If some corporation somewhere ever designs a process for cloning sideline reporters – those blonde, curvy mike-gripping angels who know enough about sports to make conversation, but not enough to intimidate the menfolk – they would do well to start with Monica McAvoy. A goddess in a headset, Monica was the uber-sideline reporter, a blank-slate former woo-girl – the ones who scream “woo!” at every social event, of course – who teased you with the promise of both quality fantasy football advice and the very real possibility of athletic but not freaky sex.

And on this particular morning, she stood smiling in front of the Bootleggers’ stadium. “Thanks, Frank!” she bubbled, replying to a throw-over that wouldn’t be tossed for an hour from now, when Atlanta’s CBS affiliate sportscaster would alert the state that Rip Thackston was indeed gone.

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