Bleacher's Top Sport: The Crying Game

Are you the kind of low-brow who watches talent shows like America/Britain/Somewhere's Got Talent?

No, neither am I, but my wife loves them, and am I not her lifelong companion?

Those shows are ubiquitous, every country has them. They hold out the glittering prize of fame and fortune, but wherever you are in the world, and whatever the name of the show, you may be sure Simon Cowell and/or Simon Fuller will be the real winners, making the real money.

Amongst the contestants will always be a singer who's not too good at singing.

OK, there are plenty of lousy singers in the world, but this guy knows there's a surefire way past the judges, the old sob-story routine.

There are variations, but here is the template.

"A few months ago my wife passed away, and I just want to sing for her up in heaven, and to make things better for our little girl, who's blind and in a wheelchair."

You've heard it—or something like it—I'm sure you have.

At least one of the judges will be wiping away a tear at this point, and our cunning contestant knows he's cleared the first hurdle with consummate ease.

When he gets to the live shows, the contestant will continue to pluck clumsily at heartstrings, and the producers will encourage him. There will be some coached emotion and choking back of tears during the performance, and some rehearsed lip-quivering when the guy is interviewed, all part of his pitch for the sympathy vote.

Pick up the phone, pick up the phone! Make someone named Simon a little richer.

Anyway, that's my rant about talent shows, and I must have needed to get it off my chest. Now I feel a whole lot better, but I really do have a Bleacher point to make here, honest guv'nor, and it is that the same shameless appeal to maudlin sentimentality is made here over and again.

I started to write this article with a list of offending articles ready to paste in, but now think that would be a mistake. You know the sort of thing I mean; how baseball brings me closer to my (dead) dad, catching with my (dead) grandfather's glove. Aaarrgggh.

Baseball features heavily in the morbid drivel arena; I blame Kevin Costner.

The writers involved seem to have the same strategy as the untalented talent show contestants. If you wear your heart on your sleeve, nobody will attack you, and you can make a full-on pitch for the sympathy comments.

And there is worse, there is much worse.

There are many thousands of Bleacher writers, and fortunately most have enough taste and decency not to parade their private sorrows here. The pain of loss should not be something to be flaunted in public, least of all on a sports site.

Let's have some pride, let's have some dignity. Let's have some self-respect, let's do our crying in the rain and our grieving in private.

Sport is one of the celebrations of life, and I for one don't come hear to read sob-stories.

My title photo shows pop singer and X-Factor (like American Idol) judge Cheryl Cole weeping as she hears a contestant's sob-story. Her fellow judge Simon Cowell cried all the way to the bank.