There are a lot of things I hear about through the media grapevine that don’t surprise me.

See: Alex Rodriguez allegedly owning a painting of himself depicted as a centaur. See: Manny Ramirez testing positive for a female fertility drug. See: Sammy Sosa claiming a cosmetic cream caused his skin tone to lighten by about three shades.

Andre Agassi using crystal meth and lying about his positive drug test to the ATP, now that surprised me. The fact that he actually admitted to it, doubly so.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Okay, so maybe it was. Maybe I had predicted this would come about every year since 2005. But still, it was always an ideal –– much like a Kobe/LeBron NBA Finals. I never entertained the possibility that it would actually come to fruition, much less that I would have to choose a side.

Well, I must have clairvoyant tendencies to some degree, because as I am penning this column my two favorite teams –– the New York Yankees and the Philadelphia Phillies –– are preparing to take the field in what promises to be a World Series to remember. Sabathia vs. Lee. A-Rod vs. Howard. Pinstripes vs. ... pinstripes?

What do Cornell Sports and Andy Warhol have in Common?

It must be said –– I’m all about making connections. And for the record, I’m not just talking about the connections that score me a summer internship with Comcast SportsNet (looking at you, Dan Baicker). Or the connections that result in 2009 World Series tickets for yours truly; oh wait, I have yet to actually establish that one (which is why I’m going to use this opportunity to solicit two tickets for one of the Series games in Philadelphia next week. One for me, and one for my friend, coworker and fellow Phillies devotee, Meredith Bennett-Smith. Please, email me if you can be of service! I guarantee a column shoutout).

It goes without saying that the sports industry is hard to get into. About as hard to get into as SAE’s white party as a freshman without connections. Or the Super Bowl if you’re the Detroit Lions. This goes for everyone, whether you aspire to be a superagent à la Scott Boras, handicapping guru like Brandon Lang (Two for the Money, anyone?) or simply the next Tom Brady (in which case your plight is twofold, if you want to marry someone at the same level as Gisele).

Heck, I am just now realizing that my ambition to be the next Erin Andrews (albeit minus the whole peephole video scandal) is very likely to encounter some roadblocks along the way. For one, I’m not blonde. Nor do I plan on going any blonder than my current highlights.

Overall, I consider myself a pretty tolerant individual. On any given day, my grievances are typically limited to people who remove my clothes from the laundry machine, USA Today and, as of 1.5 weeks ago, John Isner. However, as of late I have been reminded of yet another equally-offending element –– one I became instantly aware of upon my induction into the Philadelphia sports scene. It is the Sports Fan’s sense of fashion ... or lack thereof. For the record, I’m not talking about fashion in the sense that he or she makes the tragic mistake of sporting an Abercrombie polo over a Ralph Lauren one, or dares to wear white after Labor Day.