It's Not Your Fault: An Open Letter to Arlen Specter

Dear Senator Specter,

It must be hard to be a sports fan in the city that booed Santa Claus. Trust me, I understand your pain. Boston may not be a loser city anymore, but up until 2001 the only playoff taste I'd ever known was the Yankees' backside. My Celtics were the joke of the NBA. My Patriots were "the Patsies." My Red Sox were mired in an eighty-some-odd year World Series drought that I'm sure you've heard too much about already. Even my high school teams were terrible. So trust me, I know your pain. And trust me when I say this, it will get better. You might feel like all hope is lost, and you might feel bitter enough to lead a witch hunt against the Patriots and neglect all your political duties in the process, but like Mick Jagger said, "You can't always get what you want." The only thing you can do is accept your teams' failures and move on. Try to stay optimistic. It's the only way. Say it with me now. "It's not my fault."

Feels better doesn't it? "It's not my fault." I don't know where I first heard that phrase, but it has helped me get through the three biggest disappointments of my life.

The first time had nothing to do with sports. It was Christmas of 1996. I was ten. Vacation had started too late that year, with school going right up to December twenty-third. I woke up Christmas morning, greeted by the webbed frost hanging in the corners of my windows, the whistling, high-pitched whine from the radiator, and the last red link from my construction paper Christmas countdown chain. Finally, I'm getting a Nintendo 64, I thought, eagerly, about the video game console that I'd pined over during the many, many sleepless nights since Halloween.

Then I got some shirts, some baseball cards, some candy, and a book of scratch tickets. Thanks, but no Nintendo 64. I wanted (key word: wanted) to cry until my tears filled my bedroom and drowned me in my misery. Life just wasn't worth living without a Nintendo 64.

Now I know that the memory of Donovan McNabb doubled over in the huddle, exhausted, and trying to hold back the nervous regurgitate as he prepares to mount a game winning drive must make you sick to your stomach, but, "Take a tip from me..." as Brad Nowell says, "it all comes back to you, you bound to get what you deserve." Karma is a funny thing. That Christmas day when I didn't get what I wanted, did I complain to my parents and act ungrateful for everything else they got me? Of course not. If I had done that, I never would've gotten what I wanted. Besides, I knew they tried. It just wasn't in the cards for me to get a Nintendo 64 that day. And you know what? None of my friends got one either. There was nothing any of us could do. I said it then. "It's not my fault," and in doing so I embraced that truth, realizing that I wasn't alone in my misery. By the time spring came around, the rush on Nintendo 64s ended, and I finally got one.

The second great letdown was game 7 of the 2003 ALCS. As you may recall, the Red Sox led heading into the eighth inning, with the greatest pitcher of his generation going on the mound. This was it. We were going to win the World Series. It all seemed inevitable. I was watching it with my family. My 80 year-old grandmother beamed, grinning from ear to ear like she might actually live to see them win one. My father and his uncles gripped the necks of their beers so tightly that the glass should have shattered into their palms. My mother paced in the dining room, itching to watch the game but we wouldn't let her because the powers that be had determined she was bad luck whenever she entered the room.

Then Grady Little decided to leave his balls in the dugout. Three innings and a walk off Aaron #*%$ Boone home run later later, I was on the floor of my room, elbows hooked around my knees, telling myself, "It's not my fault."

I felt cheated. I wanted to strangle Grady Little, and then call the league and ask them to replay the game, this time without hayseed around to allow Pedro Martinez to finish the inning. The Yankees weren't supposed to win. 2003 was supposed to be the year that Nomar, Pedro and Manny ended the drought. Still I knew there was nothing I could do. The game was over. We lost. Just like the Eagles lost in 2003. There's no way you can change that. Sure, you can neglect your duty to the people of Pennsylvania and to the US senate, and pursue a witch hunt against the Patriots. What's the best case scenario you can hope for? Perhaps Roger Goodell sides with you, and takes away the Patriots' Super Bowl XXXIX Lombardi trophy in a noon press conference. He's still not going to give it to the Eagles. The game would simply be null and void, and the only thing you would have accomplished is making all of New England just as bitter as Philadelphia. Either way the Eagles don't win. The only thing you can do is let it go. That's what we all did here in 2003. The Red Sox fired Grady Little, and we let it go. Because it wasn't our fault. The next year is history.

The third great disappointment was a mere month ago. Call it karma for spygate (by the way, the link included is absolutely hilarious in its ridiculousness), or for running up the score if you will. Or call it a choke. The Patriots missed out on the chance to be called the one of the greatest teams in the history of sports. And while it's still too soon for me to reminisce without spite, I can tell you that the result of the game wasn't pretty. There I was slouched on the chaise nursing a bottle of Jim Beam, holding a joint in my other hand all the while trying to convince myself and my buddy Matt that it wasn't our fault, as he lay curled on the couch, whimpering both over the loss of perfection and the subsequent 2000 dollars worth of damage we caused to his apartment complex following the game.

It's obviously too soon for me to tell how this one will work out. All I can say is that at least it was a good ride while it lasted. I really don't have any parallels here for your situation. Instead, in this final part of the letter, I'd just like thank you for distracting the Patriots the day before the Super Bowl. You really didn't have to do that. You could easily have waited. What you did went above and beyond the senatorial call of duty. I commend you. Never again will we as sports fans ever have to worry about our teams losing games. Anytime our team is cheated, we know we can go to our sports senator and he will make it all better. Whether it's Roger Clemens' steroid use before the 2003 ALCS, or the Eagles illegally discussing a contract with Asante Samuel before the NFL free agency began, we can write to our sports senator and he will drop whatever he's doing, whether it has to do with the men and women dying in Iraq, the American housing crisis, or the stumbling US economy, and he will fight for us.

Oh yeah, and I can't forget to thank you Senator Specter, for giving me someone to blame for the Patriots' loss. I can finally say it now. "It's not my fault."

Yours truly,
Tom

Chicks Dig the Long Book: Another Canseco Memoir Hits the Shelves

This past February marked the three-year anniversary of the release of Juiced: Wild Times, Rampant 'Roids, Smash Hits, and How Baseball Got Big, the seminal memoir of former MLB player turned author, José Canseco. For the cave dwellers out there who aren't familiar, in Juiced Canseco proclaims himself the "Godfather of Steroids" and discusses how, during a career that spanned three decades, he introduced some of Major League Baseball's biggest stars to steroids. From his old Oakland bash brother, former home run champ Mark McGwire, to everyone's favorite member of the lovable losers, Sammy Sosa, to the greatest pitcher of his generation, Roger Clemens, no name proves too sacred for mention in Canseco's tell all memoir.

Juiced became a New York Times bestseller, simultaneously rescuing Canseco from bankruptcy and hurling him into the national spotlight. At first the media discredited him. The U.S.S. Mariner, for example, called him out as an exaggerating opportunist, who had recently been so broke that he sold his Rookie of the Year trophy and World Series ring for quick cash. It wasn't until one of the key players he named, Rafael Palmeiro, failed a drug test in August 2005 that people finally started to believe Canseco. They figured if he was right about Palmeiro, then maybe he was right about the others too. From that point on Major League Baseball focused all of its energy on the still ongoing purge of steroids from the sport. The investigation culminated this past December with the release of the now infamous Mitchell Report, a convoluted, 310 page, he said, she said account of steroid use in baseball.

Now Canseco is peddling a new book called Vindicated: Big Names, Big Liars, and the Battle to Save Baseball. A continuation of Juiced, Vindicated is Canseco's attempt to clarify the names left out of the Mitchell Report, among them two more of America's favorite players, Ken Griffey Jr. and Álex Rodriguez. Neither of these players has ever been linked to steroids before, which makes one ponder the real motive behind Canseco's new publication. Does he genuinely want to clean up the sport? Or is it all about keeping his name in the headlines and making more money? While some signs may point to the latter, given how after Juiced Canseco's publisher told him he didn't have enough facts left for another book, we must to keep in mind that this is the same Canseco who once hit forty homers and stole forty bases in a single season. Any guy who sets a record like that, must truly care about his sport, right? Therefore, perhaps the title says it all for the book. Vindicated is more than another unapologetic memoir from José Canseco. It is his heartfelt attempt to use his newfound credibility to further aid in the cleansing, and thereby bettering of Major League Baseball. Or so he claims.

The fact is, for me at least, that I wonder if all this is really in the interest of bettering professional baseball. For starters, let me just say outright that I really don't care if the players took steroids. Yeah, they cheated. Yeah, it probably taints some of the records that were set. And yeah, it also made baseball pretty darn exciting in the process. Think about it. Where would Major League Baseball be today if it weren't for McGwire and Sosa's epic 1998 home run chase? I, for one, don't think I could stand to hear another story about 61 in '61. The chase revived the sport in the minds of the American public, and captured the hearts of a whole new generation of fans. I know. I was one of them. We loved Slammin' Sammy and Big Mac. We wanted to be just like them. To be big, strong, baseball mashing, Brobdingnagian ballplayers. Steroids might be illegal, but come on, even a certain California governor endorses their use under the right circumstances.

So they took steroids. So what? I'll remember watching that low line drive sail over the green left field wall in Busch stadium for the rest of my life. That's all that really matters, isn't it? Who cares if kids follow their example, and damage their health, ruin their futures, and further corrupt the integrity of sport? That's why we watch sports, for the chance to see something happen that we'll always remember. I may have missed out on the aforementioned 61 in '61, Hank Aaron's 755th, the 1978 pennant, and Charlie Hustle's 4,192nd base hit, but I'll always have the history I witnessed in 1998. No drug allegations (or admissions) should have the right to take that away.

The only thing that the steroid investigation has done for me is taint the future. In the years since they first came to light, I've been forced to doubt every major baseball accomplishment I've seen. Since 2001, Barry Bonds has bested some of the most hallowed records in baseball, and I'll be damned if half of America couldn't have been more ambivalent. No one cares anymore. Sure, baseball is doing the right thing in trying to cleanse itself now, but that doesn't mean it should ever have reached this point. A player as great as Barry Bonds doesn't deserve this kind of treatment. He should be loathed for his notoriously surly demeanor, not his questionable workout regimen, right?

What Major League Baseball should have done is taken a cue from the NFL, or for that matter itself, and brushed the whole issue under the rug from the start. Believe me, I wouldn't have been very hurt. Sure, there would have still been guys like José Canseco, who knew they could make a buck by spilling their guts in tell all memoirs. As long as the league continued calling him a liar and avoided putting its foot in its mouth, no one would have cared, right?

Just look at the players in the NFL. A blind monkey could safely assume, based on their body types that more than a few of them are on steroids. Or look at the athletes from the 1980s. Everyone knows that half the players tried blow at least once (and you're kidding yourself if you don't believe that). Neither of those things is some big mystery. The American public, in general, has at least a vague idea of what was going on. But as long as the leagues keep as much of their business "in house" as possible, no one cares. José Canseco had absolutely zero credibility until the league stepped in and started suspending players left and right. Bud Selig should have stuck to his guns, and dealt with it behind closed doors the way his predecessor, Peter Ueberroth dealt with 1980s cocaine abuse in the league. As long as he kept witch hunters happy by suspending a few major users each season, everyone else was able to go about their business (as long as no one found out), personal health, legacy, and the example they set be damned.

It truly is a sad day when I find myself equally expecting to see my favorite ballplayer on the dugout bench, or in front of a judge's bench (see Mark McGwire getting sworn in on the left). Yet, that seems to be the way things are going to be for the foreseeable future.

I know I can't wholly blame Major League Baseball, or José Canseco for my cynicism. Someday soon, the people who are really responsible for the current state of the sport must be held accountable. And with the release of Vindicated, that day moves closer. José Canseco is fighting for the integrity of the league. I just hope that all those long ball loving chicks are ready to bear the immense burden of blame that's coming to them.

Rocket Fuel: Embracing the Untarnished Part of Roger's Legacy

My first baseball glove was a Roger Clemens edition Rawlings. It was a hand-me-down from my cousin Will, and by the time I first felt its floppy rawhide over my sweaty palm, Roger was only a few years away from eating his way out of Boston. But I didn't care. He was The Rocket. And every time he took the mound, my heart hung on each strike, waiting and hoping to see the next "K," the next small proof of his greatness I was witnessing.

When Dan Duquette let Roger leave for the Toronto Blue Jays after the 1996 season, the Boston public was torn. Half angrily hung onto nostalgia, and cited the second to last game he pitched for Boston, when he struck out 20 batters for the second time in his career, as cause to believe he would have turned it around. The other half was content to see him leave, choosing to believe Duquette, who notoriously suggested Clemens was entering the twilight of his career.

I was devastated. As soon as I read the headline in The Boston Globe that Roger had signed with the Blue Jays, I threw my glove into the deepest recesses of the garage. Roger had been a Red Sox since the day I was born. And now he was a Blue Jay? It didn't seem possible. See, in Boston the Red Sox aren't just a team, they are an integral part of life. The fans live and die with them. When they won the World Series in 2004, countless people in Massachusetts simultaneously proclaimed, "Now I Can Die In Peace!" and truly meant it.

The loyalty of the fan base is both a blessing and a bane for the athletes who play there. When they succeed, they are worshiped (see Tom Brady). And when they leave or fail, there is a deep hurt and an eternal, bitter feeling of scorn and resentment toward them. Just ask Johnny Damon about it. Until 2005, he was one of the most beloved players in Red Sox history. Then he left under similar circumstances to Roger, and now he'd be lucky to find a pub in Boston willing to serve him a beer.

As fans, we are spiteful because when we put our heart and soul into these men on this field, we expect them to do the same for us. The late Will McDonough of the Boston Globe may have summed up the animosity toward Roger best, when he famously called him "The Texas Con Man." Clemens had earned the love of the Boston fans. All he had to do was stay, and he never would have lost it.

Watching Roger after he left was painful. He was like the ex-girlfriend who lost twenty-five pounds and found a new, better looking, richer beau. Every chance he got to make Boston regret dumping him, he took full advantage.

Roger focused all of his anger on rebuilding his career. He adopted the intense workout regimen he's since become famous for, developed a split-fingered fastball to counter the loss in his velocity, and went on to win four more Cy Youngs and two World Series rings. Worse yet, he won both rings and one of the Cy Youngs as a member of the Red Sox' arch rival, the New York Yankees.

The pain was eased in 1997 when Pedro Martinez arrived in Boston, bringing with him a dazzling changeup, blazing fastball, and the kind of media friendly persona so rarely seen in Boston. And the pain was further eased in 2004 and 2007 when the Red Sox won the World Series. But no matter what happens, one needs only to realize that no player has worn number 21 since Clemens left to see that Boston could never truly move on from Roger. Even as he piled up record after record, and Cy Young after Cy Young for other teams, each accolade was only a reminder of what could have been.

Until now.

The recent steroid allegations cast a new light on Roger, one that potentially burns a scarlet asterisk next to each of his accomplishments since he left. Could he be a cheater? If so, then all of the guilt and regret we felt as we watched him become the greatest right handed pitcher of the modern era while wearing a non Red Sox uniform, gets washed away.

His former trainer, Brian McNamee (with Clemens in photo) says that he cheated. And it's really so good to hear that. Even if it turns out to be false in the end (which seems not to be the case at this point), it feels so good, like finding out that the ex-girlfriend who seemed so much better off, actually lost the weight through liposuction and a tummy tuck paid for by the new boyfriend. You hope they have a great life together and everything, but no matter what happens, now you take comfort in the knowledge that you had her first.

The same goes with Clemens. Boston had him first. He won three clean and unquestioned Cy Youngs and an MVP there. The steroid allegations, for what they're worth, simply wipe out everything he has done since.