A world gone mad

Newsprint is messy, but so is betrayal, so our task today is clear.

Roll up this section. Hold it to your mouth like a megaphone. Step outside your front door.

Scream at sports.

Scream from the bottom of your throwback jersey, from the depths of your souvenir cup, from the same tender place you once cheered.

Scream through the smoking wreckage of a dirty referee, a juiced slugger, an indicted idol, the charred remains of one of the worst weeks in the history of America’s three major spectator sports.

Sports are always screaming at you to love, honor and buy.

Just this once, just this week, it’s time to scream back.

Point the megaphone at the NBA, where on Tuesday a commissioner held a news conference to discuss a dirty referee and the possibility that games were fixed.

“Cheaters!”

Point it at major league baseball, where this week a commissioner is attending a home run chase that has probably been fixed.

“Liars!”

Point it at the NFL, where this week the commissioner is so disgusted by one of the faces of the league, he is begging him not to show his face.

“Crooks!”

If you still have any voice or anger left, point it at the Tour de France, where there are once again reports of so much drug use, the yellow jersey should be tie-dyed.

“Trompeurs!”

Hoarse yet? Heartsick still?

I have one scream left for the heartless stadiums where they will only sell you bottled water without the cap -- “Fools!” -- but that’s another story.

I’ll calm down, we all will, and sports will be stronger than ever once Barry Bonds disappears and Peyton Manning shows up, but this week has been an awful reminder of the changing role of the games we love.

What was conceived as an escape has long since become a trap. We turn on the TV to watch somebody joyfully wearing our favorite uniform, but are quickly stuck with images of a bunch of doleful dudes wearing suits.

What was supposed to bring out the best in us also reveals the worst. Success often turns our heroes into hooligans, or at least those who are incredibly cruel to animals.

During these generally slow times of the summer, I enjoy writing what some of the more cynical among us refer to as “tear jerkers.”

This summer, I’ve mostly written jerk tearers.

Start with the NBA gambling scandal, strong enough to wipe the smug off Commissioner David Stern’s face during Tuesday’s news conference.

“My reaction was, I can’t believe it’s happened to us,” he said.

Fans who have long claimed that the playoffs were fixed -- especially those fans in Sacramento in 2002 -- are probably surprised it hasn’t happened sooner.

The only referee facing a gambling indictment is Tim Donaghy, but he has become the face of every referee. For at least the immediate future, none will be trusted, and all will be challenged.

You thought Rasheed Wallace was combative before this? You thought Utah Jazz fans were whiners before now? On the subject of gambling, what is the over/under on the number of minutes that pass next season before an entire arena begins chanting, “Fix, fix, fix?”

First game, fourth quarter, if not sooner?

In the toughest sport to officiate, in a league where numerous violations could be called every time down the court, the NBA will spend years paying for Donaghy’s alleged sins.

From zebras to elephant heads, the sports world quickly moved from the stunning NBA news to the stale baseball news that Barry Bonds still hasn’t hit that daggone home run, and still could be in hot water.

As Bonds nears Hank Aaron’s career-record 755 home runs, it was revealed that the grand jury investigating whether or not he committed perjury had been extended for another six months. Then his former mistress revealed that she is going to pose like a centerfold and sing like a canary for the November issue of Playboy, titillating readers while tattling on Bonds.

Nice.

Bud Selig, the baseball commissioner and a close friend of Aaron, wants no part of this circus. He has done the right thing by announcing that he would attempt to be in attendance when Bonds breaks the record, and has even traveled to San Francisco for this week’s games, but I’ll believe it when I see it.

Bonds began Tuesday night still three homers short of setting the mark. Selig needs to be in the stands on the first game after Bonds has tied the record. Only then will he send the message that baseball is bigger than all of this.

Is it? We can only stop screaming long enough to hope.

Finally, there is our new national pastime, the league whose athletes have behaved so badly, the commissioner is suspending guys just for being accused of stupid stuff, and good for him.

Roger Goodell finally ordered Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick to stay away from training camp in the wake of a horrendous dogfighting indictment, but his case still resonates here, for many reasons, including a guy named Todd Haig.

Last week I spent several hours at the home of Haig, who lives in a modest cul-de-sac in Redlands, yet is arguably the world’s best water skier, having won the Catalina Ski Race six of the last seven years.

That’s the event where water skiers bounce across the ocean for 62 miles round trip, from Long Beach to Catalina and back, in a test of unthinkable balance and endurance.

Haig, 27, owns the race and owns the sport, yet he has never made a penny from it. He races strictly for the competition. He is one of Southern California’s great pure athletes.

Yet he doesn’t follow the big three sports. He cannot name a Dodger, an Angel or another Laker besides Kobe Bryant.

He is a sportsman, but doesn’t buy into the hype of sports, and last week I was going to write an entire column about him.

The column was bumped for a Vick column.

Two days later, Haig won the Catalina race again.

Go ahead, scream.

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Bill Plaschke can be reached at bill.plaschke@latimes.com. To read previous columns by Plaschke, go to latimes.com/plaschke.