Counter/Point: Suspended Scrub


You deserve what you get, druggie

“Tom,” congressman

You coddled superstars just don’t get it. You take your multimillion dollar paycheck and don’t care about the fan who pays $5 for a box seat, $3 for a beer and $1 for a hot dog (I’m not sure, the last time I paid to get into a game was 1969). You knew better, but you couldn’t keep the needle out of your ass.

Well, those homers have a cost, mister man. Now you’re outed, and fans everywhere will pelt you with hard rolls and overripe tomatoes.

It’s just too bad that your suspension is little more than a slap on the wrist. 10 days to goof off with your jet-set friends like Paris Hilton and Jackie Onassis, then back to your easy paychecks only what, $100 poorer? That’s little more than the down payment on one of your five Nash Ramblers.

The other day I was asking Pat Robertson what he thought we should do about all this, because I consult him on all the big stuff, but his cell phone rang and it was Bono so he had to go. But I know just what he’d say: this is the biggest national shame since that last president had sex in the White House. And the new Pope’s on my side too, I bet.

This is why we’re going to move in and legislate. I looked into those Olympic two-year suspensions, and it turns out they’re not very good (as God is my witness, I swear I thought they held the Olympics every year). So there’s only one solution: automatic prison sentences for Major League Baseball’s steroid users. Throw ’em in jail with the potheads, I say! (And when I say “I,” I clearly mean “my party’s legislative think tank and several lobbyists.”)

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for the Nationals game. My contributors paid good money for those seats behind the plate, and this one’s on ESPN, so I’ll be damned if I let some miscreant keep me from getting TV time. I’ll wave at you.


I was framed

“Alex,” player

I know, I know, every spring we have a big clubhouse meeting, and the team trainer tells us “drugs are bad, mm-kay?” Then he gives us a list of all the banned stuff, and warns us not to even drink Coke because caffeine could have steroids in it. But hey, this stuff came right off the shelf at GMC or whatever that place is called. It says here on the bottle, “safe and legal in 23 states.”

I declare this suspension bogus. If there was anything in my bloodstream, it was whatever the hell is in the meat in the clubhouse.

Look, I’m a light-hitting backup outfielder with no increase in any sort of muscle-related abilities whatsoever, ever. I’m only in the bigs because I come cheap. If contraction had actually happened I’d be shagging batting-practice flies in Butte right now. Not fly balls, flies. Until the media announced my suspension nobody knew who the hell I was. When the Yankees are in town, I sometimes mumble my last name really fast to get chicks.

And what if I did use? I’m 23 years old, okay? If I can’t abuse substances now, when can I? Don’t pretend you’ve never filibustered on blow. We have evil doctors always giving us stuff, you have lobbyists. Same deal.

You’re all big hypocrites. If one of you breaks the rules, you make new rules. We have to deal with a half-senile ex-owner who thinks letting the Yankees play the Mets every year is saving baseball, and a union leader who won’t return a call from anyone who makes less than $2 million a year.

I have half a mind to start taking performance-limiting substances, like Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle.

Published April 28, 2005

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