Is It Too Late to Do Something Nice for Dieter, Bo, the Boz?

New Year’s Day has already slipped past? I missed it again?

I must have been busy watching football games. It’s not too late to sneak in some resolutions, is it? Good. I hereby solemnly resolve:

To make some phone calls and try to come up with a quarterback for the Raiders. I hear Dieter Brock may be available.

To make a sincere attempt to see the sensitive side of Brian Bosworth.

To find out if Boz had anything to do with the annoying rattle in my car.

To get myself a satellite dish so I can pick up all those TV shows with Chicago Bear players and coaches as hosts. The collective knowledge and insight I will gather should be staggering.

Not to pick on the Clippers.

To start working on a nostalgia story about Nov. 2, 1986--the day the Clippers won a game.

To really believe the Soviets when they announce that they definitely will not boycott the 1988 Olympics.

To care deeply whether or not they show up in Seoul.

Just once, to see what the big deal is, to take a Gatorade shower with all my clothes on.

To stop criticizing the execution of the NFL’s instant replay officiating system, at least until I’ve given it a lot of slowwwww and carrrrreful review. OK, it stinks.

To do my best to ignore the latest sports-fan craze, replacing the wave--telephoned death threats.

To be more like the world champion New York Mets, as described by Don Sutton, and project myself as an arrogant ass.

To demand a weight clause in my next contract. And an attendance clause. And an all-star and MVP clause. Just to give me some incentive to get out of bed in the morning.

To attempt to appreciate the subtle musical artistry of the Stanford band.

To not dwell on history when Bo Schembechler (General Custer) arrives in Pasadena (Little Bighorn) next December.

To be open-minded and give full support to any new sports league that might pop up, especially if it’s something America really needs, like motorcycle soccer or team croquet.

That if I get caught up in a field-storming riot at a New York City sports event, not to rip out and cart off more of whatever I’m ripping out and carting off than I’m likely to use.

To campaign for a basketball rule change, so that a player is awarded three points instead of none for a Barkleydunk, in which you slam-dunk the basketball with such force that it bounces off your head and back up through the hoop.

To encourage Reggie Miller to come out of his shell, to speak up now and then and say what he thinks. Same with Walt Hazzard. And Tom Lasorda. And Lyle Alzado.

To treat myself to the kind of car stereo system that Clipper forward Michael Cage has, with 16 speakers. Even if I have to take out the engine to make room.

To sincerely attempt not to get carried away with enthusiasm about the Angels’ chances of making the World Series now that they’ve landed Butch Wynegar, who hit .206 last season with the Yankees.

Not to spar with Mike Tyson.

To help the Sports Arena book professional wrestling for halftime, so the Clippers and USC hoopsters have a chance to play in front of a full house.

To lend some notoriety and dignity to the anonymous members of The Times sports staff by putting together a rap-rock video (“Superscribe Shuffle”) or beefcake calendar (“Deadline Dudes and Chicks”).

To offer my driveway basketball court as a practice facility for George Raveling’s USC team, which is constantly scrambling from gym to gym. Last seen, the Trojans were scrimmaging using a Nerf-ball hoop hung from the statue of Tommy Trojan.

To put my weight behind a campaign to restore the Olympic eligibility of shotputter Brian Oldfield, if he agrees to give back the $50 or so he won in pro track, and if he’s still alive.

To help the persecuted and beleaguered SMU football team and coaching staff get together a petition demanding the immediate and unconditional abolition of the school’s faculty.

To take up a collection at Tent City or Skid Row and send the money to skipper Dennis Conner’s Sail America team down there at the America’s Cup regatta.

Not to take any oil-based steroids, unless they taste a lot better than the other kind.