Tim Lincecum got his hair cut, and is wearing faux glasses so that he can transition from freak to certified public accountant.
Brent Burns shaved his you-could-hide-a-badger-in-it beard, presumably because he is finally healthy enough to play for the Sharks. Although the possibility of intolerable facial itch may also be a factor.
Oh, and Colin Kaepernick got new tats for his chest as part of his post-football plan to become a Maori warrior.
This forces an important question to be asked: Are we in the Bay Area really that easy to amuse?
And the answer comes back in a torrent: Yes. We are.
This should not hearten us, given that there are still 325 days left in what is going to be a Bizarro World year for sports. Maybe we are fleeing the grisly face and soul of Lance Armstrong, a perfectly agreeable stance all things considered, or maybe we are already weary of what new cover story Manti Te’o’s people are preparing to foist upon us. Maybe Alex Rodriguez just makes us want to throw up, or the Lakers’ deterioration into a Bravo-level reality show isn’t keeping us sufficiently distracted.
But as a certified middle-aged crank, I remember the days when what an athlete looked like outraged our parents, thereby causing us to respond, “What difference does it make what they look like?” There were rare exceptions – Oscar Gamble’s massive Afro, or Bill Walton’s post-UCLA flaming acid-head look -- but mostly we were proud that we could look past such trivialities to whatever resided within. Until we found out what actually resided within, at which point we recoiled in horror. Even Mike Tyson’s face tattoo/cry for help didn’t engage us the way athlete’s superficialities do now.