Rick Says: Win. Then Go Hide Under a Rock.

Sore winners

These folks have won a lot. You’d think they’d be better at it.

Rick’s back and better than ever (and by better, I mean, still really bad).

There is a hideous new trend in sports that we need to stomp out like milkweed before it spreads. Scientists are calling it the Hey, look what I did, everybody! syndrome. There have been three dreadful examples of it lately, all from people who should know better.

The very first sentence of this column is constructed incredibly poorly. The milkweed simile interrupts the prepositional phrase attached to the noun “trend,” rendering the whole thing ineffective. But whatever, he can do whatever he wants. He’s the most celebrated sportswriter alive. And the name he came up with for the syndrome is really dumb. Hey, Rick, you’ve come down with, uh, um, Really Dumb Syndrome. Snap. Take that!

Start with Phil Jackson. When he and his Lakers fricasseed the Magic to win another title, it was Jackson’s 10th NBA coaching championship, a new record. Jackson had become the king of coaches. Everyone knew he was going for 10 — it’s not like it was a secret — and there was the appropriate applause, huzzahs and standing on chairs.

OK. I know what he means by fricasseed. He means they pulverized them. But the word means to prepare poultry. Maybe if the Lakers had beaten the Hawks, it would have been an apt use of the word, and a decent, halfway-educated pun. But here, you get the feel that Rick just found a big word and wanted to show it off.

But that wasn’t good enough for him. He decided to paint a mustache on his Mona Lisa by quickly grabbing a hat with a big X on it — for 10 — and plunking it on his head.

So what? Guy won 10 NBA Championships. Let him show off a bit. This is the NBA. It’s all about showmanship these days.

Hey, look what I did, everybody!

How were the Magic supposed to react to his new look? It was as if Jackson were saying, “Sorry to wear this in front of you so soon, but, c’mon, we knew where this was going, right?”

Who the hell cares how the Magic were supposed to react? They lost the NBA Finals. They already feel like shit, it doesn’t matter if Jackson puts on a “X” hat. We’re not talking about 3rd graders here, these are grown men. This isn’t youth league soccer where we’re forced to gloss over anything that amounts to victory so that the losers don’t cry. I say go ahead and celebrate. It’s why you play the game.

Tacky. Shrill. Brash. For a Zenmaster, it was very un-Zen. Here was the all-time preacher of team hoops, with his team all around him — still sweaty from all that teamwork — and Jackson suddenly went 100 percent “me.” That hat said, Aren’t I amazing! Doesn’t this hat prove it? Don’t you wish you had one?

Good lord. Tone it down a bit Rick. I’m pretty sure you are the only person in America who feels this way about Jackson’s hat. Except of course for poor wittle Dwight Howahd. He’s prowbabwe curled up in his wittle bed, sniffling and cwying cuz Phil Jackson hurt his feelwings.

I hated that hat for the same reason I hate those hideous championship T-shirts and caps that teams don the instant the final buzzer sounds. Why cover up the glory of the jerseys you bled in together all season — the ones that have your city or team name emblazoned on the front — with some ugly shirts nobody can read? And why top it off with an ugly hat that just dangles a tag in your face?

Whatever man, the T-shirts and hats are the leagues things, not the teams. They’re created by the league to make money. Plus, you just won the greatest thing you can attain in your profession, so why not celebrate. Since when did you become such a curmudgeon? You’re the one who was flipping out earlier this year when coaches didn’t throw hissy fits when they got fired.

Anyway, at least Jackson and his agents decided to donate the proceeds from X hat sales to charity. Of course, that just makes what Roger Federer did look so much worse.

Not two minutes after he had defeated Andy Roddick in a 77-game Wimble-never-done final, he went back to his bench, pulled out a tracksuit top with a 15 plastered on the side, put it on and spun around for the TV cameras. It was his way of congratulating himself on his 15th major, the one that bested Pete Sampras’ old mark.

Repeat after me: No one cares about tennis. And if they did, no one would care about Federer’s sweat suit.

Hey, look what I did, everybody!

Exactly. This whole thing that athletes should be humble and meek is bullshit. I mean, it’s fine if they are, but the reason MLB, NFL, NBA, etc. make money is because it’s essentially entertainment. The reason Rick Reilly can “write” about “sports” for a living is because athletes are characters in a vast and never-ending play. Listen, Ladanian Tomlinson is great. He just flips the ball to the ref after a TD, but why does everyone have to do that? It would take some of the fun out of sports. A huge part of sports is to say: “Hey, look what I did, everybody!” Why else would they be televised, or attended, or written about?

Now you tell me: How was poor Roddick supposed to have taken that? It’s like Rog was bragging: I knew I was going to roast you, A-Rod. That’s why my people have been working on this all week!

Again, Roddick probably didn’t care. He’s a professional competitor. Competitors sometimes lose. It’s just the way it goes. We shouldn’t be coddling and catering to the losers.

Talk about cheeky. I mean, it’s not as if some little seamstress ran out to iron the patch onto his jacket after the fact. The thing was in his bag the whole time! It’s not just the sweater that was manufactured. The gesture was too.

I hated that sweater for the same reason I hate when a player preens for the camera in the “I’m going to Disney World” commercials. Here’s his pinnacle moment, the one he’s worked toward his whole life. He should be going absolutely Lindsay Lohan nuts, but instead he’s looking into the sea of people for a director, a cameraman and a boom mike.

Seriously, man, why do have to suck the fun out of everything?

Once more, Mr. Montana — only this time, can you cry?

Federer’s sweater was a rare show of classlessness from a normally classy guy. One dipped in gold, no less. A gold sweater with a gold 15 pulled out of a gold man-bag. What, they couldn’t gold-plate the man himself?

The day before Federer’s flub, Serena Williams drubbed sis Venus in a straight-set finale. Then, not 30 minutes later, she showed up at the press conference in a T-shirt that read, “Are you looking at my titles?” Okay, it’s funny. And a little dirty. But it’s immodest.

Just stop. See, it’s funny. That’s why she wore it. Maybe you should take down that little bit on your website 11-time Sportswriter of the Year and the Runyon Award thing, cause, golly, Rick, you’re making me feel like shit that I didn’t win those awards.

And all three — Jackson, Federer, Williams — are better than that. They almost always rise above the schlock. When they don’t, it’s unbecoming.

I don’t remember seeing pictures of FDR rolling up to his fourth election-night victory speech wearing a “Four-ever!” tuxedo jacket. Neil Armstrong didn’t splash down with a “MoonMan” tat on his biceps. And I sure as hell don’t remember John Wooden slapping on an X hat after his 10th NCAA title.

That’s because FDR was the president of the United States, not an athlete. A politician’s victory is not essentially for himself (at least it shouldn’t be). An athlete’s victory on the other hand, is essentially for himself (in an individual sport like tennis) or for his team. Also, Neil Armstrong didn’t have that patch because the moon landing never happened. DON”T BUY THE LIE!!! And when John Wooden was coaching hats hadn’t been invented yet.

Athletes, coaches … these are your moments; don’t sell their purity. You will get your due, in due time.

Just let it come from us.

Dude, we do give them praise, but athletes and coaches are perfectly justified in reveling in their accomplishments. In fact, I seem to remember a certain someone prattling on about how much money ESPN was going to pay him when he first moved over from Sports Illustrated. Anyway, until next time, I’ll be in my basement in my pajamas with Dwight Howard and Andy Roddick, all curled up under the afghan my grandmother made me, sharing a giant carton of Cherry Garcia, watching A Walk to Remember, and weeping.