Goodbye to All That

Boy, Major League Baseball can't get it right. If baseball were an automobile, it would be a Chrysler product. If it were a corporation (which it sort of is) it would be MCI-Worldcom. If it were a religion (which it also sorta is) it would be Scientology. When it comes to shooting itself in the foot, baseball is Audie Murphy.

Just looking at the sports page, you would think that baseball is a hell of a product. As of this writing, you have 2 heart-stopping pennant races going on over in the American League. In Chicago, both the White Sox and the Cubs are going good which, if we remember the sorry history of these two inept franchises, pretty much occurs with the frequency of Hailey's Comet. Speaking of the Cubs, not only is Derek Lee still flirting with the Triple Crown, he might win it while hitting .400. And for those of you that enjoy watching car wrecks on the interstate, I give you the National League West. Without a single team over .500, it just might be the worst division in the history of the game. One could go a lifetime and not see such hide-your-eyes collective incompetence again.

But do you hear about any of this stuff when you turn on ESPN or listen to talk radio? No. All you hear about is-once again-about how somebody got caught with steroids in his system. Once again, as is always the case with baseball, the sidebar stuff is bigger than the sport. To paraphrase Emily Litella, with baseball it's always something. It's labor trouble. It's owners highjacking cities for new stadiums ( I know that it is stadia. But this is a sport's piece after all.). More recently, it was all the high drama over drug testing. Would the union agree to it? Would there be a lockout? Will Barry get indicted?

And now, now that we have caught our collective breath real good, Rafael Palmiero tests positive for steroids. This is the same Rafael Palmiero who back in March waggled his left index finger at a camera and denied that he had ever used steroids, much like another rather prominent citizen in the DC area waggled his left index finger while lying through his teeth. Unfortunately for Palmiero, he was under oath at the time. Which creates its own certain set of difficulties.

What a month. On June 15, he gets his 3000th hit. On June 17th, the President-a man who, say what you will about W, has no use for steroids-congratulates him. On August 1, baseball announces that Palmiero was suspended for testing positive for steroids. The New York Times runs with a story that says he tested positive for stanozolol, a known wrecker of livers and shrinker of testicles. Which may or may not explain why Palmiero had such an interest in hawking Viagra.

How does the New York Times know this? "Unnamed Sources." And get this. The Baltimore Sun published a story (citing guess what?) that Raffy flunked his test in May. May. Which means that baseball (and presumably the Player's Union) knew that he was hot and waited until after he hit number 3000 to bust him.

After all, business is business.

This whole mess stinks to high heaven. One of baseball's poster boys pops up dirty. Stories are leaked to the media, presumably by higher-ups in baseball, which is what the Union always feared would happen. And now we know that "zero-tolerance" doesn't really apply if you are about to set a record.

Now you hear the old debates start all over. Should Palmiero be inducted into the Hall of Fame along with the other drunks, womanizers, cheaters, bigots and Bible-bangers that currently are enshrined there? Should Sammy? Should Mark? I don't care anymore. If I hear the names Gaylord Perry or Pete Rose invoked again this week I will put a gun to my head. Put 'em in. Leave 'em out. I don't care anymore.

This was not the easiest Spring for me for any of a number of reasons. So when my friend asked me to join he and his brother in coaching a Boy's Club team, I took him up on it. God knows that I preferred having a bat in my hands than time on them in those days. The highlight of many a day back then was the certain knowledge that I would soon be out on the field with friends who thought enough of me to ask me to help them and with little boys who loved to play baseball. Sadness was was only the special province of he that struck out. The only guys that hurt were guys who got hit in the head. Anger occasionally reared its ugly head. But it was only directed at the drag-ass college kid umpires who were too busy checking out the chicks in the stands to pay attention to the actual games. It was just what I needed.

Such are the simple joys inherent in this peculiar beautiful game. And only an outfit as completely dysfunctional as Major League Baseball could fuck it up so completely.

But I don't care anymore. Because with baseball, it's always something.