Athletes meet their matches, and sometimes even marry them

I see now where the Lakers’ Sasha Vujacic is to marry the grunting Bolshevik Maria Sharapova, adding yet another famous face to our Lakers family portrait. I’d like to report that I introduced the two. Sadly no, though I bask in the warmth that is their love. I’m such a sucker for such things.

Who’s next? In a perfect world, all the Lakers would be married to someone famous. Luke Walton would run off with the judicially impaired Lindsay Lohan. Pau Gasol would find his female soul mate ... a giant redwood tree.

Of course, Lamar Odom has his Kardashian — or maybe it’s the other way around. Oddball marriages are almost a cottage industry in Los Angeles. Honestly, we must be the most romantic city in the NBA.

Admittedly, I’m half crazy. On my absentee ballot, for example, I voted for Boise State for governor. Crazy, right? Boise isn’t even in California (I think).

Yet, I also firmly believe Staples Center should have its own wedding chapel. Phil could give away the grooms and Jeanie could give away the brides. The Laker Girls would figure in there somewhere, though I’m not yet sure how. But they’d be there, bouncing up and down on their tippy little toes. When the bride tossed out her bouquet, they’d clap their hands over their heads and kick at the ceiling. Yay! Nice shot!

Because as any fan can see, sports marriages are quickly replacing movie star marriages at the forefront of romance and glamour. I’m not sure movie stars even wed anymore. I think they just take out three-year leases on each other and cross their fingers.

Me, I would never marry a movie star. A rock star, yes. One day, I’m pretty sure Cher and I will be together. She likes short guys and I like rebuilt Armenian women with glitter on their cheekbones. That alone is enough on which to build a life.

But if I were a sports star, I would have even wider options. Supermodel Gisele Bundchen pretty much had her pick of all the mantastic males on the planet, and she chose Tom Brady. Eva Longoria, same thing, and she picked that French poodle, Tony Parker.

Posh Spice bent it with Beckham. Minka Kelly, Esquire’s “Sexist Woman Alive,” has a certain Yankees shortstop on deck.

Of course, perhaps the most famous American marriage of all time was between Joe DiMaggio and the cotton-topped thespian Marilyn Monroe. He played for the Yankees and she played for presidents. As in “Happy birthday, Mr. President. Want to unwrap me now?”

“Five feet six inches of whipped cream,” is how the great Jim Murray once described her.

So, yes, we’ve known for a long time that fame really is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Right after sex itself, of course. And jewelry. And real estate.

Fame is the name of the game, so now we have Andre Agassi married to Steffi Graf. Nomar Garciaparra married to Mia Hamm (lord knows how he dresses for bed. He puts on his PJs, he takes off his PJs. He steps into the bed. He steps back out of the bed. Never known for her patience, Hamm probably throws a wine bottle at his noggin).

Other sports marriages? Misty May wed Matt Treanor. Candace Parker plucked the NBA’s Shelden Williams from obscurity — if that’s even possible.

Famously, Jessica Simpson once had her Rom(e)o. Remember when the Dallas QB whisked her off to Cabo San Lucas to prepare for a playoff game? Those were the days. By the way, what would happen if you discovered that your golden-tressed goddess was like Samson’s hair and you could win only with her around? And, like many golden-tressed goddesses, she was a total pain in the tuchis. Would you dump her? Would you take one for the team? Winning is everything, but sanity is dandy too.

Or, in my case, half sanity.

“Fame is the perfume of heroic deeds,” said Socrates, and I knew I smelled something.

“Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth,” said Thoreau, but what did he know?

In the meantime, I’m becoming a big believer that only the famous should marry the famous, for they shouldn’t be foisting their personal problems — which are legion — into the laps of mere mortals, who deserve nice laps.

We may not have their money — or their limos, or their sensational bronzy skin — but neither do we have their flair for drama, nightclub shootings and court-ordered restitution.

In fact, I’m guessing that Brett Favre might soon be loose as a goose, and are there enough Kardashian sisters, cousins, aunts and assorted party hostesses in the entire world for that guy? Not probably.

Gentlemen, hide your daughters.

chris.erskine@latimes.com