The (Real) Truth

There is a small to fair chance that Barry Bonds could be in a federal prison by the end of this season. As a Giants fan, this is pretty disheartening, because it means a season with Randy Winn anchoring their outfield. However, it’s also disturbing for another reason: Barry Bonds may have done something wrong, but he hardly deserves to be the fall guy for the steroid "crisis” in professional baseball, as if such a thing even existed. But still, in an absolute worst-case scenario, within the course of a couple of years Bonds could complete the slide from being the Greatest Player Who Ever Lived to starting in left field for the Folsom Prison softball team.

Right now Barry exists somewhere in limbo between the two. Anything he accomplishes between now and the end of his career will generate one of two reactions: doubt or abject scorn. He could hit 80 home runs this season, and the reaction would probably be about the same as it is now – because we just don’t know how to respond. Because of Barry and his fellow juicers, statistics - the last solid ground we had to stand on, the measuring stick for past and present players - have become meaningless. Right?

The start of baseball season always brings with it misty-eyed stories about the purity of the game and the regenerative powers of spring training. Buster Olney and Peter Gammons come over the horizon to give us their predictions for the upcoming season, and columnists dust off their yearly “spring training as a metaphor for rebirth” pieces.

But this year a shadow has been cast over the game. A dark, terrifying shadow that has obscured the idyllic “Age of Innocence” we once lived in. Oh, how naïve we were! See, you may not have heard, but apparently there’s some kind of scandal surrounding baseball. I was always under the impression that baseball players were fine, upstanding citizens who didn’t drink or smoke or gamble or cheat on their wives.

Then I found out that Barry Bonds took steroids. Records have become fuzzy, dark has become light, night has turned into day. We don’t know which way is up. Steroids are everywhere, and they are RUINING OUR GAME.

Horseshit.

This is nothing against Lance Williams and Mark Fainaru-Wada, whose book put to rest any final thoughts we might have had that Barry Bonds was a stand-up guy. It also isn’t an endorsement of Bonds, who is by any account an unlikable, manipulative man who uses his talent to distance himself from others rather than draw them to him. He also uses his kids as props to manipulate the media. And yes, he probably knowingly took steroids. However, saying that the revelations of widespread steroid use in baseball cast doubt on the sport’s credibility since the early 1990s is ridiculous, and saying something to the effect of “the curtain has been pulled aside” is just dumb.

The fact is, steroids’ effects are a quantifiable entity, and a relatively minor one at that. It’s just that we don’t have the appropriate tools to quantify them yet. The steroid controversy exposes a glaring weakness in the arguments of baseball purists, because it supposedly damages the statistical equality of a game where the playing field was never entirely level to begin with.

The simple truth is, steroids aren’t that big a deal in the grand scheme of things. It’s disingenuous to use the Bonds-esque argument that “steroids don’t make you a better hitter,” but at the same time to say that steroid use drastically alters a player’s statistical success is cheap and highly dubious. Steroids didn’t destroy a fragile equilibrium in the game where statistics actually reflect how good a player is. They’re no more meaningful than the idiosyncracies of Fenway Park, which probably cause David Ortiz to hit 4 more home runs a year than he would if he played in San Diego.

Park dimensions and steroid use are, in the crudest sense, two of a kind. The fact that one occurs within the rules of the game and the other doesn’t is virtually irrelevant. Sabermetrics is a muddy science; for the most part, we’re forced to operate with the assumption that baseball players hit, pitch and field in a vacuum. Statistics, then, are just our best attempt at quantifying the unquantifiable, namely, “How good is player X?” Steroids introduce another variable into that equation, but they certainly don’t make the whole thing a wash.

Second of all, it’s hard for anyone to claim innocence here. Baseball has never been pure. Like almost every other hallowed American tradition, it is inextricably tainted with racism, corruption, greed, and rule-bending. Baseball’s past actually hurts it, because the game’s unique position in American history gives people a selective memory. People love to remember Babe Ruth’s called shot and Bill Mazeroski circling the bases with joy. However, they tend to forget that internal gambling was a huge problem in professional baseball’s past and that most of the teams were run by evil plutocrats. Oh yeah, and that black players were excluded until 1947.

Baseball has survived more “crises” than people care to remember. Steroids are just the catastrophe of the week, the same way that people love to claim that violent video games are turning Bobby and Jessica into the Children of the Corn when their parents were saying the same thing about rap/R-rated movies/jazz music. Baseball’s history is just as riddled with hollow outrage. People have claimed that everything from interleague play to the wild card to the Pete Rose gambling scandal would ruin baseball, and somehow baseball is still around. Hell, the 1994 players’ strike didn’t ruin it, and if the game’s ceasing to exist for a year didn’t make people give up on it, then casting doubt on a few statistics since 1990 sure as hell won’t.

The truth may not be palatable, but it’s simple: People probably don’t care. Were it not for the incessant whining of Skip Bayless, we would have forgotten most of this by now. People love to feign outrage over their loss of innocence, but the worst crime isn’t cheating – it’s being boring.

Imagine if this debate were over fake breasts. Most guys complain that they prefer real ones, and with good reason: fake boobs are less pleasant to touch and they look gross when their owners get older. As with steroid abusers, any guy who claims he can identify fake and real with 100% accuracy is full of it. But no matter what they’re made of, a big set will always, always get your attention – and that’s all that matters. Barry Bonds may be a cheater, a liar, a drug abuser, a bad father, a philanderer, and a racist. But – and here’s the important part – he hits the ball a really long way. And that isn't bad for baseball.

Warning Signs: When to Start Worrying About Your Friend

"What’s going on, man? It’s been a long time; I was just calling to say hi. Heather and I have been really busy with the new place. We finally finished picking out new carpet for the living room – the place looks awesome now. After our trip to the museum last week, we picked up some poster prints and they’re up on the walls, along with the family photos.

“Moving in together with Heather was really the right decision, although it’s really a compromise having someone else in the house all the time. It’s tough to get used to lighting a candle after I take a dump, and she always moves my stuff around. I had to spend twenty minutes the other day looking for my scarf.

“But there are some pluses – she makes these awesome low-fat breakfast burritos every Saturday morning. My diet is so healthy with her around. I haven’t been in shape like this since I was wrestling in college, especially since my injury last week – I was using the thigh abductor machine and I think I strained something. I might actually have to go see a doctor. I can’t be out of commission for too long, though – it’s almost summer, and I’m really out of beach shape. I’ve been using the Foreman Grill for all our meat, too, but that doesn’t seem to be working – maybe I’m going to actually have to throw some vegetables on there once in a while.

“The other great thing about living together is that we’re really saving money. We managed to sock away a few thousand dollars, and we’re thinking about doing some traveling in the next couple of months – going up to Canada or maybe even Europe.

“Still, we should really get together sometime. Heather told me there’s a great new independent film we should see, and if that doesn’t work they have improv comedy down there on Thursday nights. You should bring a girl and the four of us can go down there together – a little double date kind of thing. Or if you want to do something more laid back, you could just pick up a bottle of wine and we could have a little dinner party at our place with some fondue.

“Another thing I’d been meaning to talk to you about – I finally quit my job. I spent a long time talking to my parents about it first and finally got up the nerve. The commute was killing me, and it was taking me forever to get there in that new hybrid car. I was spending almost two hours a day on the road. My therapist told me listening to classical music in the car was going to help me relax, but even that started getting old after a couple of weeks. It finally got so bad that I didn’t have time do any reading unless I was taking a dump.

“That’s one of the other things I really miss, you know? I like having quiet time to myself, and since Heather moved in I really haven’t had much of that. Come to think of it, I haven’t had any at all lately. She’s driving me nuts, man. She’s even talking about having kids. I mean, I hate using condoms as much as the next guy, but that’s a minefield I’m not willing to walk through yet, you know?

“So yeah, things aren’t going so well lately. I think it’s time to kick back with a light beer and have a long, hot bath. Anyway, thanks.

I just felt like I had to talk about it.”