Remembering the Steroid Era

Baseball was my life.  I remember when I would wake up every morning, grab some cereal, turn on SportsCenter and watch in high anticipation.

Who is winning the chase?

I am referring to the home run chase of 1998.  Nearly everyone I knew was glued to the TV every night, rooting for Mark McGwire or Sammy Sosa.  We would fight about it on the playground daily, over who was better and who would win.

America watched in awe of baseballs leaving the yard at an astonishing rate.  Every commercial relished their chance to cash in on the chase. 

For the record, my favorite was “Chicks dig the long ball.”

Now, 11 years later and no longer in my childhood I am stricken with sadness.  I watch as the heroes of my generation are being labeled as “cheaters” and having experts requesting we mark the records with asterisks.  Don’t you remember that it was this season that saved baseball?

I am not here to condone cheating.  My father always taught me to never cheat.  However, I am here to shed light on the era that will forever be known as the “Steroids Era”

There is plenty of blame to go around for why it happened, but who should shoulder the blame remains controversial.  I believe we, the fans, are to blame for the steroid era.

It really isn’t our fault, we wanted so badly for baseball to be relevant again that we would have given anything for the game to be magical once more.  In the wake of the 1994 strike, we wanted baseball back. 

This season was the reason baseball is still above hockey in America.  The NFL was skyrocketing, the NBA had Michael Jordan, and baseball was saved by “the chase”.

Because of this era, I can’t ever have a good feeling about loving baseball again.  I foolishly defended all of the players, only to be let down so many times.

I defended Barry Bonds, only to watch his head grow eight sizes in four years.  I defended Clemens, trying to believe he was framed.

I defended A-Rod because he made my 10 birthday very special.  I went to Peoria that year to try to get an autograph from my favorite player, Ken Griffey Jr.  Griffey, however, never gave it to me.  Patiently I waited, only to have Griffey tell me to get lost. 

Saddened, Alex came up to me before their final game with Milwaukee.  He grabbed my baseball, signed it, and told me to never give up my dream.   I still have the ball along with that memory and was always a fan of A-Rod until he lied to Katie Couric.

I defended Manny Ramirez.  I told my father that he will be remembered as the best right handed hitter of this generation and that he did it without performance enhancement.

I still defend Ken Griffey Jr. as the only pure home run hitter of the era do to it clean.

I sit here preparing for the inevitable shock of Griffey testing positive, although shock might not be the word to describe hearing an athlete testing positive for anything these days.

Baseball is still close to my heart, but will forever take a backseat to my love for the NFL and College Basketball.  Sometimes I miss the magic of summer, but I will forever wonder if that magic was performance enhanced.