I’ve seen the needle and the damage done. A little part of it in everyone. But every junkie’s like a settin’ sun. Ooh, ooh, the damage done. -Neil Young
Public Service Announcement: Finally. Finally Alexander Emmanuel Rodriguez hit his 600th career homerun. Like my main Derrick Coleman always says, “Woopty damn do!” Finally, it’s over. It’s over. It’s all over! Johnny Havlicek is being mobbed by the fans. It’s all over! Johnny Havlicek stole the ball! That’s right sports fans, Alex Rodriguez stole another milestone. Like Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa and Barry Bonds before him, A-Rod stole history. There was a time when no numbers were more historic, more poetic, or more vibrant than baseball’s numbers. Baseball used to be a sport where statistical comparisons of players from different eras linked one generation of fans to the next. Our superstar’s pursuit of records used to mean something. Used to mean something special. You’re so fuckin’ special. I wish I was special. But I’m a creep. I’m a weirdo What the hell am I doin’ here?
From the time Jose Canseco’s won his Rookie of the Year award in 1986, through the last full season before the 1994 strike, and on to the full fledged Juiced Era of 1994–2004, baseball’s hallowed numbers have lost there true significance. In Field of Dreams, Terrance Mann says, ”America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time.” It marked the time with numbers.
It marked time with big numbers. Important numbers. Pat Conroy once said, “Baseball fans love numbers. They love to swirl them around their mouths like Bordeaux wine.” Swirling around numbers like 56. Numbers like 2,632. Numbers like .406. Like 511, 130 and 5,714. And numbers like 61.
Yes, I said 61. That meant something. You mention Tommy, you mention Salvy, you mentioned you. You included you with them. You could have said anybody, but you said you and them. Yes I did. I know that number is now nothing but a footnote, but that’s my point. Roger Maris’ 61 homeruns in a season stood the test of time. It stood proud for 38 years. Then, from 1998-2001, that once proud number was disgraced. It was shattered. What a mess this town’s in tatters. I’ve been shattered. My brain’s been battered, splattered all over Manhattan. Shattered by six different men in three different season in four years. It is a travesty. It’s a travesty of a mockery of a sham of a mockery of a travesty of two mockeries of a sham.
Know this: The all-time hits leader won’t be in the Hall of Fame. The all-time home run leader won’t be in the Hall of Fame. The man who broke Roger Maris’ single-season record won’t be in the Hall. The man who was once the winningest right-handed pitcher of the live-ball era won’t be in the Hall. The man with the most 60-homer seasons in baseball history won’t be in the Hall. Their numbers mean nothing now.
Baseball’s heritage and tradition is rich and deep. The numbers should matter. But the steroid era changed all that. We no longer have a context in which to compare our heroes to our father’s heroes to our grandfather’s heroes. Yes Virginia, the bases are still 90 feet apart, the mound is still 60 feet, 6 inches from home plate, and in most ways is much the same as it was 80-90 years ago. But the numbers don’t mean what they used to. And that’s a shame. The cheaters cheated us all and I don’t know how it can be reconciled.
Public Spectacle:
Peace out homies. Six two and Even!
