How Alex Rodriguez Turned the Rebirth of Baseball into the Death of Baseball

Conceived in 1845 by Alexander Cartwright and born on Elysians Fields in tiny Hoboken, NJ, in 1846, our national pastime died on February 7, 2009.

More accurately, baseball had died some six years ago, but it took awhile for those blinded by the love of the game to notice.

Baseball died the day Alex Rodriguez urinated into a small plastic cup that was to be sent to Comprehensive Lab Testing in Long Beach, CA.

This sample, just one of 1,198 taken, was part of the survey testing Major League Baseball and the Players Union agreed to in 2003.
The survey testing was a response to the sickness that had befallen baseball in the late 1990s, progressed early in the new millennium, and would shortly thereafter kill the game as we know it.

Gone were the days when stadiums had names that couldn’t be found by going across the ticker on CNBC; gone was the loyalty; and most importantly, gone was the innocence of our nation’s pastime. 

While baseball has had its share of bad apples, there were never any rotten enough to spoil the whole tree.  That is, until Alex Rodriguez's urine made its way to California, seemingly just a formality for the game's greatest player.  As it turned out, A-Rod tested positive for Primobolen and testosterone and thus baseball was diagnosed with doubt. This doubt would eventually spread like a cancer and cast a shadow over every other player.  This one sample managed to taint the other 1,197  taken that year and countless others since.

That sound of a wooden bat hitting a baseball had the remarkable ability to take away the stresses of all who witnessed it, even if only for an instant.

At the ballpark, the young father isn’t worrying about the mortgage, or his job security, or anything else that belongs outside the foul lines.

His only stress is trying to teach his young children the nuances of the game as they try to eat ice cream out of a miniature plastic helmet without taking their glove off—and never once taking their eyes off the field and their favorite players. 

The fact that the players are making what their father might make in fifty lifetimes goes unnoticed by the children.

It didn’t matter that their favorite player had represented three different teams the past three years. 

It didn’t even matter that the star player was spotted boarding his personal jet with a stripper, while his wife was at home caring for the couple's young children. 

What mattered most was the idea that the overpaid, stripper-toting player was now gracing the diamond with the youthfulness that the father only saw when watching his own kids head out for a little league game.

Baseball had withstood some of its greatest players' outrageous behavior in the past, and the actions were, in many cases, forgiven.  But all of that ended less than a week before pitchers and catchers reported to Spring Training in 2009.

You could say it started with Ty Cobb, the leader in career hits for many decades, whose outrageous behavior was the stuff of legends.

Then there was Babe Ruth who, despite being a notorious drinker and womanizer, became the face of baseball and a legend that transcended sports. 

Baseball had persevered when Cobb’s record would be eclipsed by Pete Rose, who is much more known for his off-field issues than for breaking one of the game’s most illustrious records. 

It didn’t matter that the All-Time Hit King was permanently barred from baseball for betting on his own game and is not in the Hall of Fame. 

And nobody cared that when the '86 World Series Champion Mets were off the field they looked more like they were auditioning for a part in the sequel to Animal House than exemplifying the virtues of professional role models.

Heck, we even forgave the strike of ’94.

It wasn’t until the late '90s, when players like Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa launched their assault on all that is holy in baseball that baseball really became mortal.

Barry Bonds and his freakishly large skull wounded the game gravely on August 7, 2007, when he hit career home run No. 756, thus claiming the most coveted record in all of sports.  But that was OK, because help was on its way in the form of Alex Rodriguez, the golden child—the surgeon who was going to fix baseball.

Fans felt at ease knowing their cherished game was in the skilled hands of a once-in-a-lifetime, natural talent.

Alex Rodriguez would make baseball wholesome again by stealing back the most coveted record in all of sports. Stealing it back from its tainted holder and claiming it back for the good guys.  

This silent understanding gave baseball fans a kind of, "don’t worry, help is on its way"-feeling that served as the only life support for a sport that was so badly injured by the likes of Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa,  Jason Giambi, and Roger Clemens, among many others.

Ahh, just think, Alex Rodriguez would storm past the legends of baseball who shaped the sport into a national pastime; he would climb up the all-time home run ladder, past the likes of Willie Mays and Babe Ruth, and past Hank Aaron, who had his record unfairly ripped away from him by the man who epitomizes everything that is wrong with baseball.

Then, one magical night, a few years from now, Alex Rodriguez would step up to the plate on a clear New York night and launch a home run for the ages.

Amid the thousands of flashes from the media and fans would come the realization that baseball once again belonged to the good guys.

There would be no more asterisks atop the record books.

As Alex Rodriguez jogged around the bases, fathers would tell their children that he did it the right way:  with his God-given ability to hit a baseball and lots of hard work and practice.

Despite his riches, A-Rod was one of us: a truly good guy.

We could all celebrate with him as he triumphantly touched home plate, putting a nail in the coffin of an era that tried to destroy the game we love most.

An era symbolic of selfishness and greed would be put to rest with one swing of the bat.  

But alas, this was not to be.  Perhaps this was a story better suited for Broadway than the Bronx.

Instead, in a villainous plot twist, Alex Rodriguez—being young and naïve—picked up the wrong needle and injected himself.

Instead of injecting purity back into the game, he injected poison into himself. 

And just like that, A-Rod killed baseball.

After conferring with his agent/defense lawyer Scott Boras, A-Rod went on ESPN and notified the family that their beloved pastime had died.

This is a murder for which Alex Rodriguez will never spend a day in jail.

In fact, A-Rod’s sentence is the exact opposite.  He will carry out his nine-year sentence in the new, state-of-the-art,  $1.3 billion Yankee Stadium. 

The only maximum security he will have to deal with is when it comes to investing the $300 million he will be paid over the length of his sentence.

If only the Son of Sam laws applied to a case like this; A-Rod would be forced to pay his ill-gotten gains to the victims of his crime.

In this case, it would mean an entire country.

Our share would be $1 each.  One dollar for each of the 300 million people living in this country who he disappointed and victimized through his premeditated murder of baseball.