by Mark Kriegel

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The position has become the greatest haven for trash-talkers, self-promoters and prima donnas in all of American sports. I'm referring to guys like Terrell Owens, Chad Johnson, Randy Moss, Keyshawn Johnson and Michael Irvin, who, it's worth mentioning, is alone among the five in being universally recognized as a great teammate. I suspect you need their kind of ego (though not necessarily the mouth) to catch a pass over the middle of the field, to fear not that blow from the blind side. Certainly Shockey never begrudged the beatings he took. Just the same, he'd whine about the balls not thrown his way.

Despite the imposing physique and all his biker-chic body art, Shockey wasn't unlike that snot-nosed kid you may recall from your touch football days. He was always open. You didn't have to ask him, either; he'd tell you.

Shockey wasn't a bad teammate, but he wasn't an especially good one, either. And by the time he went down with a broken fibula last December, the Giants weren't about to mourn his loss. I'm not talking about the management or coaching staff with whom he'd regularly feud. I'm talking about his fellow players. It's as if they already knew what he did not. No one could argue with his talent. But they didn't need him anymore.

The great egos are tolerated, even celebrated, as long as they're cost-effective. But Shockey, the 14th pick in the 2002 draft, never developed into the franchise player he was forecast to be, that game-breaking receiver who came off the line. There were glimpses of greatness, of course. But as it happened, his first season with the Giants, in which he won Rookie of the Year honors, proved to be his best. He wouldn't catch 70 balls again. He'd never play a full 16-game season. Most damning, of course, was the fact that the Giants would go on to win the Super Bowl without him.

Now, having been traded for second- and fifth-round picks in 2009, Jeremy Shockey has a choice. He can play ball or party in New Orleans. The decision is all his. And after that Super Bowl, so is the burden of proof.

Four days before that championship game, I asked Eli Manning if he had spoken to Shockey since the team's arrival in Arizona.

"I've not spoken to Jeremy this week," said Manning, before adding none too convincingly, "Uh, so, I'll try to talk to him sometime."

In fact, Manning — who flourished, unadmonished, in Shockey's absence — hadn't even seen him. Nor did he care to. What's more, outside of a few reporters who could've used the smart-ass quotes, nobody seemed to miss him.

Think about it: The Giants actually decided to quarantine him in a luxury box for the duration of Super Bowl XLII. You can talk about Shockey not going to the White House or getting into a shouting match with general manager Jerry Reese, but that was all postscript. The end came Feb. 3 in that luxury box, where Shockey was forced to watch as Manning earned the Super Bowl MVP. A receiver like Shockey can endure broken bones, but never a bruised ego.

On the Mark

It's become obvious that Danica Patrick was born decades too late.

I mean, just think what she might have done in roller derby.

Milka. It does a body good. (Jonathan Fickies / Getty Images)

Congrats to Carl Edwards. Not only did you win a Nationwide race, you're the driver who looks most like John Elway.

Watching the British Open, I didn't know if Greg Norman could really turn back the clock until he bogeyed those first three holes on Sunday.

Guess it really is like riding a bike.

As for the rest of the PGA Tour, if you can't beat a 53-year-old who hasn't played a major in three years, how are you ever going to beat Tiger?

Just when it seemed as if there's been real progress combating drug abuse in Los Angeles, you turn on the radio and hear guys talking about a Dodgers-Angels World Series.

Fox News reported that Tim Donaghy called a fellow ref more than 100 times while providing information to gamblers last season.

So why hasn't David Stern called a press conference to berate the media?

Speaking of Fox News, Greta Van Susteren's interview with Brett Favre had more episodes than "Roots."

Why is every Batman movie the darkest one ever?

All-Star redux: Billy Wagner gave up the lead so fast I could've sworn Willie Randolph was managing the National League.

If you're a kid who got to stay up for the game's thrilling 15th-inning finish, chances are your mommy's on crystal meth.

Ordinal out of range

Speaking of mommies, if I'm advising Danica's newest nemesis, I'm telling her to adopt a kid and start going by the name Milfa Duno.

When exactly does Michelle Wie's career take off? Really, now, the girl's starting to make Kournikova look like Steffi Graf.

If Yankee Stadium is such a living monument, then how come everyone's in such a hurry to tear it down?

Big question in New York is whether the Knicks' first-round pick, Danilo Gallinari, is a "mammoni."

A "mammoni" is an adult male who lives at home with his mother despite possessing all the resources to live on his own. This unique arrangement, common in Italy, was explored by Lesley Stahl in a "60 Minutes" piece several years ago.

If memory serves, Stahl interviewed an accomplished 30-something bachelor who explained his rationale thusly:

She cook. She clean. She no talk.

A-Rod, are you listening?