There is absolutely no joy in Mudville (or anywhere outside of San Francisco), the (questionably) mighty Barry has won out. Of course the steroid accusations are more than bothersome, but the very persona of Barry, the sour, joyless, disdainful, artificially enhanced seeker of records, who, don’t forget, was once a sour, joyless, disdainful, legit All-Star and complete tool player, has always been a turn-off, and made it virtually impossible to root for the guy whose Godfather Willie Mays once epitomized as the high-spirited and uncontaminated spirit of the game, and whose contemporary baseball doppelganger Ken Griffey Jr. couldn’t run out between the lines without a grin, a lively step, consciously rejoicing in the plain truth of the pure rapture in playing a kids game as an adult living.
It may be time to push the Red Sox panic button. Never mind that the team is suffering through yet another post-All Star west coast potential death march, it’s those damn can’t-kill-‘em Yanks that have many of us breaking out in a cold sweat. A-Rod is having a stupendous year, everybody has started to hit, Giambi is coming back, and last night’s game had one of those bench clearing call-to-arms incidents, with Senior Citizen Clemens drilling a Toronto batter as a high profile rallying cry for a team that is already doing everything right. Uh-oh.
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