TO BE GAY IN SPORTS IS STILL THE HARD-WAY

When Tim Hardaway (pictured) adamantly stated on a sports talk show last week that he hated gay people and wouldn't want to be in a locker room with one, I was more surprised that he shared his strong feelings publicly than what he actually admitted.

Don't get me wrong, Hardaway should never have used the word "hate" to describe an oppressed group of people, especially in regards to his own background. But in the context of what a modern-day athlete stands for, Hardaway's resentment toward a gay teammate is not that exaggerated. Many players just don't have the impulse to admit such a thing because they want to maintain their manly mojo in a machismo sports culture.

The mega-jackpot sports entertainment business has never been more "hip-hop"; underlying codes instigate participants to bring their street demeanor and toughness to the playing field in order to compete successfully. And if they don't wear a cocky game face or can't take a hard foul like a man - like a true champion - they're subject to be called "gay," "soft" or a "pussy."

Did you happen to catch the NBA All-Star player introductions on Sunday? If you did, do you remember how many of them smiled when their name was introduced? Well, only about three. Most of them tilted their head up a tad and slightly smirked, basically saying, "I'm the shit and I'm a straight shooter." Players don't want their peers and fans to get the wrong idea about them, which, in their world, would be to exhibit "soft" behavior. This status quo starts on the streets and is topped off by team owners, like Mark Cuban and the Maloof brothers, who further perpetuate players' heterosexual desires and high-rolling lifestyles.

Some states are finally coming to terms with same-sex marriages, but sports still struggle mightily for gay pride and acceptance. After Hardaway's comments came out of the closet, you could just imagine the curiosity of team members around the country wondering if anyone was really gay in their own locker room. Hopefully, coaches organized open discussions with their players in an attempt to break preconditioned homosexual beliefs and attitudes.

We're still at the stage, though, that if you are a gay athlete, it's preferred that you're a 20-point scorer or an All-Star to be accepted. This past weekend, basketball greats Shaquille O'Neal and Charles Barkley engaged in playful kissing acts, but their reputation remained safe afterward. As witnessed, the gamble for gay rights in sports is very much open for a harder push.

A SOBE SIP OF THE SUPER BOWL BASH

When worldwide superstar Will Smith created a song just for Miami in 1997, you knew the city was soon going to attract "big willie" heat - and not just at South Beach's hot-hangspot, Wet Willie's.

Since then, Miami has become a middle ground for entertainment's hottest events - from the MTV Video Music Awards to the International Winter Music Conference to countless fashion shows and a whole lot more. Mention a star's name, and he or she most likely has an oceanfront home in Miami (case in point: TomKat is currently looking into a $15 to $20-million pad on Star Island). The city's real estate - from Coconut Grove to South Beach - has seen such a boom in recent years that even Shaquille O'Neal pivoted into recently founding his own investment group, which is funding several downtown condominium projects near the Miami Heat arena.

Everyone wants in on "Vegas by the Ocean" - even the NFL. For the league, it was probably an easy decision to name Miami host of Super Bowl XLI and XLIV. Popular market? Check... a top tourist destination. Good time of year for nice weather? Check... not the season for tropical thunderstorms and no threat of snow. Nearby golf courses for corporate clients? Check... at least a dozen in a 10-square-mile area around South Beach.

After last year's snowstorm in Detroit blanketed much of the partying leading up to the big indoor game, you could just sense the excitement of this year's thrill seekers to be able to wear Tommy Bahama shirts and lounge by hotel infinity pools.

I decided to blitz in on the action for my first sip of the Super Bowl bash. Here's how the drinks went down the night before nearly half the nation would click to CBS.

7:45 p.m. - Anticipating the major traffic jam ahead (city officials were said to be closing the MacArthur Causeway at 10 p.m.), I had a ride drop me off on South Beach. No less than a minute walking down 7th Street and Washington Avenue, I heard one girl blurt out to her friend walking behind me, "Everyone should have a threesome before they get married." Well, this was Super Bowl weekend - yet the worst one to be a hotel maid.

7:55 p.m. - I met up with my friend on 7th and Collins Avenue, a busy intersection that featured groupie-looking girls on every corner talking to blinged-out guys who all had their phones flipped open ready to take down digits. Neighboring hotels kept their front doors open like it was a red-light district. Passing cars and trucks had heads sticking out the windows screaming naughties to opposing fans. There were promotion flyers scattered all over the streets. Everyone walking around was staring down each other thinking, Who are you and how can I get to know you, or not? This was a once-in-a-year scene. As we headed toward Ocean Drive, I noticed what looked liked white grave stones in the grass near the strip's sidewalk. As we got closer, I saw a sign that said "Send The Troops Home" and realized that they were in fact prop graves stratified in rows like in a cemetery, representing soldiers who lost their lives in Iraq. A startling dichotomy from the frenetic streets to the somber sidewalk.

8:15 p.m. - Ocean Drive resembled Barcelona's Las Ramblas. No vehicles. All pedestrians. Mimes. Religious fanatics, like the group of people I saw preaching and holding a sign that read, "Homo sex is sin." (Note to former Heat star Tim Hardaway: South Beach is about 30 percent gay, buddy.) In addition, most of the restaurants extended their seating onto the street. Latin lounge, Mango's, attracted the most attention, or should I say their female employees who were wearing skin-tight, see-through leopard suits and salsa dancing outside the entrance. I looked around at all the tippy-toed onlookers trying to snap a picture and thought, No, fans, you're not in Chicago or Indianapolis anymore. Here, the person who was approaching you was more beautiful than the person who just passed you, and so on and so on.

8:30 p.m. - Several streets down we entered Motorola Mile, a walk through of South Florida Super Bowl history that included kiosks to buy memorabilia, an interactive football field and broadcast sets for ESPN, The NFL Network and the Best Damn Sports Show Period. None of the shows were on-air live, so we kept walking down the strip trying to spot out a celebrity or two, which was difficult because everyone was sandwiched in their own little entourage.

8:45 p.m. - After we turned around at 20th Street and headed back toward 5th Street where our party was located (more on this later), a group of about 10 girls stopped us in our tracks. They all had what looked like long thimbles on their middle fingers and they barked, "Are you finger up or are you finger down?" Immediately after, a few of them opened our sports jackets to look for something. After they checked (we didn't even have time to think for what), they said, "You guys are finger up!" Within a matter of 15 seconds, they were already past us. My friend and I looked at each other like, What the...? We presumed that they were basically telling us to f**k off because our fashion labels didn't play the part of their lofty goals for the night - whatever that was.

9:05 p.m. - We arrived at The Fifth nightclub for the evening's main event, Sports Illustrated's Club SI Super Bowl party. As we approached the check-in area, SI Swimsuit models Brooklyn Decker and Marisa Miller were driving up the red carpet in - how fittingly - a red 2007 Cadillac XLR Roadster (Cadillac was the presenting sponsor.) After we received our credentials, we hung around the entrance for about 20 minutes to take in the scene, but it was still early and there wasn't much excitement - even the media looked bored, desperate for a diva appearance. (Eventually, David Ortiz, Paul Rudd, Mickey Rourke, Leanna Tweeden, Miri Ben-Iri, Kenny Chesney and Archie Manning would all show up.)

9:30 p.m. - The club was glowing like a concert, and in fact there was a "performance" going on. The Indianapolis Colts cheerleaders were synchronize dancing to the club's tunes, spun by DJ Nice who was set up in a booth on the second level that was designed like the front of a white Cadillac. When we made our way to the bar, where CBS anchor Hannah Storm and MTV VJ Damien Fahey were making separate drink orders, we were bombarded by several hors d'oeuvre plates that looked like edible artwork. There was lamb, sushi, crab cakes, spring rolls, Kobe beef burgers and other decorated surf 'n' turf delights.

10:30 p.m. - Sports Illustrated Managing Editor Terry McDonell appeared on stage to call up his friend Jimmy Buffett who was joined by models Decker and Miller. Buffett introduced his new music video, "Getting The Picture," exclusively produced for the SI Swimsuit release (on newsstands now). The video features Buffett as the photographer shooting Decker and Miller in St. Barths. Right from the start, the "picture" Buffett is painting is dull; his first three lyrics are "Beach... sand... and water." For a man who's lived "Margaritaville" and "Cheeseburger In Paradise," there surely isn't enough mustard on the song.

11:45 p.m. - DJ Nice screamed over the speakers, "Welcome to the stage, Wyclef Jean!" The spotlight flashed to the railing by the DJ area where Wyclef (pictured) and a few of his dancers were walking down the stairs. This was the first time I saw Wyclef without his trademark dreadlocks. For the next 30 minutes or so, he was definitely "getting the picture" and we were all feeling his vibe, charisma, humor, eclectic song selection and guitar playing, especially when he did a rendition of Jimi Hendrix's "Star Spangled Banner" from the 1969 Woodstock music festival. I'm usually not a concert connoisseur, but I felt like I was magnetized to the stage, inching closer and closer with every beat while jumping up and down and waving my arms left and right. The last number engaged even more primitive insanity, like the stunningly hip and rhythmic dance scene from The Matrix Reloaded.

12:30 a.m. - Wyclef finished without an encore, but the stage - featuring Miami Dolphins cheerleaders dressed in scantily-clad, referee-looking gear - was free for any takers. My friend and I stepped on board and danced like two college freshmen out for their first night on campus until the party ended at 2 a.m.

Nearly two weeks later, I'm still shaking my head over the meaning of "finger up, finger down." But what I do know is this: The city expected to filter in around $350 million for hosting the Super Bowl and the NFL Experience (an interactive football event), in addition to concerts, art shows and a beach volleyball tournament. In the end, the financial gains totaled more than $500 million, and there were no major criminal incidents during the weekend. I give that two huge fingers up!