Naked truth: MLB writers need more help than dress code

There's so much to obsess over in this world, like what Tim Tebow eats for breakfast. Yet Major League Baseball felt compelled Wednesday to take time to issue a shot across the slovenly bow of the media rabble that covers the game.

I am embarrassed - because it is necessary.

And because I wonder why it took so long for a sports league to issue "guidelines" to help clueless reporters dress themselves.

We can only hope a Garanimals starter outfit, issued with each press box credential, isn't far behind.

Don't get me wrong. Although the hackneyed mustard-stained wretch is a cliche for a reason, i.e. the M-SW does exist, the majority of working media, and I dare say most bloggers, at least present themselves in public arenas without underwear showing.

Those who employ underwear, I mean.

Baseball knows this. But clearly cautious of last year's NFL dustup between some New York Jets and a female TV reporter partial to, shall we say, an eye-catching wardrobe, MLB is now on record as against, among other faux pas, bare midriffs, see-through shirts, tank tops, torn jeans, way-teensy skirts and - I can't believe it had to specify this - team logos.

Blessedly, 1989 Rolling Stones "Steel Wheels" tour T-shirts escaped unilateral banishment.

Flip-flops are also now forbidden, supposedly on the grounds that Big Papi doesn't want to catch whatever cooties are jumping off our feet.

Now, whether baseball teams will circulate flip-flop police through clubhouses and defrock foot-flashers is doubtful. But if they do, let me just say one of the most recognizable broadcasters in the game, who I once spied in sport coat and the thinnest of flip-flops, better watch his sunburned toes.

That's the thing, of course. The road to MLB's sudden sartorial strong-arming is paved with an unchecked tradition of ink-smudged Dockers and moldy Chuck Taylor high-tops, passed down from when press boxes quit being filled with hats and cigar smoke.

It's just that nobody's ever stopped to lead the modern notebook brigade by its runny nose until Mother MLB stepped in and basically hollered at the media, "You are not leaving this house wearing that."

I say thank you ma'am, may we have another?

I mean, I'm hardly GQ cover-ready, unless jeans and a golf shirt will get me there. But I'm proud to say my feet are shod even on scorcher days, although Tides manager Gary "Mugsy" Allenson did once strangely razz my sad, scuffed loafers, as if he's George Clooney or somebody.

Anyway, the point is putting on shoes is not that hard.

Granted, baseball's public condemnation does tar the many with the brush of a few fashion victims in denim cut-offs and filthy U.S. Open visors.

Still, I think the media should thank Mother MLB for the tough love aimed at avoiding scandal while generally raising its reportage dress code somewhere north of "South Beach casual."

Now if baseball or any sport can issue binding legislation regarding toxic personal-hygiene eruptions in press boxes, I pledge my eternal devotion - and my Gillette clear-gel power stick.

Tom Robinson, (757) 446-2518, tom.robinson@pilotonline.com