"There's something happening here. What it is ain't exactly clear."

The lyrics were written by Stephen Stills, who was obviously baffled by Tampa Bay's pro teams. How do they keep transforming themselves?

"There's a man with a gun over there. Telling me I got to beware."

OK, there's no gunman over there. And Stills wasn't really thinking about the Bucs, Lightning and Rays.

But he is from Tampa, which should be officially designated Area 51 of the sports world. Franchises crash and burn like UFOs, then there's a mystery and a cover-up.

What are the governments in Hillsborough and Pinellas counties hiding, and why won't they share it with the Magic? How do their teams continually go from worst to first in less time than it took Stills to sing "For What It's Worth."

The Rays weren't just bad before this year's World Series run to Philadelphia. They were arguably the worst franchise in baseball history.

The only thing more astounding was the Lightning winning the Stanley Cup in 2004. Or maybe the Bucs winning the 2002 season's Super Bowl.

Now the Tampa Bay area is on the verge of an astounding title trifecta. Only Boston has won a championship in three major sports this century (yes, we're still counting hockey as a major sport).

But Tampa Bay sports fans can sneer at Boston after the Rays eliminated the Red Sox on Sunday night. Los Angeles? Chicago? Detroit? Miami?

None of their title teams came close to the metamorphoses Tampa Bay keeps pulling. The Bucs had 14 straight losing seasons. Owner Hugh Culverhouse was such a miserly lech his widow said, "I'd like to dig him up so I could shoot him."

At least Culverhouse was easy to spot in his creamsicle orange blazer. The Lightning set a record that will never be broken:

Number of times an owner saw his team play — Zero.

That would have been Tokyo businessman Takashi Okubo. Not only did fans never lay eyes on him, nobody in the NHL did either. The closest was when Okubo sent Commissioner Gary Bettman a tie clasp.

He also contributed lawsuits, IRS investigations and money-laundering rumors. How a character like Okubo came to own an American hockey team helps explain why the inept NHL now gets worse ratings than Ernest Angley reruns.

As reviled as Rays owner Vince Naimoli was, at least fans never accused him of being a member of the Japanese mob. If they had, he would have had them tossed from Tropicana Field.

Over the years, King Vince clashed with fans, sponsors, writers, scouts, managers, players, police and the raccoons who dared rummage through his trash. Maybe they should have sent him a tie clasp.

All Tampa Bay's sports problems were not due to bad owners. But Culverhouse charged players for Cokes at One Buc Place. Naimoli expected high school bands to pay for tickets after performing in front of 4,593 fans. Phil Esposito's scouting department consisted of SportsCenter's nightly hockey highlights.

The fish always rots from the head. Then along came the bald heads of Bill Davidson and Malcolm Glazer, and the savvy head of Stuart Sternberg.

They weren't always popular, especially after Glazer ran off Tony Dungy. But they knew how to succeed. It should inspire anyone who just bought a rusted-out 1987 Yugo and dreams of winning next year's Indy 500.

It can happen. Just don't ask me how it's happened so often and so quickly in Tampa Bay.

I'm as flummoxed as Stills after a party at David Crosby's house. So let's just crank up the music and sing:

"I think it's time we stop, children, what's that sound? Everybody look what's going down."