I've forgiven Ben Roethlisberger

“Good afternoon, Pittsburgh Steelers offices.”

Hi. Can I ask you some oddball questions?

“Sure! Go ahead.”

I’m trying to find out how many fans turned in their Ben Roethlisberger jerseys last summer when he had his personal trouble down in Georgia.

“I really don’t know.”

Well, was it dozens? Hundreds?

“I don’t know. That didn’t pertain to me.”

What happened to them?

“I don’t know. I believe they were donated. Why do you ask?”

Well, I turned mine in along with a letter to Art Rooney saying Roethlisberger had disgraced the team with his sexual assault in Georgia.

“Yes?”

And now I’d like to get the jersey back.

“You what?”

I’d like to have my Ben Roethlisberger jersey back in time for Saturday’s playoff game.

“You want it back?”

Exactly.

“Well, I’m sorry, but that’s impossible. They didn’t keep the jerseys. Thank you and goodbye.”

Will the Steelers replace the one I turned in?

“No. Goodbye.”

Of course, I knew the jersey I so sanctimoniously turned in to the Steeler headquarters last April was gone.

But I thought it would be fun to give the Steeler receptionist something to talk about when someone asked her how her day went.

Really, I’m surprised some lunatic fan hasn’t done that for real. There is no limit to excessive fan behavior and with the rival Baltimore Ravens in town things are at fever pitch here in the ‘burgh.

I don’t want his jersey back, but being a lunatic fan during playoff time I do have an announcement to make:

I forgive Ben. 

This is important because I consider myself a moral arbiter about all that’s right and good concerning the Steelers, Pittsburgh and, really, whatever else is going on in the universe.

It’s just what nosey guys like me do. It’s a pity the gig doesn’t pay squat.

But when a 20-year-old college student accused Ben of recreational rape in a club bathroom, I was outraged. Then came all the stories, ones we in Pittsburgh had heard for years, that he was just a total jerk.

He was never charged, everyone involved was drunk and no jury in the world would have convicted him, according to the country prosecutor who still gave him a good scolding.

I wrote that we needed to dump him, that Pittsburgh and the Rooney family needed to hold our players to a higher standard.

I still believe that.

And from everything I’ve heard, Ben is now living up to that standard so rarely applied in professional sports. Local reporters, many of whom are friends of mine, recently awarded him The Chief Award, named after beloved Steeler founder Art Rooney Sr.

The good-guy award goes to the player who is most cooperative with the press. For him, it’s a dramatic turnabout and an indication that his efforts to change are sincere.

I know a guy, too, who attends church with Roethlisberger. Of course, it’s difficult for anyone to seem like a jerk in a church pew, but my friend says he’s been a friendly and welcome addition to the congregation.

That’s all good.

For me, the tricky part is how would me and other forgiving fans feel if he was playing lousy.

Yes, he’s been great. We are a society that overlooks a lot of flaws if they come with a lot of wins.

I don’t think that’s entering into my thinking.

But I’m a big second chance guy. I was very happy to see Michael Vick emerge from a long prison sentence for dog fighting and to have a fantastic year.

I love to see guys like him turn their lives around. It’s why what happens to Ebenezer Scrooge will always resonate.

So Ben seems to have made the most of his second chance.

I won’t rush out and buy another Ben jersey and am relieved the receptionist at the Steeler HQ didn’t call my bluff and tell me to come on down and pick one up.

But as we’re nearing kickoff, I can feel comfortable about rooting for Ben.

I guess I’m like a lot of people in Pittsburgh.

We want our Steelers to kick ass, not prowl around in dingy bathrooms trying to snag pieces of it.

I hate my dog

I wonder if there is a hell for dog owners who are mean to their pets.

I don’t mean like Michael Vick mean.

I’d never put my dog in a pen to fight another suitable opponent, which in this case would be an ill-tempered hamster.

I’m not inhumane to my dog. Just rude. I treat him the way people used to treat dogs before they started treating dogs like children.

We live in times of rampant venom. Hostility reigns. There are wars, ethnic hatreds and daily assaults on refined manners that makes life such a heartbreaking endeavor to those of us not raised by wolves.

Yet, I never stoop to incivility. I treat all my fellow man with high regard. I encourage their success, sympathize with their failures and cheerlead their every effort.

Not so with Snickers, the dog with the two-syllable name I never fail to address with fewer than six. We were told he was a little pug, a little shih tzu, maybe a little terrier.

The best I can tell is Snickers is composed of a little Moe, a little Larry and a little Curly. Individually, I love them, but imagine if you combined Moe’s meanness, Curly’s violence and Larry’s stupidity.

You’d have an unholy mix like something old Doc Frankenstein would have conjured in his lab.

He’s high-strung and nervous, the Andy Dick of dogs. As I’ve said before, he’s the kind of dog more likely to ignite blazing fires than cuddle up beside them.

Still, I know many humans who behave like that and I tolerate them with equanimity, albeit an equanimity softened by multiple bourbons and mindless nods meant to mislead, yes, I’m listening and, yes, I care.

The girls love him.. But I’ve never been as frustrated with another creature in my entire life. I’ve had angry run-ins with DMV clerks, surly mechanics and idiot editors.

But, even in the heat of dispute, none of those bone-headed miscreants has ever expressed their contempt by waking me up out of a sound sleep to pee on my bare foot at 5 a.m.

Please, send no tips, no advice. We’ve done it before. We have the crate. We have the bell by the door. We have the treats. And the only time I ever say anything positive to the 16-pound doggie is when he successfully targets the yard for his relief.

“Yeah, Snickers! You’re the best! Good boy!”

I’ve never cheered for Penguin captain Sydney Crosby as enthusiastically as I do for Snickers when he craps in the yard.

We’ve had the dog in the parks and are often met by friends and strangers who say how adorable he is. The girls all gush in agreement.

“I hate him,” I say. “He wakes us up every night at 5 a.m. He’s wild. He barks when a single leaf falls to the ground. If I’m out having fun someplace, I have to arbitrarily end the fun so we can go home before his thimble-sized bladder bursts.”

What’s been heartening to me is how many people share my hatreds. Here’s a little secret: in every partnership, one person or the other hates the dog and how much the other fusses over it.

In rare successful marriages, the hatreds merge.

“We got rid of our dogs when our daughter was 2 and it was just too much,” confided one friend. “I felt sad for about 40 minutes, then felt a zen-like peace. I told my husband how I felt and he high-fived me.”

My wife was away this week and it was hell. I’m not cut out for the Mr. Mom routine, especially when the baseball playoffs are on.

My mother came out to give me a break and by the happiest of coincidences it happened the night of Roy Halladay’s historic no-hitter. When I got home from the bar, the house was in chaos. Snickers was loose and had peed in the kitchen.

Val called later and asked if my mother hated Snickers as much as me.

“Ah, honey, nobody hates Snickers . . .” I said.

“How sweet! I knew a little bonding time would do the trick.”

“You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say, ‘Nobody hates Snickers . . . as much as I do.’”

In some corners of the world, calling a person a dog is the most vile insult.

It goes to show how I can find human harmony with all cultures.

Snickers is a real dog.

I just can’t fathom what kind.