's my idea for the show: write a weekly column, and have ESPN film it nonstop for 60 minutes. Name of show: "The Rick Reilly Microfiche Hour." Make it happen, Norb.

Rick Reilly Leaving Sports Illustrated At End Of November [SPORTSbyBROOKS]
That Was Fast: Rick Reilly Goes to ESPN, Starts in June 2008* [The Big Lead]
Rick Reilly to Leave Sports Illustrated for ESPN [New York Times]

The rules were simple: Stay in a sauna as long as you can. It must have been pretty hot in there, because the winner stayed in for ... 12 minutes.

Reilly was not the winner of the event, but you'll surely be reading about it in SI's pages sometime in the next month. (On second thought, you probably won't, unless you're desperate to hear that Robert Fick's summer reading is Playboy magazine and that he's "dying" to hang out with Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton.)

In any case, expect many riffs!

Competitors Flock To Finland To See How Long They Can Stand Being In A Sauna With Rick Reilly [FanIQ]

I feel like I've flat-out handed them five or six Emmys. They take columns I've discovered and written—about people nobody's heard of—and do them as though they found the guy, and then they win Emmys for them. The Jake Porter column. The "picking up Butch" column. The Katrina-survivor basketball column. It's endless. And what bothers me, I guess, is that they give no credit, such as, "as first reported in Sports Illustrated." Or at least do one of their treacly, misty shots of the column. But what can you do? Sue?

Whether or not you like Reilly, it's worth stopping by. Heck, we're gonna be there, and by that point, we won't have slept in about, oh, 36 hours.

Bane Of Cheerleaders, Champion Of The Little Guys [Gelf Magazine]
Rick Reilly And His Rimshot [Deadspin]

Well, this week, Sports Illustrated's Rick Reilly, who never met a wacky conceit he couldn't accompany with googly-eyed photos, heading to a Dodgers game wearing the device. That's amusing enough, of course — his column has a few chuckles — but what's priceless are the absolute ridiculous photo gallery shots that accompany the story. We certainly hope these are all staged shots, because if they're not, the notion having a conversation with Reilly would be too scary to undertake.

Neverminding the fact that the gallery has several closeup shots of Reilly's crotch. Oh well: At least he's not wearing a dress.

Beer Belly Photo Gallery [SI.com]
If You're Willing To To Go This Far [Deadspin]

Anyway, apparently Reilly has made the next logical step in his career path: Stand up comedy. Via True Hoop, we discovered a review of Reilly's first standup performance at a club in Denver. Don't worry: He's not making it into a new career or anything. He just did it as practice for being the opening act for Sinbad. We're not kidding, by the way; Rick Reilly is working at a charity event as an opening act for Sinbad. And they said print was dead.

Reilly Stands Up To The Pressure [Rocky Mountain News]
Rick Reilly Is Big; It's The Screens That Got Small [Deadspin]

Anyway, our issue just arrived, and we have the same question we have ever year: Whose job is it to strategically sprinkle the sand? We really, really hope it's Dr. Z's. We also enjoy the yearly tradition of assigning a middle aged SI writer hanging out at the photo shoot and desperately trying to write a 4,000-word piece about it without sounding like an asshole. (This time, they get around by having Rick Reilly write about that supermodel who lost her boyfriend in the tsunami disaster.)

But yeah: The SI swimsuit issue always strikes us the same way as those old debates about Barbara Eden's navel on "I Dream Of Jeanie." Wait ... this is what is so "controversial?" You're so risque, SI! What ever are we gonna do with you?

2006 Swimsuit Edition [SI.com]
The Breakthrough [The Black Table]

Whatever your thoughts on Reilly — about once a month we think he's brilliant, and the rest of the time we wonder how he was able to type that many words in half an hour — the video is, well, pretty brutal. Reilly seems visibly uncomfortable with the concept, and his regular-guy schtick works much better in print than in dopey, "George Michael Sports Machine"-'70s-style cutting techniques. Imagine Bill Simmons' cartoon, except with less work put into it. It seems beneath Reilly somehow, like someone whispered, "Hey, another check in the mail this month, just sit still for three minutes" and he said, "OK, it's the Web, I don't understand it anyway!" And we end up with this.

Of course, we're seeing it outside that 24-hour VCAST exclusive window. Maybe it was really edgy and current when it first ran.

Riffs Of Reilly [SI.com]

(And no, we have no idea why Reilly is wearing that. We just found the picture.)

We don't have much more to say about Romo, except:

1. Anybody else remember the Rick Reilly column in Sports Illustrated — titled "Health Nut" — about how impressive Romo's workout routine is? About how he works harder than any other athlete, and how that's the secret of his longevity? Yeah. That column was written in September 2003; not very long ago. Whoops.
2. We could look at that painting there all day. It's from something called T's Original Art and is definitely the best painting of a linebacker fighting a demon horse from hell to save the castle that we've ever seen.

Health Nut [SI.com]
This Just In: Mexicans In Mexico [The Lumberyard]
T's Original Art [Official Site]

(UPDATE: A reader reminds us that Reilly had no problem with requesting Sammy Sosa pee in a cup, but gave Romo a pass because they're old pals from back in Denver. We had forgotten about that. Wonder if he asked Rebecca Romijn to pee in a cup, while we're thinking about it.)

The New York Times [Official Site]

Dayton's Bobby Martin [SI.com]
Football Player With No Legs Returns To Field [NBC4]

You can do a lot with $25,000. You can provide food for starving Africans before Sally Struthers eats them first. You can buy 1,518 copies of Bill Simmons new book (not counting shipping, which is probably a bitch). You can even join 2,500,000 of those record clubs where you get 11 CDs for a penny.

You can also hire ESPN anchor Stuart Scott to come speak at your corporate function. The site HireSportsSpeakers.com allows you to bring your favorite ESPN personalities to come talk to you and your fellow corporate drones about leadership, teamwork or, you know, just how to read off a Teleprompter. The site serves as a broker between corporations and sports personalities, negotiating their fees and putting together their schedules.

One would think that paying Stuart Scott $25,000 plus "travel is almost always on top of the fees, usually something like first class for two, ground transportation and hotel" to do anything other than promise never to use the terms "pillow," "cool," "boo" or "yah" again would be somewhat excessive. But Scott isn t even the most expensive anchor on his own network. In fact, he s not even close.

Full list of top ESPN anchors/sports personalities and their speakers fees after the jump. Start saving those pennies for Tom Tolbert now!

The appearance fees for major "sports personalities."

$15,000 and below
Mitch Gaylord - $10,000
Greg Gumbel - $15,000
Ron Jaworski - $10,000
Tony Kornheiser - $15,000
Tom Tolbert - $15,000

For a guy who has a sitcom based on his life — albeit a pretty unwatchable one — we think that's a pretty good price. Well, relatively speaking. By the way ... Mitch Gaylord! Still alive, we guess. Good for him.

$20,000-$30,000
James Brown - $30,000
Rich Eisen - $25,000
Roy Firestone - $22,000
Marion Jones - $20,000
Jim Nantz - $25,000
Dan Patrick - $30,000
Rick Reilly - $25,000
Stuart Scott — $25,000

We don't know how much Dan Patrick made for his Hair Care For Men ads, or, for that matter, how much Rick Reilly got for encouraging his readers to become drunken idiots, but it couldn't have been too far from this amount. By the way, Reilly's amount is probably around the starting salary for entry-level print journalists in this country, if you were wondering what that collective "pounding-head-against-desk" sound was.

$40,000-$50,000
Mitch Albom - $40,000
Chris Berman - $50,000
Jim Rome - $40,000

You know, we wonder if Mitch Albom actually has to be there giving the speech to collect his cash, or if he can just say he was there.

$50,000 and above
Bob Costas - $60,500
Al Michaels - $75,000

For an extra 10 grand, Bob Costas will promise not to lecture you about your lack of class and decorum. Don't worry, though; he brings his own stepstool for the podium.

Just For Fun
Leslie Nielsen - $70,000

Enrico! Pallazzo! Enrico! Pallazzo!

HireSportsSpeakers.com [Official Site]

Some people wouldn't believe a baseball player if he said Niagara Falls was wet.

Bottom line: They cheated. Which means their numbers are dirtier than Boobs.com.

Oh, and there's an Ann Coulter line. Though, to be fair, Boobs.com is actually dirtier than we thought it would be.

Rick Reilly [SI.com]
Boobs.com [Official Site]