I hate Georgia Frontiere.

You know her. She owns the Rams. She tries to run them like a successful NFL franchise. She fails embarassingly, painfully, and she goes for the quick fix.

She moves. To friggin' St. Louis. They'll give her a profane amount of money just to bring that sinking ship of a football team to the Midwest. And all is well in Georgia's world.

Ms. Frontiere could barely contain her giddiness late last week when the move was announced. Never mind that she had just hit the road with a team that had been in Southern California for half a century -- much longer than the silver and black gang-bangers from up North.

This team she moved was one with a history. A proud one. The Fearsome Foursome. The glory days, back when the uniforms were a beautifully subtle blue and white and guys like Roman Gabriel and Rosey Grier made this one of the proudest franchises in the game.

Its most successful days came before the modern era, and although they never won a Super Bowl, they were often close. Remember 1979, when Vince Ferragamo, Wendell Tyler and the Youngblood linebackers led 'em into the Super Bowl against . . . oh, I don't remember.

The NFC championship game in 1989 was the last time they were close. It's been crap since then. Bad free agency pickups. An ugly stadium getting older. Mismanagement. All the beauty of professional sport wrapped into one suddenly sorry franchise.

So she moved.

-- -- --

I remember, vaguely, when the Raiders moved south. I didn't understand why people up in the Bay Area were so pissed. So they aren't in Oakland any more -- why can't you still root for them?

I remember when the Colts moved to Indianapolis. I remember hearing people from Baltimore talk about betrayal. I didn't care much at the time.

I remember when the Giants left San Francisco. Almost. If you've been to Candlestick Park in the summer, you know why they wanted out. Not a fun place to watch or play a ball game, but for some reason they hung around. Loyalty? I dunno, but they stayed, and as a casual Giant fan, I felt kind of happy.

I don't have to remember all the talk about the Pirates moving. I still hear it, and so do you Bucs fans. And it's not a nice feeling, is it? Maz, Clemente, Thompson, all that history . . . just wouldn't work in Tampa, would it?

And now the Lambs. I remember when they weren't laughed at, when they annually won more games then they lost, when the NFC West wasn't a one-team league.

I also remember a cover of Sports Illustrated from 10 or 12 years ago, when Frontiere was on the cover with Bert Jones. You remember Bert, don't you? He was supposed to be the Rams' savior, and there he was on the cover of SI, getting a big kiss on the cheek from his new boss.

I don't think Bert ever got them to a Super Bowl.

And now they're on their way out, moving to a city whose football fans have long been known for their preoccupation with the Chicago Bears. A town that couldn't keep the last mediocre team it had, and a town that is currently tripping over itself to get another mediocrity inside the city limits.

"I don't think I've been this happy since the last game we won," Georgia said of the move.

Georgia. A woman who puts her own poetry into the team media guide, a woman flaky enough to make the good folks at Kellogg's jealous.

And by the time it was finalized late last week, I wasn't even surprised. My team moved. Professional sports have abandoned me once again.