His addiction goes beyond Olympics

Memo to Major League Baseball:

Hey, great season so far. What a delightful sport you have there, full of mirth and madness. Evidently Prince Fielder is having food rage and attempting to devour his teammates. We won’t even get into what Debbie Clemens does with a syringe.

Meanwhile, this Torre fella looks like a man in search of a Bromo Seltzer. Poor guy never looks happy. The other night the Dodgers skipper is on TV hawking green tea. Green tea?

Say it ain’t Joe.

Anyway, time for some good news. Got a prospect for you. Kid out of Fordham. Scully’s the name. Chats right, throws left. Hey, the guy can really bring it. What he does with a microphone, Ruth used to do with a bat. Get the picture? No asterisks around this guy’s name. He’s Roy Hobbs in headphones.

Actually, some folks out this way think he might be a certified genius, rare as that is today. His brain just seems to work faster than everybody else’s. And he’s only 80!

So the other night, we get this idea: Let the fans vote on the play-by-play announcer for this year’s World Series. It’s their game after all. Nothing against Joe Buck, but he needs a little more seasoning. To fit into baseball’s elite announcing corps, you need to be either a poet or a crackpot. After another 40 years, Buck should be ready. By then, he’ll be about half as good as his old man was.

In the meantime, let’s send Scully to the White House . . . I mean the World Series. With Harry Caray gone, he’s a lock. Pollsters are predicting he’d win all 50 states and several bars in the Bronx.

P.S.: Nice job on that Yankee Stadium project. If you ran Washington, would you knock down the Lincoln Memorial?

Memo to the U.S. Olympic Committee:

One question: Where exactly are the women in women’s gymnastics? I’ve got more meat on my thumb than most of these poor kids.

Here’s a tip: The No. 19 at Langer’s Deli -- the warm pastrami, with a layer of coleslaw across the roof. Juicy as a steak, this pastrami. In fact, I’m sending these scrawny Tinker Bells some Langer’s right now, in honor of all their good work this week. Please tell Bela Karolyi to keep his fat paws off.

In the meantime, what’s the deal with Bob Costas’ hair?

Memo to Cubs fans:

Congratulations, you now officially qualify as a cult. You believe beyond all reason. You angrily denounce all doubters. You have abandoned good sense for faith.

Like other cults, you have an actual shrine.

Here’s the thing: The way you treated poor Steve Bartman for flubbing that foul ball five years ago created such bad karma that you are doomed for at least another century. Yes, you’ve entered that place -- a sort of losers’ purgatory -- where you are your own curse.

The good news? As a cult, you may qualify for certain tax breaks on alcohol and firearms. Please see an attorney (and a shrink).

Memo to the NBA:

OK, it’s time to institute a tattoo tax. Give the proceeds to substance abuse clinics and the players’ poor, delusional ex-wives and girlfriends.

Next up: a diva tax. Every time some big dope slams the ball to the floor after a questionable call, he has to send $5,000 directly to John Wooden. Just because.

Memo to college football:

Is there a better soap opera going right now than the love triangle with Pete Carroll, Norm Chow and Rick Neuheisel? Where’s my Kleenex? And to think they almost live next door. This is like “Desperate Housewives” with helmets.

College football, don’t ever change.

Seriously, when I saw the fall schedule in the paper the other day, I got chills.

Memo to the family:

I will be spending most of the next two weeks in sports rehab. I realized the other day that I needed help when I was reading the USA Today sports page, after reading the L.A. Times sports page, and after watching nine hours of Olympics, Major League Baseball and exhibition football the night before.

By the way, did you know that Shaq’s divorce attorney is named Ira Elegant? I do. That’s why I need rehab.

See you in September.

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Chris Erskine writes the Man of the House column each Saturday in the Home section. chris.erskine@latimes.com