Since I was old enough to hold my plastic Fisher Price whiffle-ball bat, baseball has been a huge part of my life. I played in Little League for years, went to games with my Dad, watched on television, and any time there was a ball or glove within reach I’d be playing catch.
Now as the years passed by, as with most people my age, the (shockingly) sad realization that I’m not going pro has finally started to sink in. I’m not sure what gave it away, the fact that I have the hand-eye coordination of someone who just got off a Tilt-a-Whirl, or my need for a water break halfway through walking up a flight of stairs. Regardless of my less-than-Ruthian abilities, I still follow my Yankees every night on the YES (Yankee Entertainment and Sports) Network, and am so hooked on America’s pastime that I’ve decided that since I don’t have the tools to play professionally, I’d like to do the next best thing. When I complete college in a year, my goal is to begin working as a professional sportswriter.
But lately, something about this game I love has been plaguing me. I’m really not sure what I’m going to tell my yet-to-be-born kids. One day, as we watch my beloved Bronx Bombers’ bullpen blow yet another game in the late innings, little Joe Torre Ferraro (bear with me) is going to ask me about the players from my generation. He’ll ask, “Who was the best player you ever saw, Dad?” And here’s what I’ll tell him.
“Well, the best outfielder I ever saw was probably Barry Bonds. But he had this whole steroid and human growth hormone scandal. Mark McGwire was probably the scariest right-handed hitter I’ve ever seen, but he preferred his steroids with a hint of androstenedione. Then there was this guy named Alex Rodriguez, and for the longest time, everyone always wondered why he was so good. He was the “savior of baseball,” the guy who would break Barry Bonds’ tainted home run records, and restore the game to its original legitimacy. Then one day we realized why he was so good; he was taking steroids straight out of high school.”
But that first question that little Joe asked me wasn’t the hard part. The hard part is the follow up question: “What about Babe Ruth? What steroid did he take?”
I’m really not sure what I’m going to tell him.
“Well, son, Babe used a very old-fashioned type of steroid. It was called HotdogsandBeer. It was real cheap, and you could take it orally.”
Just a few short weeks ago, New York Mets outfielder Gary Sheffield connected for his 500th career home run. Joining the “500 Club” is the most prestigious honor for power hitters, as it requires both prolificacy and longevity. Sheffield was the 25th major leaguer to hit 500 homers. He is the 10th player in the last 11 years to do so. In the game’s previous 120 years, there were just 15 people to reach the 500 plateau. This sparks the question, “has reaching 500 home runs lost its prestige?” Sheffield is one of several players (Manny Ramirez tested positive today) within the 500 Club to either use or be suspected of using steroids or other performance enhancing drugs.
So why does this even matter? Let’s just make 600 the new barometer of whether someone has achieved home run hitting greatness. That’ll up the ante and thin out any mediocre members of The Club.
The problem with this idea is explained in one word: timelessness.
Sure, other sports have been around for decades, too. Other sports have a rich history, large followings, and multi-million dollar contracts just like baseball does. But, I dare you to look at statistics of football or basketball. In these sports, when we compare players, we usually compare them to other players within their generation. Wilt Chamberlain averaged over 50 points a game for a single season. As great as he is, how can Shaq compete with that? The answer is, he can’t. Does this mean he’s nowhere near on par with Wilt? Not necessarily. But when Wilt played, his opponents were nowhere near his 7 foot 1 stature.
Take football – no one even blinked an eye when San Diego Chargers’ Shawne Merriman shattered the sacks record before testing positive for steroids. Why do we hold baseball to a higher standard?
I’m not sure, but hopefully by the time little Joe is able to ask me that, I’ll have come up with a good answer. In the meantime, as I still try to wrap my brain around the idea that I won’t be going pro, I can reflect on “what could have been.” Maybe if I pulled an A-Rod I wouldn’t be writing this article, but been being written about instead. I’ll take note of that when little Joe needs an edge when he tries out for his Little League All-Star team.
