So, Ricky Williams would rather smoke left-handed cigarettes than play for my Miami Dolphins.

Ryan Suchomel Sports Opinion

Well, I hope he chokes on the bong water.

Really, that's just my inner fan talking. Ricky is a grown man. He's able to choose his own path in life.

But he quit on his team.

And even in today's mercenary, give-me-the-(expletive deleted)-ball world of the NFL, that still has to mean something.

It means Williams is selfish.

And given the fact that he started to think about retiring during the previous season and all but made up his mind earlier this year makes his timing even more selfish.

As a Dol-fan, I still envision him retiring in February, Miami using the cap space to sign a competent offensive lineman or two, then adding Oregon State's Stephen Jackson in the draft. (All apologies to Fred Russell, who landed on the Dolphin depth chart.)

Having that done back in April would give me a lot warmer feeling than hearing, "Now A.J. Feeley can really open up the offense."

Alas, Williams didn't retire back in March. Instead he left the game days before the start of training camp. That in itself makes any comparisons to Jim Brown, Barry Sanders or Robert Smith absurd.

They all left the game with plenty left in their tanks. They didn't want to run out the string, or end up in a wheelchair at 40. Brown wanted to act, Smith wanted to go back to school and Sanders had simply had enough.

Williams quit. And his main motivation, the read-between-the-lines motivation, was that he wanted the freedom to be able to smoke pot.

Forget, for a moment, that marijuana is illegal. Forget that almost every employer outside of High Times tests its employees (presumably to discourage its use).

And forget that Ricky, presumably, has millions of dollars to burn.

That is a dang fool way to spend your life.

I've known people whose motivating factor in life is getting to the next hit off their favorite pipe.

You probably know them, too. They hold a job for the sole purpose of having enough money to buy weed and Cheetos. They don't venture outside unless it's a trip to White Castle or a Pink Floyd laser light show.

... Now, to avoid infuriating most of the Frisbee golfers in the area, let me state that smoking an occasional fat chronic blunt isn't a big crime. I'm not sure it should be legalized, but some of the arguments toward that end make a lot of sense. ...

It is a waste for anyone to spend their life that way, taking a toke every day and drifting by dazed and confused. And it seems more so that a potential Hall of Fame running back would want to.

In the end, it's clear that Ricky doesn't care about his teammates, the fans or anybody else connected with football.

I'm sure that's not going to make a lot of difference to Ricky as he travels the globe, jet-setting with the likes of Lenny Kravitz, carousing on white sand beaches wherever hippie cigarettes are sold.

But he owes a lot of money back for not playing out his contract. He probably can't live the high life forever.

When that day comes, when he no longer can find piles of money in his dashboard, I hope he doesn't try a return to football.

Instead, I hope Sports Illustrat-ed does a "where are they now" feature and he's living in a basement apartment, working at White Castle and trying to score pot with autographed memorabilia.

Think the egg on the frying pan was effective? Ricky will be the perfect public service announcement.