Mom used to rag at me for spending so much time reading sports pages. Said I ought to devote every bit as much attention to other parts of the newspaper.

In frustration, she talked to one of my junior high teachers, who said, in effect: “Leave him alone. At least he’s reading a lot. Too many kids aren’t reading anything; if they don’t they won’t get a decent education.”

She agreed with Mom that there were many other good things I should be taking note of, but until an epiphany of literary diversity possessed me, I was accomplishing something productive.

The pedagogue noted that the sports pages offered: the chance to peruse good writing and language skills (from the likes of Grantland Rice, C.E. McBride and Ernie Mehl); lessons in geography (where schools are and how to spell the names of the locations, players — including Notre Dame’s and Fordham’s Polish guys — and mascots); mathematics in figuring batting averages, won-lost records and other statistics; all sorts of valuable material that might keep me from becoming a street-sweeper.

Things like front-page stuff, editorial and opinion-page material, Dickens’ classics, Marilyn Stokstad’s art history, these and other treasures would all grab me later, said the teacher. They did, though never as soon or as voluminous as I’d prefer.

But think how much more a kid with a steady diet of sports page material gets today. You find data on legal activities when some jock runs afoul of the law and the lawyers and the courts get involved. How about high finance, with contracts, salaries, delayed compensation, bond issues for arenas, architectural projects, gambling, packages for international players like Yao Ming? … Man, I could explain the infield fly rule a lot quicker than I can elaborate on a salary cap or a playoff structure.

Medical news? You learn about surgery, diagnoses, ACLs, aneurysms, MCLs, tilted uteruses, subcutaneous tissue, epididymitis, shoulder structure, sacroiliac alignment. And that’s just for the grade school kids.

There are social-action projects running out your ears when you scan today’s sports sections. What about women at Augusta, what about men in the shower room at the YWCA, pacifist athletes who show up to protest when some other jock and halter-top hard-liners are toting “Beat Iraq” signs?

There even are some friendly and positive stories and columns about coaches, players, parents, friends and the like. You know, real news and features. But (here come those lawyers again) somebody’s always suing somebody about something; sometimes it’s even relevant.

Yep, Mommas, you may not want your kids to grow up to be newspaper people or cowboys-cowgirls. But you can do a lot worse than letting them avoid those god-awful video games and television trash if they’re reading the sports pages.

Often the expertise of today’s writers is a far cry from the Jim Murrays and Bob Considines of the past. Yet it’s still good enough to help youngsters read their way to a good education — it all begins with reading.

And you can do a whale of a lot worse than my current darlings, Rick Reilly and Dave Barry (whose Olympic pieces were better than anything else, including most of the events.)

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So, I understand, Terence Newman (Salina) and Darren Sproles (Olathe) of Kansas State were KU-eager as high schoolers, but Terry Allen and his people muffed it somewhere. Newman first committed to KU, then changed. He’s an All-American defensive back and kick returner this year, and a terrific sprinter.

The 5-foot-6, 175-pound Sproles might become a Heisman Trophy candidate before he’s through slashing and jitterbugging in Big 12 circles. The Allenites must have figured he was too little or that his grades weren’t kosher. Whatever, KU lost a couple gems.

New coach Mark Mangino and Co. aren’t likely to make mistakes like that. Getting the likes of Lawrence’s Brandon McAnderson and KC Schlagle’s Rashaad Norwood indicates they are hustling to clean house on football prospects from around here. Lots of distance yet to travel, but the recruiting process looks promising.

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“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Been in love with that number since January of 1945 when a group of us B-24 bomber guys went to a Norwich, England, theater to see “Meet Me in St. Louis.” We’d all been away from our families at Christmas 1944, were homesick and ripe for a massive nostalgia fix.

When the incomparable Judy Garland sang “Have Yourself” . . . to little Margaret O’Brien, I think, you should have seen the tears and heard the sniffles that hard-bitten group tried to hide.

They used to say there were no atheists in foxholes; I can tell you there wasn’t a dry eye among that gang that afternoon. It’s remained my favorite Christmas song, along with “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?”. Whether you like her or not, Barbra Streisand does both marvelously.

So “hang a shining star upon the highest bough, and have yourself a Merry Little Christmas now.” Add a Wondrous Spree in Zero-Three!

Submitted with deep feeling and appreciation for all the readers who have been so tolerant and helpful to me for so long.