So there they were: Len Berman, Chuck Scarborough and Sue Simmons. Professionals all. Seasoned veterans of New York television news. I watch them all the time. And as the news started, something bizarre had happened to them: they were all wearing ski jackets. Great fat bulging polyester suits of armor. They were huddled together somewhere, indoors or out (it wasn't clear), and one of them was telling us about a gay man who had been punched in the head by some lout in Greenwich Village.

Were they pursuing the malefactor into the Catskills? Were they following the pursuing police toward some final shootout on Hunter Mountain? Was this some secret virtual studio on the roof of Rockefeller Center? Would a ski-jacketed Conan O'Brien arrive at any moment with a news flash? I couldn't tell. But in their ski jackets they looked like three idiots trying to crash a P. Diddy birthday party.

Then at 6:30 NBC segued into the national news, and here was Tom Brokaw. He's one of the great stars of television news. He's an honorable veteran of long years in the trade. He's a serious man, which is to say he is intelligent and funny and tries hard to get it right.

And he was wearing a ski jacket too.

To be sure, there was a slight hint of embarrassment in Brokaw's eyes, as he gave us the latest from the Middle East and Camp X-Ray. But the ski jacket made him look, uh, weird. It was as if some posse of NBC security people had yanked him off a ski slope somewhere, waving his contract, and forced him to announce the evening news. I didn't want to see this. For 20 minutes, I flicked back and forth to Peter Jennings and Dan Rather and then went to the BBC on Channel 21 to see what else was happening on the planet.

Obviously, Brokaw, Scarborough, Berman and Simmons were all ordered to don these costumes by some committee of raving nincompoops at NBC. The implied point was clear: Everybody at NBC must support the Winter Olympics. This had nothing to do with patriotism or nationalism or the heroics of the sporting life. It had to do with money. NBC pays a lot of money to show these games to the U.S. of A.: $3.55 billion for the rights to Summer and Winter Olympics through 2008.

The ratings for the Sydney Olympics were dismal. Now they had to convince the audience that for two glorious weeks, the Salt Lake City Winter Olympics were the most important event on the planet. Everybody at NBC had to get on board. You were either with us or against us. If the ratings for the Winter Olympics should falter, then the terrorists would win.

But the sight of Brokaw in that ski jacket was for me a kind of last straw. I instantly decided that I would skip all this nonsense for the next two weeks. No Brokaw. No NBC local news. No Olympics coverage. I admired these people too much. So I would get out of town. Or I'd watch basketball. Or for true insight into sports, I'd play tapes of HBO's "Arliss" show, one the most acerbic comedies on television.

It's All About Hype

To be honest, this wasn't a difficult decision. Since 1984, when professionals were allowed to compete in the Olympics, these Games — winter and summer — have been an over-hyped travesty. There is no Olympic "ideal" — athletes competing for the pure love of sport or country. The negotiations for the games have been filthy with corruption (for me, IOC stands for International Organized Crime). The Olympic "leaders" are cold-eyed businessmen, peddling the site rights to countries who delude themselves about the great boon the games will bring to tourism, then selling off the television rights for more bundles of cash.

The athletes, alas, are part of the racket. A few might be moved to tears when they accept their medals to the strains of the national anthem. But most are competing for the rewards that could follow victory: commercial endorsements, high seeds in non-Olympic professional tournaments, instant autobiographies (with only one script: the triumph over adversity). That's why Picabo Street hustled so shamelessly to get to carry the flag at the opening ceremonies. Win or lose on the slopes of Utah, her face would get better known. And that could be turned into money.

In addition, the Winter Olympics are filled with events that have nothing to do with sports. How is figure skating a sport? To me, it's dancing with skates on, a skill but not a sport. Like all other professional dancers, the dancers-on-skates endure long months of rehearsal. Music is essential to the act, so the musical choices are made with care. They emphasize "beauty" in its 19th century form, with long lines of melody to support those long gliding movements by the beskated dancers. Points are awarded on mysterious subjective grounds, all based on aesthetics, not true competition. They don't really compete against one another, because all choose different music. They are competing with Nureyev and Margot Fonteyn.

The Sept. 11 Factor

There's another aspect to these games that should urge us all to tune out. Somehow, American gold medals in Salt Lake City are supposed to ease the grief of Sept. 11. That was also the message of some of the commercials at the Super Bowl. Well, the Budweiser horses kneeled toward the skyline. And for many New Yorkers, the sorrow and anger did not go away. To suggest that the professional entertainment (and commercials) provided by the Winter Olympics will help all of us "recover" is more than absurd. It's obscene.

In the end, I don't really want to hear crowds chanting "U.S.A.! U.S.A.!" at a hockey game and see them shaking clenched fists at the world, including the "Axis of Evil." It's hard to imagine Thomas Jefferson doing that, or Abraham Lincoln, or Franklin Roosevelt. There are millions of Americans who love their country with great passion who feel no need to state that love in public, certainly not with a triumphalist chant. When I hear men speak too often about how much they love their wives, I figure the marriage is in bad trouble.

Meanwhile, I'd like to see Tom Brokaw throw away that ski jacket and choose some other garment as he braves the winter chill in Utah. Preferably, in the great tradition of his trade, he would wear a trench coat. Here at the Daily News, we sponsor the annual Golden Gloves tournament. But nobody orders us to display our love of city and newspaper by showing up for two weeks in boxing trunks, or gym suits, our hands bandaged, our aging jaws stuffed with mouthpieces.

If such an order ever came down from on high, there'd be gales of laughter and unanimous refusal. I'd like to believe that up at NBC, many loyal employees (including those on camera), are embarrassed by this blatant promotional nonsense. Their personal positions must be much closer to my own, inspired by the great philosopher Sam Goldwyn: Include me out.