ll of creation is related.

And the hurt of one is the hurt of all.

And the honor of one is the honor of all.

- Lakota tribal instruction

So I guess, by extension, the shame of one is the shame of all.

Which brings me to one of the most shameful aspects in all of American sports, Chief Wahoo.

You've seen him. He's the Cleveland Indians' embarrassing and offensive mascot.

This overtly racist depiction of a Native American has a devil-red complexion; a wide, toothy grin that consumes half his cartoonish face; a hook nose; large, leering eyes; and a single red feather that rises from his head like a logo for the subhuman.

Think Native American minstrel show. Or a Siena-colored Stepinfetchit.

I thought about the Samboesque chief this week after the University of Illinois finally gave up its long battle with the NCAA and reluctantly retired its 81-year-old mascot, Chief Illiniwek.

Compared to Chief Wahoo, Chief Illiniwek was a proud figure.

He wore a beautiful long headdress, authentic Indian garb, and stripes of colorful war paint on his face.

Sure, Illiniwek might have been offensive to some, but I suspect there were many more who saw him as a figure of nobility.

Nobody is likely to make that mistake with Wahoo.

You know what I'm reminded of every time I see the Indians mascot? Those hateful caricatures of Jews in Nazi propaganda films.

The exaggerated features. An expression that suggests a vile mindlessness. A depiction that reeks of some inherent inferiority.

Yet he lives.

In America.

In Major League Baseball.

In 2007.

And as long as he does, we should all feel the shame.

Book them. Two wholehearted recommendations for a couple of recently published sports books:

Paddy on the Hardwood, by Rus Bradburd. Bradburd, a longtime assistant to legendary Texas-El Paso basketball coach Don Haskins, traveled to Ireland to find himself and to coach Tralee's Frosties Tigers, a woebegone, Guinness-besotted team in the Irish Super League.

Pistol: The Life of Pete Maravich, Mark Kriegel's fascinating look at the magic and tragic existence of one of basketball's most compelling and confounding figures.

NASCAR note of the week. Driver Carl Edwards was asked what he looks for in a woman:

"If she can ride a dirt bike," he said, "that would be cool."

Arizona? Why not? Even though White Sox shortstop Jose Uribe is accused of shooting a Dominican farmer last fall, he's been allowed to attend spring training in Arizona.

Under the terms of the agreement, however, Uribe's privileges could be revoked if he shoots anyone in Tucson.

Have bat, will embarrass. Hall of Famer Mike Schmidt will arrive at the Phillies camp in Clearwater on Monday.

The over-under on when he utters his first stupid comment is three minutes.

An easy verdict. If I were a juror deciding the now-sidetracked malpractice trial of Notre Dame coach Charlie Weis, it wouldn't take me long to pronounce the doctors guilty.

I mean if Weis' gastric-bypass surgery was successful, why is he still Hindenburg-sized?

A regular Max Patkin. In case Americans needed one more reason not to watch hockey, Southern Cal goaltender Mickey "Moon" Meyer may have provided it.

Meyer, who probably thinks the Farrelly brothers are funny, dropped his pants, mooned the crowd and slapped his buttock during a USC-Brigham Young game in Logan, Utah.

Oh, the hilarity!

Maybe Meyer, who provided a whole new meaning for the term "goal crease," was just trying to change on the fly. In any event, he should have been given a gross misconduct and beaten with the butt end of a hockey stick.

Contact staff writer Frank Fitzpatrick at 215-854-5068 or ffitzpatrick@phillynews.com.