Thought process at work

Emptying out the desk drawer of the sports mind . . .

Seriously, now. What is the holdup on retiring Johnny Pesky's No. 6?

For those of you scoring at home, Boston College's opening-game football foe, Brigham Young, has won its last three home openers -- over Syracuse, Georgia Tech, and Notre Dame.

Does anyone remotely doubt that Doug Flutie will be needed to win at least one game for the World Champeens this year?

Put me down as saying ousted Atlanta Hawks investor (and local guy) Steve Belkin will be vindicated in his belief that the Hawks gave away the store to get Joe Johnson, who can play the Best Friend, but not the Leading Man.

Something tells me that the Great Gretzky will be a very good coach, in the common-sense mold of Larry Bird.

Spare me any tears for the Philadelphia Eagles in L'Affaire T.O. Mr. Owens has not changed so much as one line of dialogue from the act that wore so thin in San Francisco. Did the Iggles somehow think that by moving East he was going to morph into Troy Brown?

The sexagenarians playing at Fenway tonight and Tuesday had better include ''It's All Over Now" on the playlist, since to these ears it's by far the best thing they've ever done.

There won't be a stranger, more inexplicable story in sports this year than Tiger going home last Sunday night as the proverbial leader in the clubhouse. Geez, Tiger, I know Elin is beautiful, but . . .

What a shock. Barry Bonds just can't quite rehab that knee the very year additional steroid scrutiny engulfs baseball. Amazing coincidence.

And call me crazy, but I'd still take the bat, glove, and legs of prime-of-life Junior over the bat, glove, and legs of prime-of-life Barry.

I start to smile every time I think of the 12-year-old Gary Sheffield glowering at the rest of the kids in the 1980 Little League World Series. I'll bet he had more than a few foes crying for momma.

Another thing about the late Gene Mauch you didn't know: He had the most graceful, flowing, well, just plain beautiful handwriting imaginable. I wish I'd commandeered one of those Mauch lineup cards. They were artistic treasures.

If ever a hockey incident called for some Old Testament eye-for-an-eye justice, the Todd Bertuzzi-Steve Moore case is it. Allowing the former to get off with a mere 20-game suspension while the latter may never play again is unconscionable. Bertuzzi should sit and stew until Moore can play, or two years pass. Whichever comes first.

I think I would have simply thrown a first baseman's mitt to Kevin Youkilis in June. I want that kid up at the dish, four or five times, every single day or night.

It's fine to worship Manny, but just remember that he gives it to his team, his manager, his employer, and, finally, you, only when, and if, he feels like doing so. That isn't professional.

I suppose it's too much for the local TV exec types, plus the current Sox folk, to recall that Sean McDonough pretty much invented the broadcast phenomenon known as The RemDawg. But I'll bet Jerry Remy hasn't forgotten.

How rich would we all be if we'd done nothing but simply bet relentlessly against the Bidwill Cardinals starting 30 years ago?

The once creeping, now galloping La Russaization of baseball on display for all the world to see: Detroit skipper Alan Trammell lifting Nate Robertson after eight innings and 90 pitches last Tuesday night, only to see four relievers blow the game.

It wouldn't be a bad idea for all NHL teams to turn around and applaud the fans before all first pucks are dropped on the respective Opening Nights.

A question concerning prize Atlanta rookie Jeff Francoeur (0 walks in 127 plate appearances, through Friday night): Why would anyone ever throw him a strike?

You're only cheating yourself if you're not regularly reading USA Today's Jon Saraceno, the most underappreciated writing talent in our business.

That said, do you Globe golf readers known how lucky you are to have Jim McCabe out there for you? In five short years, he's become the Tigah (as he would say) of golf scribes, the go-to guy in the press room.

With no drop-dead cinch rookie on the Hall of Fame ballot (unless you're a big Orel Hershiser booster), next year is pretty much now or never for Jim Rice until he passes over to the Veterans Committee after four more tries with the Baseball Writers Association of America. You'd like to think people are reexamining the non-'roid power stats of Rice, Andre Dawson, and Dale Murphy, to name three.

Speaking of Raffy, here's the deal: About three years ago, a bunch of us woke up one day and said, ''Geez, where did Rafael Palmeiro get all those numbers? He was never an elite player." Now we know.

Guess I'm on a Hall of Fame roll. The most troubling guy for me on the current ballot is Jack Morris (254-186, 3.90, 28 shutouts, leading winner of the 1980s, and author of the most famous World Series pitching performance since Don Larsen's 1956 perfect game). I'm almost certain the Great Guru Gammons votes for him. Whaddya think?

Randy Moss smokes a little pot? Next thing you'll tell me is that John Daly likes cheeseburgers.

Aren't you dying of curiosity to see how the Weis- and Crennel-less Patriots will do? Especially the offense? I sure am.

To me, it's a given that The Tuna always hopes the Pats go 0-16.

All-time starting five male Great American Songbook vocalists: Sinatra, Louis Armstrong, Nat King Cole, Mel Torme, Tony Bennett. Sixth man: Ray Charles (but always on the floor in the final five minutes).

It's harder with the women, but you must start with Billie Holiday. Then Ella, of course. Lena Horne's another lock. Helen Forrest (in a class by herself among female Big Band singers). Finally, late career, Concord-label Rosemary Clooney. I agree with the great Whitney Baillet on the subject of Sarah Vaughn. Said Mr. B, ''She should have been an opera singer." Sixth woman: Keely Smith (despite her apparent Carolina-bred inability to pronounce the words ''I" and ''my," which she invariably turns into ''Ah" and ''mah." But the spectacular voice makes up for it all).

When are sponsors going to learn that naming rights are the biggest waste of money in sports? Most of the names only tick people off.

I was gung-ho on this new red line change for the NHL until Professor Dupont informed me that the boring conservatives are always ahead of the enlightened liberals in the modern NHL. OK, so I'll say the same thing about the puck guys as I do concerning the fraidy-cat NBA defense-first creeps: Give a $1 million bonus to the coach of the league's highest-scoring team, even if it finishes in Chicoutimi. Or Peoria.

Item: The NCAA throws $56 million at the five New York City schools that constitute the NIT governing body (Fordham, Manhattan, St. John's, Wagner, NYU) to make them go away. But a school can get written up for giving some kid an extra cheeseburger or T-shirt. I'm still trying to work all this out in my head.

R.I.P., Pete Barbarich. You never knew him, but no purer sports fan ever existed.

Bob Ryan is a Globe columnist. His e-mail address is ryan@globe.com.