Jose the Great and the 10 Biggest Sports Douche Bags of All Time

Mike Tyson

He was on the list and set to go, but it just seemed in bad taste after news broke that his four-year-old daughter was killed in a tragic accident involving a treadmill. So though Tyson certainly qualifies here, I’m holding off. Condolences, Mike.

Pete Rose

It’ll shock some people that Rose didn’t make the first class, but the totality of his career doesn’t warrant inclusion. If he had bet against his own team, that would be another matter.

But how much can you kill a guy for betting on his own team? And though denying for it 15 years, only to come clean as part of a book tour, is certainly shady, it’s not all-time douche baggery. I’m open to reconsidering if the arguments are persuasive enough, though.

Bill Romanowski

He’s got the résumé of cheap shots (breaking Kerry Collins’ jaw in a preseason game, crushing the eye socket of teammate Marcus Williams, firing the ball at Bryan Cox’s crotch) and admitted steroid use to qualify, but for some reason, he just doesn’t fit the douche bag mold for me. I don’t know. It’s an instinct thing.

O.J. Simpson

People found guilty of any connection to a murder in criminal or civil court are not eligible for the Douche Bag Hall of Fame. So though writing a first-person account of how he would have gone about the murders was certainly a douche bag thing to do, he’s as ineligible for this Hall as Rose is for the baseball Hall. Sometimes you just have to set standards.

Rae Carruth

See Simpson, O.J. Maybe I should write a “Worst People To Ever Play Sports” column.

Ulf Samuelsson

Dubbed Mr. Dirty, the mere mention of Samuelsson’s name is enough to make legions of hockey fans ready to drop the gloves and punch somebody in the face.

But being dirty and hated by your opponents is not, in and of itself, enough to get you on this list. With Samuelsson, there’s nothing off-ice to make a determination on his character. Being a douche bag is about your whole life, not just the time you spend in the game.

Babe Ruth

You better believe it. It came down to Ruth vs. Ty Cobb for the old timer baseball spot, and Cobb got it because of the virulent racism (more on that in a bit).

But Ruth was a douche bag, too. I mean, the guy injected himself with the extract from sheep balls, for Christ’s sake. Barry ain’t got nothing on the Babe.

Christian Laettner

Not only was Laettner really good, he had a mean streak (stomping on Kentucky’s Aminu Timberlake’s chest during the 1992 NCAA Tournament), and he loved to rub it in your face. That’s the trifecta of “I f------ hate that guy!”

Now for those who made it:

Going after fans in the stands? Check.

Cheating? Check.

Trying to cover up the cheating? Check.

Cursing out Hannah Storm? Check.

Stalking a former prostitute with whom he had “business,” including obtaining her phone records and putting a GPS tracker on her car—while at the time being married? Check.

Plus, I really loved this recap of Belle’s pleasant clubhouse demeanor from Buster Olney (from The Last Night of the Yankee Dynasty):

"It was a taken in baseball circles that Albert Belle was nuts... The Indians billed him $10,000 a year for the damage he caused in clubhouses on the road and at home, and tolerated his behavior only because he was an awesome slugger...

"He slurped coffee constantly and seemed to be on a perpetual caffeinated frenzy. Few escaped his wrath: on some days he would destroy the postgame buffet...launching plates into the shower... after one poor at-bat against Boston, he retreated to the visitor's clubhouse and took a bat to teammate Kenny Lofton's boombox.

"Belle preferred to have the clubhouse cold, below 60 degrees, and when one chilly teammate turned up the heat, Belle walked over, turned down the thermostat, and smashed it with his bat. His nickname, thereafter, was 'Mr. Freeze.'"

Oh yeah. Chicks can be douche bags, too. And there’s no better person than Harding to illustrate that point.

The crowning achievement of Harding’s career as a douche bag was of course the orchestration of the attack on Nancy Kerrigan during a practice session during the 1994 U.S. Figure Skating Championships in Detroit.

Now how it all really went down is still not entirely clear. Harding has always maintained that she didn’t know about the attack beforehand and didn’t report it after the fact because she was threatened at gunpoint by ex-husband Jeff Gillooly.

Gillooly, a douche bag in his own right, said Harding approved the attack before it happened. He struck a plea bargain with prosecutors and testified against Harding, who then pled guilty to hindering the investigation of the attack.

She received three years probation, 500 hours of community service, and a $160,000 fine.

The United States Figure Skating Association banned her for life, concluding she knew about the attack before it happened and displayed “a clear disregard for fairness, good sportsmanship, and ethical behavior.”

But oh, there’s more:

* February, 2000: Harding was ordered by a Clark County judge to stay away from alcohol and her former boyfriend after being booked on fourth-degree Domestic Violence assault charges for punching him and throwing a hubcap at him.

* April, 2002: Harding was cited for drunk driving and a violation of her probation agreement from her 2000 conviction.

There’s more, but it’s hard to tell just how much is her being a douche bag and how much is the people around her being douche bags. Sometimes it’s tough to differentiate.

Let’s just say her bio has all the class of a horrible wedding night sex tape.

(Yeah. She did.)

One of the most cantankerous players in the history of baseball, the stories of Cobb’s fierce demeanor and violent play on the field are legendary.

But it was this short story that got him on this particular list:

Cobb once slapped a black elevator operator for being "uppity." When a black night watchman intervened, Cobb pulled out a knife and stabbed him.

Not cool.

There’s also this story:

A groundskeeper by the name of "Bungy" clapped Ty on the back as if to say, good going. Cobb did not appreciate the familiar gesture from a black man, so he slapped him and chased him into the shed where the equipment was stored. When Bungy's wife came to his assistance, Cobb choked her.

And this one:

A black worker at the Hotel Pontchartrain in Detroit claimed that Cobb called her a "n-----". When she took offense at this slur, and said so, Cobb knocked her down, kicked her in the stomach, and knocked her down the stairs. She suffered a broken rib and was hospitalized for at least a month.

Now there are three mitigating factors here:

1. These stories are all from roughly 80 to 100 years ago. I can’t in any way for certain say that all the facts presented are 100 percent accurate. It’s just the best information I could find from what seemed like the most credible sources.

2. Cobb was a Georgia native born in 1886, just 21 years after the end of the Civil War. His feelings on race weren’t just normal; they were universal for the geography and the era. To single out one player to carry the burden of that entire era seems slightly unfair.

3. Cobb gave a lot of money to charity in later life, and that can’t be dismissed out of hand. There are also stories during his later playing days and his managing days of kindness and a giving nature.

He also reportedly softened his feelings on African-Americans, going so far as to speak in 1952 in favor of blacks in the Major Leagues (five years after Jackie Robinson’s debut, but still).

With all that said, the context does not excuse the action. Cobb was not just a racist; he was a violent racist who, if you got on his bad side, would unleash a torrent of fury your way that would scar you for life. (That went for white folks too, by the way.)

The guy was a douche bag. It may have been a different kind of douche bag than the modern-day variety, but the fact remains—he was a douche bag.

I wasn’t planning on going international with this, but Maradona warrants an exception as the perfect mathematical definition of what it is to be a douche bag.

Here, check it out:

Drug addict + Repeated fines for missing games and practices + Cheated on his wife + Fathered an illegitimate child he refused to acknowledge + Cheated the game + Blamed others for his problems + Fired a compressed-air rifle at reporters + Cheated on his taxes (so says Italy) + Has a tattoo of Fidel Castro + "I hate everything that comes from the United States. I hate it with all my strength." = Douche Bag

As a Patriots fan, this one’s personal.

I’m not sure if Chiefs fans felt this way in 2003, or Colts fans in 2005, but when the Pats were going for the undefeated season in 2007, there was nothing more infuriating toward the end than listening to members of the 1972 Dolphins talk about themselves.

The worst of it came during the Monday Night game at Baltimore in Week 13. New England was 11-0 at the time, and, if you remember, the Ravens were giving them everything they could handle.

Then Don Shula cam into the booth as a “guest analyst,” a horrible practice I’m incredibly grateful has since been discontinued. Shula, the coach of that 1972 Miami squad, was downright giddy when it looked like Baltimore was going to win that game.

Here’s what I wrote about it the day after:

“To heck with Don Shula. I understand rooting against the Pats in private, but getting all giddy about Kyle Boller in the MNF booth was low class all the way.

"There’s nothing graceful about publicly rooting for a great team to lose just so you can preserve your record. You didn’t see Hank Aaron in the ESPN booth rooting for Barry Bonds to strike out, did you?

“Everything great that was said about Aaron last summer needs to be said in the opposite about Shula and the '72 Dolphins.”

It’s one thing to want to keep a record, but this asinine tradition of popping a bottle of champagne when another team loses is douche baggery at its highest.

Screw those guys.

An absolutely amazing athlete who starred in track, football, and baseball, Sanders took full advantage of his notoriety by creating such a large persona—Prime Time—that he’s probably known more today for his schtick than the fact he’s legitimately one of the greatest athletes to ever play in the NFL.

But that persona...man, what a douche bag.

* In his first game with San Francisco after leaving the Atlanta Falcons, Sanders intercepted a pass from quarterback Jeff George and proceeded to return it 93 yards while mockingly staring down the entire Falcons sideline before high-stepping into the end zone.

* He wrote a book called, Power, Money & Sex: How Success Almost Ruined My Life.

* He released a really bad rap CD called Prime Time. The main single was called "Must Be The Money."

* He named both a son and daughter after himself (Deion, Jr. and Deiondra).

* There’s the story of how Sanders, playing for Columbus in the minor leagues, was upset over a story written by ESPN Buster Olney, then with the Nashville Banner covering the Nashville Sound.

Olney wrote on how Sanders was holding himself above the team by traveling with his girlfriend, not carrying his own luggage, and drawing a dollar sign in the dirt every time he came up to bat (sooooooo douche bag).

In a game after the article ran, Sanders had a batboy deliver an old ratty baseball to Olney in the press box. The inscription: “Keep writing like that your whole life and you’ll always be a loser.”

* And then there are these marvelous take-outs from Jeff Pearlman’s Boys Will Be Boys: The Glory Days and Party Nights of the Dallas Cowboys Dynasty:

"Sanders was sleeping-dog lazy. In practices, he went all-out every third or fourth play and refused to wear shoulder pads because, he would say, 'I'm not gonna tackle anyone anyway.'

"In meeting rooms, he was known to doodle and doze off. Told early on that Cowboys who refused to participate in the team's weight training regimen would be fined, Sanders dramatically whipped out his checkbook and jotted down a five-digit figure.

...

"'I still remember Deion's first team meeting,' says Clayton Holmes, the veteran cornerback. 'We were so fundamental about film. The way we studied it was critical.

"'Well, Deion comes in, puts his feet up on a table and doesn't even watch.' When Dave Campo, the Cowboys new defensive coordinator, asked the $35 million man to break down a play, Sanders let out a sly laugh.

"'Hey, Coach,' he said, pointing toward the screen, 'I got that dude right there. Wherever he goes I go. All that Cover Two stuff you're talking about—y'all work that out.'"

Add all that to the incessant self promotion and talking about himself in the third person, and you’ve got one of the all-time greatest...douche bags.

Rickey was an incredible player, and though eccentric is probably too kind a description, I wouldn’t have put him on this list a year ago.

But the following passage from Buzz Bissinger’s Three Nights in August changed my mind:

"Henderson became convinced that (Jose) Canseco was getting preferential treatment and watched obsessively for evidence. By 1992, Henderson made sure that Canseco got nothing over him, including the disabled list.

"When Canseco went, Henderson went. If Canseco said he couldn’t play for a couple of days, Henderson said he couldn’t play for a couple of days. As the manager (Tony) La Russa could insist that Henderson play if there was no apparent injury.

"But what good would that do? When Henderson said he couldn’t go and La Russa put him in anyway, he’d simply stand in the outfield 'like a cigar store Indian. Balls would bounce here, bounce there, all around him.'

"La Russa established a rule: When Henderson felt he couldn’t play, he had to tell him directly instead of relaying it through the trainers, as players usually did. That way, at the least, La Russa and Henderson could discuss why he couldn’t play.

"The system worked well; Henderson opted out only a few times, until one game against Baltimore around the All-Star break in 1993. The A’s were trying to stay in the divisional race, and there were rumors that Henderson might be traded for a pitcher.

"'I can’t go today,' he told La Russa.

"'What do you mean you can’t go?'

"'I’m telling you, Tony. If I tell you I can’t go, I can’t go.'

"'Rickey...'

"'Rickey’s head’s not right.'

"'What do you mean your head’s not right?'

"'I hear I’m being traded. So my head’s not right. I can’t go.'"

Hall of Fame leadoff hitter.

Hall of Fame base stealer.

Hall of Fame douche bag.

In 1999, John Rocker gave an interview with Sports Illustrated. It was so bad, so vile, so filled with ignorance and hate that, if I were teaching a college course called How To Be A Douche Bag 101, this would be required reading. It’s an absolute masterpiece of douchery.

On the possibility of ever playing in New York: "Imagine having to take the 7 Train to the ballpark looking like you're riding through Beirut next to some kid with purple hair, next to some queer with AIDS, right next to some dude who just got out of jail for the fourth time, right next to some 20-year-old mom with four kids. It's depressing...

"The biggest thing I don't like about New York are the foreigners. You can walk an entire block in Times Square and not hear anybody speaking English. Asians and Koreans and Vietnamese and Indians and Russians and Spanish people and everything up there. How the hell did they get in this country?"

On traffic in Atlanta: "So many dumb asses don't know how to drive in this town," he says. "They turn from the wrong lane. They go 20 miles per hour. It makes me want—Look! Look at this idiot! I guarantee you she's a Japanese woman."

On Mets fans: "Nowhere else in the country do people spit at you, throw bottles at you, throw quarters at you, throw batteries at you, and say, 'Hey, I did your mother last night—she's a whore.'

"I talked about what degenerates they were, and they proved me right. Just by saying something, I could make them mad enough to go home and slap their moms."

On a game-losing hit he gave up to John Olerud in Game Four of the 1999 NLCS that edged past the glove of backup Ozzie Guillen, who was in for starter Walt Weiss: “If Walt is playing shortstop instead of Ozzie, that's not a hit, and we win," says Rocker. "But we had a 38-year-old guy [actually 35] playing shortstop, and he can't make that kind of play."

On throwing the ball as hard as he could at a net that separated fans from the field. "If there wasn't a net there, it would have smoked 'em right in the face. ... But they're so stupid, they jumped back like the ball would hit 'em."

Really, you should probably just read the article. But just in case you don’t have time, here’s the first paragraph:

“A minivan is rolling slowly down Atlanta's Route 400, and John Rocker, driving directly behind it in his blue Chevy Tahoe, is pissed. 'Stupid b----! Learn to f------ drive!' he yells. Rocker honks his horn. Once. Twice. He swerves a lane to the left.

"There is a toll booth with a tariff of 50 cents. Rocker tosses in two quarters. The gate doesn't rise. He tosses in another quarter. The gate still doesn't rise. From behind, a horn blasts. 'F--- you!' Rocker yells, flashing his left middle finger out the window.

Finally, after Rocker has thrown in two dimes and a nickel, the gate rises. Rocker brings up a thick wad of phlegm. Puuuh! He spits at the machine. 'Hate this damn toll.'"

There’s almost too much evidence; I don’t know how to encapsulate it in just a few hundred words.

Let’s see...

After being drafted second overall behind Peyton Manning in 1998, Leaf boldly declared, "I'm looking forward to a 15-year career, a couple of trips to the Super Bowl, and a parade through downtown San Diego."

Then Leaf skipped the mandatory rookie symposium.

Then, as a rookie, he gave us one of the all-time on-camera meltdowns by screaming at a San Diego Union-Tribune reporter, "Just f------ don't talk to me, all right! Knock it off!" and had to be physically restrained by teammate Junior Seau.

Then he had to be restrained and escorted off the field after getting into it with a heckling fan—in practice.

Then a shouting match with Chargers GM Bobby Beathard over his rehabilitation from a shoulder injury resulted in a suspension, during which he was filmed playing flag football—not only a violation of his contract, but also not very bright for a guy with a shoulder injury.

Then there’s the reputation for being a bad drunk, a giant red flag of douchiness.

Alcohol has a way of stripping away the mask. For most people, going too deep into the bottle is an open invitation to their true personalities to come out. For Leaf, it appears that’s being an incredible douche bag nobody wants to be around.

(Aside from all the other public stories, and there are plenty, a buddy of mine who is from Leaf’s home state of Montana has experienced the marvel of Drunk Leaf in person.

His word choice was a bit stronger than douche bag, but we’ll stick with that for the purpose of this column. This buddy of mine is a cop. He knows his douche bags.)

To finish it off with a tribute to Jeff Foxworthy...

When Rodney Harrison says having you as his quarterback was the biggest challenge of his career, you’re a douche bag (and a really bad quarterback).

When you get into a fight with the clerk at the race track betting window because they asked for your Social Security number to collect your winnings, you’re a douche bag.

When you’re a college football coach and you’re allegedly trying to score pills off one of your players, you’re a douche bag.

And when you get charged with “one count of burglary to a habitation, seven counts of obtaining a controlled substance by fraud, and one count of delivery of a simulated controlled substance,” as Leaf was last week, that’s also a pretty good indication that you’re a douche bag.

A terrible quarterback, a bad teammate, a horrible employee, an untrustworthy coach, a belligerent drunk: That, my friends, is a Hall of Fame douche bag.

Jose will never make the MLB Hall of Fame, but you can be damned sure he’s making the Douche Bag Hall of Fame.

Forget the steroids thing for a moment. We know he cheated. We know he lied. We know he became the biggest rat in the history of baseball when he wrote his first book (though that, in the end, will be the single best thing he ever did).

I think this particular passage from Bissinger’s book really captures the essence that is Jose Canseco the douche bag:

"(La Russa) was aware of Jose Canseco, the most talented player he has ever managed, sitting with teammates around a hotel pool in Texas in 1990, complaining about the rigors of the baseball season.

"The A’s had been to the World Series the last two years and had clinched the division the night before, but Canseco admitted to a certain ambivalence. 'Why is it always us that has to go to the playoffs?' he asked without irony."

There was also this exchange between La Russa and Canseco, after La Russa had enough of Canseco dogging it on the field:

"'What the hell are you doing? You're not playing the game. That is not how we play.'

"'Tony, people would rather watch me take three big swings and try to hit the ball into the upper deck and strike out than shorten up with two strikes and try to play the game.'

"'You're kidding me?'

"'No, I'm serious.'

"'You're serious, but you’re wrong. You’re a baseball player.'

"'I'm a performer.'"

And, if for some reason the cheating and the snitching and the complete disrespect for the game and the allegations of domestic violence don’t convince you of Jose’s status as one of sports’ biggest douche bags of all time, there’s the picture above.

Net shirts = douche bag.

Always.