Lincicome: Is this too much to ask for sports in 2026?

Now that the year 2025 has been sent off for frequent flagrant fouls, here are some of the things I would like to see in 2026.

Fewer pallbearers.

The Bush’s Boca Raton Bowl of Beans to not forget the cole slaw.

I would like to see Alex Ovechkin try to make anyone forget Wayne Gretzky.

Fewer customers at the United Center spending the game taking selfies while Matas Buzelis misses another 3.

A college football championship game between Indiana and Mississippi played with each team wearing glass slippers.

I would like to see Senior Gymnastics (anyone over 14).

Caitlin Clark doing anything.

Pete Crow-Armstrong do something.

I would like to see a kid ask for an autograph without first checking its resale value.

A StairMaster that leads down.

The saucer that fits under the World Cup.

I would like to see the end of sports that need music, collections of slow-motion misplays and pay-per-view.

I would like to offer a quiet, but sincere, thanks to FIFA for its sense of humor in creating a peace prize trophy whose recipient does not get the joke.

I’d like to see multimedia scoreboards just shut up and show the score.

At today’s salaries, rather than a salary cap, I’d like it called a salary sombrero.

I’d like anyone to deny that the best way to get someone to return your call is to get into the shower.

Fewer celebrations for making a first down.

DJ Moore make another catch.

Less greed, more joy.

Caleb Williams land on his feet, or throw the football overhand, whichever is more natural.

I’d like to see Shohei Ohtani stick out his tongue, waggle his ears and moon the umpire, just to prove he is human.

Revenue sharing called by its proper name, cutting up the loot.

I would like to hear everyone say, “Thank God,” the next time a sports figure insists he is not a role model.

Fewer sports agents, more sportsmen.

I would like to see somebody check the bindings on Aaron Rodgers' straitjacket.

A paraglider land with both feet on top of a Packer a day.

The White Sox explain to a working teacher, night nurse or fireman why Andrew Benintendi is worth $75 million or, better yet, the Cubs explain why Dansby Swanson is worth $177 million.

I would like to see Ben Johnson look up from his game chart.

People who will not believe anything that is podcast.

A major-league city where it costs less to park the car than to rent it.

Agreement that with medical costs the way they are, nobody can be ill at ease.

Any marriage that begins with a proposal on the stadium scoreboard last longer than the starting pitcher does.

A humming bird that remembers the words.

I’d like to see my favorite get-well card be a fourth ace.

Zucchini not taste like it sounds.

Coffee that tastes better than it smells.

Repairmen who do not all keep their watches on Greenwich Mean Time.

I would like to see the meme for modern man be a figure drinking decaffeinated coffee with non-fat milk and artificial sweetener from a recycled paper cup.

Global warming be given a chance, especially in January.

I’d like to see Reality TV require testing, both drug and IQ.

A new national motto: If at first you don’t succeed, use the short form.

I will confess that after I collect my garbage, separate paper from glass, assign each to its proper container, bundle it and tie it and wheel it to the curb, it looks so nice I want to keep it.

Airplane seats that are made for sitting.

I’d like to find cell phones less annoying than secondhand smoke, but it is a tossup.

A basketball player without a tattoo be harder to find than a Frenchman with a breath mint.

Somebody try giving just the ring to the next jock who insists that the money doesn’t matter.

I would like to see Tiger Woods, now 50, play like he was 25.

A field official fire his pistol at the instant replay booth; just a warning shot, but break some glass.

Some locker-room missing link or accessorized clubhouse beauty thank the working press for, sincerely, you know, for working.

I am not holding my breath.