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I’m not a role model. Just because I can dunk a basketball doesn’t mean I should raise your kid. – “Sir” Charles Barkley

We live in the era of the sports superstar as a social icon. Starting with O.J. Simpson on through to Kobe Bryant, modern athletes repeatedly find themselves “offsides” in tabloid headlines normally reserved for Hollywood movie stars.

As a little boy, I dreamed of being a big sports star. But I didn’t think about life outside the home runs and touchdowns. If I were a sports star in today’s pop landscape, this is how it would look:

Monday – Practice with the team. Outside the training facility, the press harasses me regarding my latest run-in with the police. As reported in the papers, on my way home from shooting a public interest commercial warning kids to stay away from alcohol, guns and assaulting police officers, a police cruiser on Sunset Boulevard pulled over my Lamborghini Murcielago for alleged erratic driving. After failing a field sobriety test, I allegedly proceed to assault the officer. A handgun is found under the passenger seat. Allegedly.

In spite of –or because of – my repeated run-ins with the law, my jersey is the highest seller in the league. Experts attribute it to my “street cred” with the coveted youth market.

Also, Lindsey Lohan’s appearance at my previous game wearing a low-cut jersey of mine moved another million units. The league can’t touch me. Those arenas aren’t selling out until I come to town.

Tuesday – In the morning, I’m in the studio for my Spanish language LP, “Amores Sin Disfraz,” with the same producer that did Oscar de la Hoya’s 2000 Grammy-nominated self-titled debut. Hilary Duff will be coming later in the week to record some guest vocals. Though our respective publicists deny anything other than a “friendly but professional” relationship, the media has dubbed us “Hiltor” along the lines of the “Bennifer” union of yesteryear. Hiltor? That sounds like the name of a dinosaur or barbarian conqueror, not the hottest athlete/singer pairing since Anna Kournikova and Enrique Iglesias.

Recording runs long and I show up an hour late to practice. The team fines me $10,000, which, if you do the math, amounts to about three minutes of court time.

Wednesday – I do community service stemming from an earlier violation. I still maintain that I was merely asking the Hollywood Boulevard she-male for directions in my Maserati Quattroporte after I had spent the day at an inner-city kindergarten telling kids to stay in school.

At night, I go to the opening of a new club. Although we take separate limousines, Hilary and I are spotted smooching by the bar. This does nothing to stem the comparisons to Aaron Carter.

Thursday – I spend the day in Malibu shooting the cover for my CD. The photographer and I run through a variety of poses and wardrobes, until we settle on a cliff shot overlooking the ocean, with me wearing a white gossamer shirt tossed by the wind.

This was no day at the beach.

I mean it was, but it wasn’t, if you know what I mean.

Friday – Court appearance. After entering my plea and posting bail, I go to the star-studded opening of my car accessories shop. What Latrell Sprewell does to rims, I hope to do to car deodorizers.

I get an advance copy of next week’s Newsweek magazine. The cover is me throwing my headband in a referee’s face. The headline screams, “HECTOR OUT OF BOUNDS.” The subhead underneath reads, “With his explosive play matched by his explosive temper, what is he teaching your kids?” Yellow journalism, I tell you.

Saturday – Game day. This is what it’s all about. Forget the hype. My inspired play gets our team into the remaining playoff spot.

Afterward, I stop by the pediatric hospital for the Make-A-Wish Foundation. I make a difference. On my way home, I crash my Ferrari 575M Maranello into a school bus full of disabled children. Luckily I still had enough juice to leave the scene of a “crime” before cops show up.

Sunday – Low-key day. I spend the day on the couch, a dry vermouth in one hand, watching my pet white Bengal tigers, Julian and Zubian, frolic in my indoor waterfalls.

Send a so-called “e” mail to hleano@media.ucla.edu.