Martin has a rare circulatory disease in his right leg that makes walking difficult. His successful 1998 lawsuit against the PGA, citing workplace access provisions in the Americans With Disabilities Act, allowed him to become the first player to ride a cart in the U.S. Open and on the PGA Tour. The PGA maintains that walking the course is part of the athletic competition of a golf tournament, and riding creates an unfair advantage because those who walk become more fatigued than those who ride.

“This case is not about Casey Martin, but rather the PGA Tour’s ability to set and implement the rules of its competition,” said a statement by the tour, which is always careful not to sound anti-disabled guy when it’s trying to bounce Martin. The decision favoring Martin was upheld by an appeals court in March.

Martin earned his way onto the PGA Tour in October by finishing in the top 15 in the Nike Tour. But if riding gives Martin an unfair advantage, he hasn’t capitalized on it at the top level: He has made the cut only eight times in 15 tournaments, and hasn’t finished better than a 17th-place tie. He’s 161st on the money list, and he’ll lose his tour card if he doesn’t move up to the top 125.

Two similar cases have raised the same issues without getting the same notoriety as Martin’s case has received. An Indiana club pro named Ford Olinger, who has a degenerative hip disease, sued the U.S. Golf Association in 1999 for the right to use a cart in U.S. Open qualifying. He lost. The judge ruled that Olinger, unlike Martin, was not being denied access to his workplace. Olinger used a walker in the qualifying round, but failed to advance. The decision in Olinger’s case was also upheld by an appeals court in March, and the PGA Tour says it expects him to ask the Supreme Court for a review as well.

And in Austin, Texas, last month, a federal judge ordered the USGA to allow JaRo Jones, a club pro with post-polio syndrome and neuromuscular atrophy, to use a cart in qualifying for the U.S. Senior Open. The Senior Tour allows its members to use carts.

Those cheering Martin on in his twin struggles to overcome his own disability and the PGA’s attempts to keep him off the tour can take comfort in another thing Twain may or may not have said: “By trying, we can easily learn to endure adversity. Another man’s, I mean.”

Another theme is oh please God no not designated hitters! Several readers wrote impassioned e-mails arguing against career DHs — Edgar Martinez, Frank Thomas and Jose Canseco were the ones mentioned Monday — ever being allowed to darken the door of Cooperstown.

While I’m no fan of the DH rule, it is a rule, and guys shouldn’t be punished for playing a legal position. Besides, I don’t buy the “all-around players only” argument. Let’s say Frank Thomas goes out and plays an indifferent first base for the next decade instead of being a DH. Would that keep him out of the Hall if he continues to put up monster numbers? No. So if mediocre defense wouldn’t keep a guy out, I don’t think no defense at all should.

I should take back one thing I wrote on Monday: In trying to make my admittedly eccentric argument that a guy should get in to the Hall for doing “a hell of a thing” — Roger Maris, Maury Wills — I mentioned that because of the consecutive-game streak I had no problem with the consistent but not dominant Cal Ripken Jr. getting in. As some of you pointed out, Ripken, a two-time MVP who consistently put up huge numbers for a shortstop, even before the current offensive inflation, was a dominant player in his prime. Streak or no, he’s in.

Some of you defended Robin Yount too. Well: I suppose. Will kids ever stare up in awe at Yount’s plaque? Maybe so. Not my kids though!

Otherwise, people seemed to more or less agree with my opinions to an alarming degree.

Anyway, here’s a list of players whom at least a few readers believe I left out of the last two columns, each with a comment by me. I know I said it’s your turn, but I get the last word because I’m the guy doing the typing. Get your own gig.

Craig Biggio: He’s a fine all-around player who moved from catcher to second base after four years in the majors, which is impressive. I think he’s just that next level down from Hall of Famer, but I wouldn’t be offended if he got in.

Will Clark: His first five full years in San Francisco were Cooperstown quality, but since then he has been just another pretty-good-hitting first baseman. Sweetest swing around, but not a Hall of Famer.

David Cone: Not enough really good years. No.

Andres Gallarraga: Lots of mediocre years in Montreal and St. Louis, and inflated stats from playing at Coors Field for five years. He doesn’t make it.

Mark Grace: I was surprised at how many people suggested him. Not nearly enough pop for a first baseman to be considered for Cooperstown. His career offensive numbers are distressingly similar to those of longtime utilityman Tony Phillips.

Jeff Kent: He’s hitting like second basemen just don’t hit, but he didn’t really come into his own until he was 29. If the three and a half great years he has had stretch into nine or 10, he’ll be an excellent candidate, but he’d have to keep this up till he was pushing 40.

John Smoltz: He had two spectacular seasons (1996 and ’98), but otherwise has been the kind of guy who’d typically go 15-12 while playing for the best team in baseball. A good, solid pitcher, but not a Hall of Famer.

Omar Vizquel: A very intriguing suggestion. The Ohioans who are campaigning for this slick-fielding Indians shortstop on the “if Ozzie Smith, why not Omar Vizquel?” ticket are on to something. Like Smith, a likely Hall of Famer when he becomes eligible, Vizquel doesn’t do much in the way of offense, but, like Smith, he’s the dominant fielder of his era at the toughest position. He needs to shine for a few more years, but if he does, I’d vote for him.

John Wetteland: I had kind of forgotten about him. A tough call, as relievers generally are. He hasn’t been very good the past two years, and one wonders whether at 33 that’s a permanent trend. On the other hand, before that he was excellent for seven years, which for a relief pitcher is about two lifetimes. I wouldn’t mind putting him in.

Simpson’s line is that the American people just haven’t heard his story, and that when we do, we’ll believe he’s innocent. But who doesn’t know O.J.’s version of events? That he was framed by the Los Angeles Police Department and various friends of Nicole, especially Faye Resnick, who lied at his trial, and that his wife and Goldman were killed by denizens of the shadowy, drug-infested nightlife world he says they inhabited.

Why anyone would pay $9.95 to hear him repeat this stuff is beyond me. They could contribute it to my reward fund instead.

Couric read from Simpson’s famous post-verdict statement: “When things have settled down a bit I will pursue as my primary goal in life the killer or killers who slaughtered Nicole and Mr. Goldman. They are out there somewhere. Whatever it takes to identify them and bring them in, I will provide somehow.” She asked him with a straight face but barely masked hostility how the search was going.

The years have gone by and not a single clue has turned up, despite Simpson’s no-doubt constant search for the — is that them over there?! — real killers. He told Couric that some new information came in just last week, but he couldn’t discuss it.

When Couric suggested that most Americans think his supposed search for the real killers is a joke, Simpson made a Freudian slip. That’s why we watch him now, isn’t it? We’re waiting for him to mess up, to accidentally admit that he did it, or just to break down, “Perry Mason” style, and tearfully shriek a confession.

“If you think I’m innoc … guilty,” he said, “why isn’t NBC, you, putting up a reward? You would like to find who did this if I didn’t do it, wouldn’t you? You have more money than I.” He delivered his response in that calm, sleepy-eyed, half-smiling manner he’s developed since his trial, which has turned him into a truly creepy guy, guilty or no. “Why wouldn’t you want to donate something to a reward to find these killers? And if you think I did it, you’ll never lose your money. You can’t lose a dime.”

Here’s what I think: I think O.J.’s canned answer is insultingly glib. NBC is not in the law enforcement business, and its unwillingness to put up reward money to find mythical “real killers” proves nothing. (Although its willingness to have him on the “Today” show proves the network is not above using Simpson’s shock value to juice its ratings.) I think a guy who didn’t do it wouldn’t say things like “You would like to find who did this if I didn’t do it, wouldn’t you?” I think NBC did find the real killer, when it booked O.J. Simpson to sit in that big armchair and talk to Katie Couric.

I also think O.J.’s a pretty smart guy, and I think he knows what he’s doing. He knows that television is the magic elixir, the great American “everything’s OK” machine. He knows there’s a reasonable chance that if he puts his face on television every once in a while — not too often — people will slowly but surely come to like him again, to feel like they know him and understand him, maybe even, eventually, love him. Maybe, little by little, he’ll go from being that guy who whacked his ex-wife and got away with it to being that serious, earnest, gracefully aging but still handsome fellow with the pained expression, the one who always has to defend himself against people who just won’t let the past die. He’s on TV. He seems so nice. Let’s get his autograph.

And somehow the real killers will escape capture. I just know it. Those bums.

At least my $50.31 is safe.

Victories are just about meaningless for relievers, since they depend on your team coming from behind during the time when you happen to be in the game. Blowing the lead in the top of an inning can lead to your picking up a win in the bottom half.

For starting pitchers, victories are a little better as an accurate measure, but still a bit shaky because they’re dependent on things other than the pitcher’s performance. The same solid outing can get a pitcher a 6-2 win or a 2-0 loss. A pitcher on a good team will get more wins than a similar hurler on a bad one.

But since it’s rare for a pitcher to spend an entire long career with only good teams or only bad ones, the inequities tend to even out over the long term. Wins aren’t a perfect measure of a starter’s effectiveness, but they’re not a bad one either. The absolute magic number of wins for Hall of Fame induction is 300. All 20 men who have won 300 games are in the Hall. The 21st and 22nd on the all-time win list, Tommy John (288 wins) and Bert Blyleven (287), are not.

One more note on wins: Traditionally, the benchmark of a good starting pitcher was 20 wins. That continues to be the figure, but it shouldn’t be, because in the past quarter century teams have gone from four-man to five-man starting rotations. Today’s starters generally take the ball about 85 percent as many times as starters did before the mid-’70s, so the measure of excellence should be 17 wins in a season, 255 in a career.

Finally, earned run average continues to be an excellent, if not perfect, measure of a pitcher’s performance.

As we did Monday, we’ll ignore young hotshots who haven’t been around long enough to merit serious consideration.

Kevin Brown: A late bloomer, probably too late for the Hall of Fame. He has been outstanding for the past five years, but he was 31 when that stretch started, and before that he was more potential than performance.

Roger Clemens: Five Cy Young Awards, an MVP, 255 wins, 3,421 strikeouts (eighth on the all-time list). Any questions?

John Franco: He’s the active leader in saves with 419, trailing only Lee Smith on the all-time list. But like I said, saves is a virtually meaningless statistic. On the other hand, Franco is the active leader in ERA, with a stunning 2.66 mark. Of the 48 pitchers whose career ERA is within a 10th of a run of Franco’s, only three (Tom Henke, Dave Smith and Whitey Ford) pitched after World War II. In Franco’s 17 years, his ERA has poked above 3.00 only four times, including this year (3.18), at age 39, and two years ago (3.62). He’s in.

Tom Glavine: He has mostly been overshadowed by Greg Maddux since leading the Braves to back-to-back National League pennants in the early ’90s, but he continues to be a very good pitcher. He’s a four-time 20-game winner who has 11 so far this year. He’s not there yet, but he’s still only 34, and may yet quietly build an undeniable case for induction.

Randy Johnson: Tough call. Since 1997, he has been dominant, winning 20, 19, 17 and, so far, 15 games while keeping his ERA mostly under 3.00. Before that, though, he was just a big wild strikeout artist who’d had one good season (1993, when he was 19-8 with a 3.24 ERA) and one incredible one (18-2, 2.48 in ’95). He’ll be 37 at the end of the year, so the clock is ticking, but if he can keep up anything like his current pace for another couple of years, he’ll be in.

Greg Maddux: Yup. He has won 17 or more eight times (he has won 20 twice), and he has 233 lifetime wins. He’s a four-time Cy Young Award winner, a four-time ERA champ and a 10-time Gold Glove winner.

Pedro Martinez: He’s on one of the most remarkable runs in baseball history. Since 1997 he’s 70-22 (a .761 winning percentage) while playing for teams that have gone 315-267 (.541). And that’s not the remarkable part. Here’s the remarkable part: His ERA over that stretch is 2.14. This during a time when offensive numbers are over the moon, and an ERA of 4.00 is considered respectable. Martinez is only 28, so it’s a bit early to talk about the Hall of Fame, but barring injury or Dwight Gooden-style personal meltdown, he looks like a lock.

Mike Mussina: Building a case. He has won 17 four times, and has a lifetime ERA of 3.53, which is pretty good in this era. Only 31, he has won 142 games. He’s also a good fielder. Time will tell.

Curt Schilling: I wouldn’t mention him, but I’d get e-mails wondering why not. So: He has been good since ’97 (though not so hot this year), but he was 30 in ’97, and before that, he just had one decent year.

David Wells: He has pitched reasonably well for good teams and won a lot of games over the past four years, but he hasn’t been spectacular, and before that he was a journeyman. And he’s 37. An interesting character, but a prime candidate for most overrated player in baseball, and certainly not a Hall of Famer.

Whom have I left out? I’ll collect your comments about players and pitchers in a separate column soon.

The first test case may be Jose Canseco. He has 439 home runs and 1,331 RBIs, and at 36 he’s still hitting when he’s healthy. But he’s widely perceived as a guy who hasn’t lived up to his otherworldly abilities, an indifferent fielder who doesn’t really help the teams he plays for. He just hits a lot of home runs.

First, the obvious choices — guys who, if their careers ended today, would still be a lock: Tony Gwynn, Rickey Henderson, Mark McGwire, Barry Bonds and Cal Ripken Jr.

Next we consider guys who look like they’re on their way to the Hall of Fame but just haven’t played long enough yet. We’ll ignore young hotshots like Chipper Jones and the amazing American League shortstop trio (Alex Rodriguez, Derek Jeter and Nomar Garciaparra) on the grounds that you need to have played on a high level for a decade or so to even be included in conversations like this one.

Roberto Alomar: A dazzling second baseman, the yearly Gold Glove winner and a perennial All-Star. He’s a solid hitter who had a monster season in ’99 (120 RBIs, 26 more than his previous career high) and is slumping this year. His offense alone wouldn’t get him in, but factoring in the glove, he’s on his way.

Jeff Bagwell: He’s 32 and just chugging along as one of the game’s most feared hitters. Assuming he stays healthy and keeps it up for four or five more years, he’s in.

Albert Belle: Sure, nobody likes him, but this guy’s driven in 121 runs per year since becoming a regular player. If he has three or four more good seasons and doesn’t get in (both likely), it’ll be because of politics.

Juan Gonzalez: He has hit 40 or more homers five times and 100 or more RBIs seven times, and he’s only 30. He’s struggling a bit this year and is hurt at the moment, but this is a guy with a chance for 600 home runs.

Ken Griffey Jr.: My God, he’s only 30! He has averaged 36 homers and 104 RBIs per year, and that includes a strike year and a year when he was out for half the season with an injury. And those averages will be higher after this season. The question isn’t really whether he’ll get into the Hall, it’s whether he’ll break Hank Aaron’s career records. Oh, and he’s as good as anybody in center field.

Mike Piazza: One of the best hitting catchers of all time. He’s 31, and it’s just a matter of staying healthy long enough to build up the numbers.

Ivan Rodriguez: He’s only 28, so he has to put more numbers up, but I’m ready to order his plaque already. He just about qualifies on his defense alone. Add in a lifetime average of .304 and decent power numbers (inflated the past two years), and we might be looking at the greatest catcher ever.

Frank Thomas: One of the best ever at on-base percentage, and averaging more than 100 RBIs a season. At 32 and having bounced back from a subpar year in 1999, he’s just a few good years away.

That brings us to my favorite category: the intriguing maybes. These are the guys you argue about when that sixth inning just drags on and on …

Harold Baines: For 20 years, he has gone out and hit about .300 with about 20 homers and about 80 RBIs. Sometimes a little better, sometimes not quite that, but right around there. At 41, it looks like he might finally be slowing down (.276, 10 homers, 29 RBIs), and if he retires after this year, he’ll finish with just under 3,000 hits and 400 home runs, but more than 1,600 RBIs.

You could reasonably vote either way, but I’ll say thumbs down, because he was never really dominant, and I think you have to be dominant at some point in your career to get in. Just being consistently good, but not dominant, over a really long period doesn’t get it for me, which is why I wasn’t thrilled by the inductions of Don Sutton and Robin Yount in recent years. Your mileage may vary.

Jose Canseco: See above for numbers. I vote yes. What the hell. I love the big oaf. If he’d come into the league with no expectations and had the exact same career, he’d be a lock for the Hall of Fame. You shouldn’t be excluded just because you didn’t live up to your supposed potential. (For those of you about to send me an e-mail, please restrict your comments to my intelligence, and let’s leave my mother out of this, OK?)

Barry Larkin: Tough call. He’s got middle-infielder-type numbers (fewer than 200 homers and 900 RBIs, now in his 15th year), and we’re now in an era when middle infielders have Ruthian stats. On the other hand: three Gold Gloves, an MVP and 11 times an All-Star. He has been the gold standard for National League shortstops for a decade. He’s in.

Edgar Martinez: Great hitter, but he started too late. He was 27 before he began hitting, in 1990, and 32 when his power numbers went up in 1995. If he plays well into his 40s and pads his career numbers he might have an outside chance, but he’s still a few years away from his 2,000th hit.

Fred McGriff: He’s over 400 home runs, and he’s having a good year at 36. Right now I say he just misses: never quite dominant enough. But I think it’s likely he’ll be around long enough to end with the kind of stats that’ll get him in.

Rafael Palmeiro: He has had at least 37 homers and 104 RBIs in six of the past seven years (the seventh was the strike year). He’ll get to and well above those magic numbers of 400 and 1,500, and he’d been playing for seven years by the time offensive inflation hit in 1993. He has hit .300 or better six times. He was also a great first baseman when he was younger. At 36, he’s still hitting. One more good year after this one and there oughta be no question.

Gary Sheffield: When he’s on, as he is this year, this guy is Cooperstown-quality stuff. But he has had too many unproductive seasons. He’s still only 31, so several more ridiculous years like the one he’s having this season might boost him into consideration, but what are the odds on several more ridiculous years?

Sammy Sosa: He’s been a home run titan for three years, but he’s been hitting in earnest for eight, since he was 24. If he hits homers and drives in runs for the next four years (till he’s 35) like he has for the past four, he’ll be at about 600 and 1,650, and that’ll be plenty.

Besides, he hit 60-plus home runs two years in a row, which is a hell of a thing. I say you get in for doing a hell of a thing, which is why I have no argument with the consistent but not dominant Ripken (a hell of a consecutive-games streak), and why I think Maury Wills (a record 104 stolen bases in 1962; changed the way the game is played) ought to be in.

Mo Vaughn: He’s only 32 but he seems older, doesn’t he? If he puts up numbers over the next five years like he has over the past eight, he’s got a shot, but I don’t think he will. Do you?

Larry Walker: His huge numbers in the late ’90s were inflated by Coors Field. He doesn’t make it.

Bernie Williams: A wonderful player with all the skills, but he’s on that next level down from Hall of Famer.

Matt Williams: A great home run hitter who might have threatened Roger Maris’ single-season record four years before McGwire did if the strike hadn’t ended the season. Also a great third baseman. But he has been hurt too much, and he won’t finish with the required numbers.

Whom have I left out?

Tuesday we’ll consider pitchers.

“Them” is the Taco Bell Corp., which announced this week that it’s dropping the popular pup from its advertising campaign. The change came as part of a corporate shakeup that also saw the fast-food chain’s president, Peter C. Waller, replaced by former Wendy’s executive Emil Brolick.

“You know how I found out about it?” the Chihuahua says, lighting yet another. “I heard it on the radio. These ‘morning zoo’ bozos were joking about it. ‘Yo quiero a new job, ha ha ha.’ Very funny, assholes. I mean, this is my life we’re talking about here, and I have to hear it from these jerks on the radio.”

The Chihuahua speaks softly, and his streetwise accent isn’t as pronounced as it is on TV. Though obviously fit in that gym-buffed, Southern California way, and just as cute in person as he is on the tube, he looks like he’s been up for two days.

He shot to stardom two years ago with the success of his Taco Bell ads, which featured his trademark slogan, “Yo quiero Taco Bell.” The adorable pooch was seemingly everywhere, with plush Chihuahua toys selling by the millions at Taco Bell stores. It was quite a rise for the former stray who grew up on the hard streets of Pacoima, a dozen miles up the Golden State Freeway — and a whole world away — from the bright lights of Hollywood.

As the Chihuahua talks about that initial flash of success — the critically acclaimed “Godzilla” tie-in spot with its “Heeeeere, lizard lizard lizard” line — and the minor drug and legal problems that followed, a young couple driving past in a small pickup honks and hollers, “Wooo! Drop the chalupa!”

“Hey, drop this on your mother’s ugly ass!” the Chihuahua yells, then immediately buries his face in his paws. “Jesus, what am I doing? They probably don’t even know yet. I’m just trying to deal, you know?”

The Chihuahua says he’d been planning to stay with the Taco Bell commercials for at least another year or so, then try to move into feature films. “I get scripts all the time,” he says, “but it’s all ‘Ace Ventura’ wannabe crap, or some kind of boy and his dog bullshit. I don’t want to do that stuff, man. I want to do real stories, about real dogs and real people, you know? Stories about dogs like me, or the dogs I grew up with in the Valley. But nobody’s doing that stuff.

“I’ve been thinking about writing something myself, but I wasn’t expecting to have to think about all this for a year or so. Now I have to make some money. Everybody thinks I’m rich because I’m on TV all the time, but it doesn’t really work that way. The money was just starting to come in for real,” he says, then stops short, leaving unstated an accusation that this was the real reason behind his sudden firing.

“Writing’s never been easy for me,” he says, gazing at the hills. “Just the typing part is really hard for a dog.”

It’s clear the Chihuahua is trying to focus on the future, to fight the bitterness he’s feeling toward Taco Bell, but it keeps seeping back into the conversation. “You know that ‘I gotta get a bigger box’ line in the Godzilla spot? I ad-libbed that. Fuckin’ made the spot. No thank you, no little bonus, not even a doggie bag,” he says, his voice trailing off. He sits staring at the passing cars, pulling on his cigarette. The faintest little dog whine can be heard above the traffic noise.

“I’ve been going to this yoga guy,” he says, finally, as he hops down from the bench to leave. “It’s really helped me stay calm through all of this.”

“Still,” he says with a wink, “it’s really hard to resist talking about how ironic it is that Taco Bell’s been using a dog in its commercials, if you know what I mean.”

And with that he trots off down the sidewalk, toward home, toward the uncertain future that always awaits icons of popular culture.