Sometimes, and it's all right to admit this, it's all right to walk up to people of power, celebrity and influence, ball up your fist and hit them right in the back of the head.

Only when they deserve it, of course. But still ...

	Jason Giambi and the A's have hit some rough sailing in contract negotiations.

Today's example: The Oakland Athletics, the happiest place on earth, have reached an impasse with first baseman/team leader/local object of worship Jason Giambi.

Over a no-trade clause in a contract in which the money issues have already been dealt with.

Thus, it's time to bring in the principals and, well, punch them where it will do them the least good -- their skulls.

Follow this now, and try not to toss your donuts.

The A's don't want to give Giambi a no-trade clause. Giambi won't re-sign without it.

To quote a great man here, "Jumping Jesus, what's the argument here?"

Maybe there are principles at work here we don't understand, but I doubt it. The central fact is that there is no clause, no contract in fact, that is even remotely enforceable in sports, and there hasn't been one ever.

In the early days, owners cheerfully screwed players on clauses both in and out of contracts, on the firm legal principle that, "What you can't stop me from doing won't hurt me." For further edification, read or see "Eight Men Out."

The balance has shifted now, toward the workers, both players and coaches. In fact, players have not genuinely made it until they have signed, bitched about and then forced a revision in their contracts. It often works brilliantly, because of a new and equally firm legal principle that reads, "What you can't stop me from demanding won't hurt me." For further edification, see Frank Thomas. For further edification of the back side of this principle, see Gary Sheffield.

In either event, for Giambi and Oakland general manager Billy Beane to be arguing over a clause that in a practical matter is no more enforceable than a law overturning the law of gravity.

Proof? We thought you'd never ask.

Let's move ahead to, say, 2004. The A's are in the toilet on the field for some reason -- injuries, bad trades, bad luck, whatever. The A's want to deal Giambi. Giambi says no? No, not the way things work now. What he says is, "It'll cost ya." Money is exchanged, a deal is done. Happy happy, joy joy.

Or try this. Giambi suddenly gets the urge to be an Albuquerque Expo or Salt Lake City Twin. He pouts. The team gets angry. He gets angrier. It turns ugly, and the mood in the clubhouse is blown to smithereens. The two sides agree to dump the no-trade clause, and a deal is done. Happy happy, joy joy.

Or try this if you don't like the first two. The A's keep winning. Giambi keeps producing. The A's would never think of trading him. A deal nobody wants is never done. Happy happy, and might we add, joy joy.

So we reiterate: "Jumping Jesus, what's the argument here?"

There really isn't one. Contracts are pieces of paper whose contents can be whited out by mutual agreement at any time, simply because of a third legal principle: "You can do anything you want as long as there's nobody around to object."

So what we're dealing with here is a hypothetical argument over a principle neither side needs worry about now, and the one thing we know about sports contracts these days is that the only thing that matters is now. Tomorrow changes everything, on both sides, and needs must be met by whatever means when the devil spits on your dinner plate.

The solution, then, is easy. Beane walks up to Giambi and says, "Okay, you've got your no-trade," and gives him a knowing wink. "That's great, Bill, thanks a ton," Giambi says, returning the wink. They both know that circumstances change, tempers ebb and flow, and that occasions like this are precisely why White-out was invented.

And ultimately, happy happy, joy joy. Everybody gets what they want, knowing that in the long run, it never meant anything anyway. It's zany, it's wacky, it's existential. It's perfect.

Either that, or there will be some beatings to be handed out. Marge, hand me that putter.

Ray Ratto of the San Francisco Chronicle is a frequent contributor to ESPN.com.