Beano Cook once said that he would rather associate with Nazi war criminals than major-league baseball players. I'm younger than Beano, so I never met any Nazi war criminals. I know a few major-leaguers who should have summer homes in Argentina.

Love is a strong emotion. But when it comes to sports, hate is a lot more fun.

Hate gets your blood boiling and your adrenaline pumping. Hate never lets you down. If a team or player you love disappoints you, you feel depressed. But if a team or player you hate does something to further anger you, you just turn your existing feelings up a notch.

Barry Bonds strikes out? Serves him right! Bonds hits a home run? He's on steroids! Hate is just simpler.

If you're going to hate teams or athletes, though, make sure you hate for the right reasons.

Don't hate a player for being overpaid. It's not your money, and it's none of your business.

Jason Kendall is often a talk-show target because he's a singles hitter making $8 million per year en route to $13 million in 2007, the final season of his contract. Sure, he's overpaid. Yes, it makes it impossible for the Pirates to trade him.

But put yourself in his cleats. Say the owner of the 7-Eleven where you work gets wrecked on cough syrup and offers to make you the highest-paid Slurpee salesman on God's green earth. Free product, too. Darn right you're going to sign on the dotted line. Who cares about the jealousy of both colleague and customer? You're going to take the money and run! Or limp, in Kendall's case.

It should be everyone's goal to be overpaid. I'm overpaid and proud of it. (But not at this job. I deserve more. A heck of a lot more.)

Kendall is a hustling ballplayer. He seems like a decent fellow. If you want to hate him, hate him because he has been known to greet new Pirates by saying, "Welcome to Hell." Or because of that absurd Pat Meares shrine he used to preside over. But being overpaid by an idiot is a blessing we would all welcome.

Don't hate athletes because the media does. The personal interplay between jocks and those who pathetically traipse after them with notebooks and microphones is, again, simply none of your beeswax.

Near the end of Tom Barrasso's career in Pittsburgh, the PA at Mellon Arena used to play a burst of loud music immediately after each name in the Penguins' starting lineup was announced. Why? So you couldn't hear the spectators boo after Barrasso was introduced.

Make no mistake, Barrasso is a thoroughly detestable human being. Even his friends roll their eyes at mention of his name. He berated young players, his backups, assistant coaches and team employees. The only time Barrasso ever did the media any favors is when he refused to talk to us. When he did deign to grace us with words of wisdom, he was designated a hostile witness by the court.

Speaking on a personal level, Barrasso once swung the butt end of his stick at my head in the Mellon Arena runway. He missed by a mile, making the whole incident eerily reminiscent of that Tom Fitzgerald shot from center ice in '96. HAW, HAW, HAW, HAW!

But that doesn't mean you should have booed Barrasso. He didn't treat you like you smell bad. But Barrasso did get you two Stanley Cups that wouldn't have been possible without his goaltending. Media dislike for an athlete shouldn't translate into fan dislike for an athlete. He tortured us. He won for you.

The BALCO scandal poses this question: Should we hate athletes that cheat? What if steroid use was considered largely responsible for great athletic achievement? Would that diminish the accomplishment and cause you to despise the tarnished players?

Here's the Pittsburgh point of view: Steroids are good if they help you win a Super Bowl, bad if they help you break Mark McGwire's record.

If you want to hate an athlete for good reason, hate because of personal vendetta.

When I was 10, I was on a family vacation in Montreal, and the trip was supposed to include seeing the Pirates play a doubleheader at Jarry Park. I say "supposed to" because rain intervened, and since these were the last scheduled games of the series between the Pirates and Expos, we couldn't just go the next day.

By way of consolation, my mother took me to the Montreal airport to collect autographs from the departing Pirates. It was there that Pirates legend Willie Stargell spoke to my mother rudely and obscenely with no provocation whatsoever. Roberto Clemente overheard the outburst and was so shaken he fished a baseball out of his travel bag and signed it for me. I still have it. Anybody want to buy it?

Ever since, I hated Stargell. And loved Clemente all the more. But they're both dead now, so what's the difference?