As a child, I was one of those in awe of the numbers. I remember lying in bed, paging through my book of “100 Greatest Baseball Moments,” soaking up the grainy images of a time long past. My history teachers could not reach me in the way that these recountings could.
I imagined where the current teams, rife with power, met their previous counterparts, and smiled with the knowledge that we could measure time based on wins, losses, and everything in between.
This makes what Alex Rodriguez did inescapable. As much as I hate to say it, I was cheering for Rodriguez to continue his trek to 762 home runs. He would be the savior that reconnected the passage severed by steroids. His talents were natural. His monetary greed was unfortunate, but his achievements, fashioned during an era of uncertainty, could at least be held to a higher standard.
Perhaps I was naïve. Perhaps I refused to give up the slice of childhood belief that lingered when I watched baseball, keeping me steadfastly convinced that one day Rodriguez would wipe the slate of Bonds’ stain. Perhaps I had too much faith in the goodness of an era, the belief that someone other than Ken Griffey Jr. was also clean.
But after last Saturday, any faith I harbored is gone, replaced by callousness and sorrow. We can never see how far we’ve come. We had already given up on the realities of McGwire, Bonds, and Clemens, resigned to the fact that their careers were embroiled in shadows and sideways glances. Alex Rodriguez now joins this unholy bunch, creating a Mt. Rushmore of malfeasance.
I can only hope that, someday, this mountain of deceit crumbles in the same shocking manner that baseball’s history has. Until then, though, the burns will remain. And my faith in my sport—our sport, America’s sport—will be no more.
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