[Previous entry: "Gettin' Lucky"] [Next entry: "Pictures 11: Talk To Me, Goose"]
12/03/2004: "More Needling"
"This could be the last time.
This could be the last time.
Maybe the last time,
I don't know!"
--Rolling Stones, The Last Time
I wish I could say this was the last time I was going to write about this.
Steroids... blecch.
I'd rather talk about the NHL labor situation, the NBA brawl aftermath, anything else in the world of sports.
I like sports because I like the competition. All of the peripheral stuff -- the contracts, the athletes in trouble with the law, the BCS malarky -- I wish would just go away.
In fact, I'm watching The Price Is Right as I write this, and short of a Bob Barker spay-and-neuter scandal, there's nothing taking away from the pure soul of it.
But the local news will be on in a minute, and they'll be talking all about Giambi and Bonds, and I'll be jolted back to reality until I can find the remote control.
Did Barry know what he was taking? Did he lie to the grand jury? Did the hGH improve his eyesight and help him with that renowned plate discipline? I don't care. I know that there's a mountain of evidence, much of it circumstantial, but all of it damning. I just wish I didn't have to pay attention to it.
The one thing that keeps bothering me is that the drug users take away opportunities from talented players who refuse to play the game any way but clean. How many careers have stopped before they could even get started because they came up against cheaters? That bothers me.
I'd like to say that there's some justice because neither Bonds nor Giambi has won a World Series. And that does give me a bit of schadenfreude. But for some reason I don't believe that there isn't somebody out there walking around with a championship ring around a juiced-up finger that we'll never know about. I just hope they can live with themselves. And I hope they get out of sports and never come back.
About
