"You're either in or you're out.....right now."
-Ocean's Eleven
Ralph Wiley theorizes that there is more to the steroid outrage than meets the eye in his Sour Grapes piece on espn.com. My response is below. It is long, so feel free to skip it....
Mr. Wiley,
I just got done reading the Anti Trash Talk peace, and took the time to write and tell you that I enjoyed the piece. Well, I have also delved into your archives and read the Sour Grapes piece, and couldn't be more disappointed.
In all honesty, I have not read much of your work on Page 2 due to what seems like an increasingly oft-repeated habit of playing the race card. While there is place in this society (and certainly in the world of sports) to debate not only the existence of racial tensions and prejudices, but to also seek remedies, I find that injecting the subject into every discussion lessens the legitimacy of the matter. Hiring practices, quarterback sterotypes, NHL diversity. All three are legitimate subjects upon which to raise the issue of racism and its unfortunate byproducts. However, to insinuate (not so subtly) that the disdain of the American public over the recent steroid scandal is the result of racism is not only ludicrous, but borders on irresponsible.
I will certainly capitulate to two facts: (a) racism has always been, and continues to be, one of the most serious issues facing American culture, and (b) you are entitled to your opinion. In regards to a, in no way will I try and claim that racism doesn't still exist today, and I will also not bother to read you my race-friendly resume, as the majority guilty white men are apt to do. What I will do is suggest that the state of racial diversity and acceptance is at its zenith in America. When one considers that slavery, segregation and intolerance were part of the American fabric for over 200 years, it can only be said that we have come along way in such a short amount of time. While the Civil Rights Act was passed in 1964 (right year?). issues of race were at the forefront of numerous political discussions and Supreme Court cases well into the 70s. Being generous, we could say that this country has been working vigorously on curing the ills of a time since past for at least 35 years. This is certainly not a matter that will be resolved overnight, and one MUST admit that we as a people have come along way in a relatively speaking short amount of time. So, in regards to b, you are entitled to your opinion, but I of course, am entitled to disagree with that opinion. The uproar over steroid use and its affect on the game of baseball is not an issue of race. It is an issue of integrity. Last time I checked, three major leaguers were fingered as having received illegal substances. Two black men, and one white man. Meanwhile, the only of the three catching a great deal of flack is Barry Bonds. Gary Sheffield hasn't experienced anywhere close to an equivalent backlash from the fans, and I would go so far as to say Giambi has taken as much abuse on the issue as Barry has. It just so happens that Barry holds the Home Run record. Such a distinction makes him ripe for abuse, not the color of his skin. It seems to me that there is a false preoccupation with an outdated idea that somehow white people will have a feeling of loss if "their" Babe Ruth is passed by Barry, a black man. That is hardly the case. Babe Ruth is an AMERICAN icon, not a white icon. No one is worried that Barry will trump him as a black man. Everyone, however, is worries that he will trump the Babe AND Hank while using illegal substances to enhance his performance. The issue is integrity, as mentioned above, not race.
Which leads to my final point. I am a former collegiate-level baseball player, who still dabbles for fun. I know the game, inside and out. What I also know is that increased strength and recovery ability WILL enhance one's performance, no question. Bat speed, power, leg strength......all phases benefit from the sheer muscle mass that can be acquired. Hitting is more than biceps. Forearms, thighs, trunk, shoulder.....it is a full body action. Increasing any of those muscles (as well as refining the fast twitch muscles) will not improve one's hand-eye coordination, or improve his mental acuity, however, it will combine with those natural talents to create an artificial result. To say that "steroids don't make contact easier" or whatever is so immaterial. No one is disputing the natural talents of Barry, or any other accused major leaguer, however, it must be noted that when that natural talent is introduced to a performance enhancing substance, the results will change drastically. Hard ground balls get through the hole quicker. Hand speed catches up to 98 on the black finally. Warning track fly outs become gargantuan blasts into the loge. In your haste to defend someone you felt needed defending (since no body else will), you neglected to really think about what you were writing.
In the end, I do NOT believe Barry is a steroid abuser, nor do I think he ever was. He is a clear demonstration of what happens when talent collides with hard work (ala Jerry Rice). I root for the guy, and will continue to root.
I am sure many of you are wondering how I am doing, in light of my recent marital issues. I am here to announce to I am doing very well. Many people have been worrying about me, and an equal amount of you have been extremely supportive. I can unequivocally say that without the love and support of my friends and family, I would have struggled mightily to keep my otherwise eratic life "on track." I recently consulted a therapist. For years, I have been too stubborn and egotistical to admit that a counselor's objective view might do me some good. No longer do I have such an outdated mindset. At the urging of my wife, I made an appointment and saw someone yesterday, and I can't put into words what a refreshing experience it was. For as long as my memory permits to remember, I have always thought that I suffered from depression. I considered myself lazy, lacking motivation, and not goal oriented. Eventually, my negative self value was projected to my wife, who has since reiterated those feelings back at me. It was only a matter of time. So now, I am in the unenviable position of exploring my own life and making some changes. Though I have been frustrated by my wife's insistance that we take some time apart, my therapist conceded that it is exactly what I need. He said that I do in fact have some issues that need to be resolved if I want to be the type of husband MB deserves. The type that I promised her. What I learned was that the problems I have self diagnosed for myself, and have in turn tried to fix, probably aren't my real problems. I suffer from anxiety, and a sincere fear of success. Sounds weird huh? It didnt to me. For whatever reason, I consider myself a fraud. Out there, putting on a show for everyone, yet feeling inadequate deep down. Asserting a desire to excel, but scared to actually do anything about. My fear is that if I do succeed, I will mishandle my new power, and fail. Fail miserably. Before I can truly be successful, it appears that I need to develop a mentality that is unafraid of failure, and willing to accept it as a part of the journey to success. I could honestly go on forever on this subject (haven't I already?) but I believe you get the gist of it. Look for more positive thinking in the days and weeks to come.
Ok, back to some real ramblings!
Todd Bertuzzi. Have you seen the hit this guy put on Steve Moore in an NHL game? In a premeditated act, he came up from behind, punched Moore in the side of the face, then grabbed him by the scruff, and drove his head into the ice like he was stamping out a fire. As a result, Moore now has a concussion and a broken neck. Bertuzzi has been suspended indefinitely, and gave the tearful apology today. One problem: During the apology, he offered that "I didnt mean to hurt him." Ok, Im an idiot again. I must have dumbass stamped on my forehead, because another athlete is selling me crap in a baggie and calling it cookies. I'm not buying! Of course you meant to hurt him! You just didnt mean to hurt him so bad. If not hurt him, then what? Help him get a better view of his own skates? Introducing him to the blue line? Demonstrating the shortest distance to China? Either dont lie, or back up that lie with an even better lie, like, "I didnt mean to hurt him, I simply mistook him for a Zamboni."
Why do I have to go through 7 months of mudslinging to decide a President? Can't they just arm wrestle or something? How about, the Presidential Decathalon. 40 yard dash, a game of Mortal Kombat on the PS2, ping pong, a drinking contest, trivial pursuit. Who wouldnt vote for the guy who won a contest involving all that stuff? We want a President that is two things: normal like the rest of the country, and smart enough to handle the job. Sound familiar? It should, it's Bill Clinton to a tee. The guy was brilliant, a Yale grad, a lawyer, an accomplished political figure and business man. Yet, he loves college hoops, Big Macs, and chicks. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a leader we can get behind.
Is there anything worse than a summer cold? You feel miserable, you want to die, and, you are sweating. That is horrible! At least in the winter, everyone else is sick. Its cold, so you can curl up in bed and be happy. And, the weather sucks so bad, you dont want to go out anyways. In the summer, everyone is happy, at the beach, partying, and you have the sniffles. Meanwhile, you are lying on your bed, sweating like George Bush in final Jeopardy, watching One Day at a Time reruns. Just the worst....if not for the humorous antics of Schneider, you'd strangle yourself.
Nothing ruins a weekend quicker than being the late guy to the bar. It sucks so bad to wait in line, get to the bar, and your friends are all wobbly, drunk out of their skulls. It's like, I cant possibly catch up. And if you stay, then you are the sober guy. And when you are the sober guy in a room full of drunk people, you want to open fire with an automatic weapon. When you are drinking, then everyother person is awesome, no matter if they are sober or drunk. But when you are sober, no one is more annoying than a drunk person. That's why no one wants to go out without a friend. At least one other person needs to be on the same drinking schedule for it to be a good time. You need to hit your 5 Stages of Intoxication at the same pace. Lets review:
Stage 1: The Starting Line - you crack that first drink. Its ice cold, the sun might still be up, but starting to move down. Every drink is a cheers to life, friends, whatever. The only topic of conversation is the future drinking to be done. Certain levels of intoxication are promised, and pacts are made. We will be trashed! you exclaim, it's gonna be great. Well, no, no it isnt, but we keep telling ourselves that as the opening night case dwindles.
Stage 2: Lubricated - the alcohol is starting to work. You arent buzzed yet, but you can "feel it." You know this because you turn to your buddy and say, "I'm not buzzed, but Im feeling it." At this point, everything is becoming fun. Smiles around, jokes, laughing. It is the start of the apex of the evening. At this point, it's time to go out. Your inhibitions are evaporating, but you are still lucid enough to have an intelligent conversation, and to convince a striking blonde with her cleavage popping out of her turtleneck that you are, in fact, an international spy or a producer. Time to go!
Stage 3: Buzzed - you are getting drunk. You are now at the absolute zenith of fun in the night. It's late, but still relatively early in regards to how much longer you will be out. You begin looking at your watch every 15 minutes and exclaiming in utter disbelief, "It's only _____ o'clock!" You have reached a point in the night where everything is perfect. The balance between the crowd, the taste of the drinks, your drunkedness, the amount of friends with you, it has all come to a head. It is the drinking nirvana. And, best of all, if you are single, it is the point where there are still available women in the bar. The odor of desperation has yet to creep into your nose.
Stage 4: Drunk - ok, now you are too fun. You are walking slightly side to side. You are using the restroom very frequently, and the lines are getting longer. The drinks are no longer tasting as good, and you have lost track of your tab. You are starting to buy 10 shots of Johnny Walker Black Label, screaming incredulously, "Put it on my tab!" The repurcussions will be felt for weeks. Whatever cash you once had has evaporated. The women are all taken. You are searching frantically to get someone to dance with you, but it's hopeless. Having missed the window, there is but one thing to do: drink more. Its late now, but you have an hour or two to enjoy. Half of your friends have left. Unidentified liquids appear in the form of softball sized stains on your sleeves and pant legs. Your speech is getting fuzzy, and you are saying things you wouldnt normally say. At this point, you will do one of two things for the next hour: (a) dance with a mediocre looking girl to music you absolutely hate, like trance or house, desparately trying to convince her that she should come over, or (b) sit down, order the strongest drink you can think of (invariably, Long Island Ice Tea) and get into a heated debate with your remaining, equally drunk friend, about who your team should sign in free agency.
Stage 5: The Curb - at this point, you will either end up standing on the curb, or lying on it. You have signed your tab, which has a number on it you were unable to decipher and will be shocked to read tomorrow. It is possible you just forgot the tab, and will have to return the next day to get your card. Bouncers are screaming to go home as you shuffle out like cattle. Someone behind you is giving the, "I paid for this drink, Im not leaving til its done." routine, or the "You close at 2! I can stay till 2!" argument. This argument is soon replaced by the "You dont own the sidewalk." argument out in front of the establishment. You now must find your friends. If you can, you will be either riding home with them, riding home with people they met, or getting left behind to find your own way home. Luckily, the Curb stage has you at a point where you are granted superhuman powers. One power is the ability to get a cab ride home, no matter how drunk you are. Somehow, you will wake up in your bed tomorrow, with no idea how. Or, you will use your power of walking and navigation. People at this level of intoxication develop the ability to trek extremely long distances without getting lost. Amazingly, it works in any city, whether you have been there or not. At this point, you enter the 6th stage, which is a wild card. You either go to Your Place or Mine Stage, Put in a DVD and Fall Asleep Stage, or the most popular, Taco Joint Stage. Be warned that choosing Taco Joint Stage leaves open the possibility of Fight Club Stage which leads to Why Does My Hand Hurt so Much in the Morning Stage.
-Ocean's Eleven
Ralph Wiley theorizes that there is more to the steroid outrage than meets the eye in his Sour Grapes piece on espn.com. My response is below. It is long, so feel free to skip it....
Mr. Wiley,
I just got done reading the Anti Trash Talk peace, and took the time to write and tell you that I enjoyed the piece. Well, I have also delved into your archives and read the Sour Grapes piece, and couldn't be more disappointed.
In all honesty, I have not read much of your work on Page 2 due to what seems like an increasingly oft-repeated habit of playing the race card. While there is place in this society (and certainly in the world of sports) to debate not only the existence of racial tensions and prejudices, but to also seek remedies, I find that injecting the subject into every discussion lessens the legitimacy of the matter. Hiring practices, quarterback sterotypes, NHL diversity. All three are legitimate subjects upon which to raise the issue of racism and its unfortunate byproducts. However, to insinuate (not so subtly) that the disdain of the American public over the recent steroid scandal is the result of racism is not only ludicrous, but borders on irresponsible.
I will certainly capitulate to two facts: (a) racism has always been, and continues to be, one of the most serious issues facing American culture, and (b) you are entitled to your opinion. In regards to a, in no way will I try and claim that racism doesn't still exist today, and I will also not bother to read you my race-friendly resume, as the majority guilty white men are apt to do. What I will do is suggest that the state of racial diversity and acceptance is at its zenith in America. When one considers that slavery, segregation and intolerance were part of the American fabric for over 200 years, it can only be said that we have come along way in such a short amount of time. While the Civil Rights Act was passed in 1964 (right year?). issues of race were at the forefront of numerous political discussions and Supreme Court cases well into the 70s. Being generous, we could say that this country has been working vigorously on curing the ills of a time since past for at least 35 years. This is certainly not a matter that will be resolved overnight, and one MUST admit that we as a people have come along way in a relatively speaking short amount of time. So, in regards to b, you are entitled to your opinion, but I of course, am entitled to disagree with that opinion. The uproar over steroid use and its affect on the game of baseball is not an issue of race. It is an issue of integrity. Last time I checked, three major leaguers were fingered as having received illegal substances. Two black men, and one white man. Meanwhile, the only of the three catching a great deal of flack is Barry Bonds. Gary Sheffield hasn't experienced anywhere close to an equivalent backlash from the fans, and I would go so far as to say Giambi has taken as much abuse on the issue as Barry has. It just so happens that Barry holds the Home Run record. Such a distinction makes him ripe for abuse, not the color of his skin. It seems to me that there is a false preoccupation with an outdated idea that somehow white people will have a feeling of loss if "their" Babe Ruth is passed by Barry, a black man. That is hardly the case. Babe Ruth is an AMERICAN icon, not a white icon. No one is worried that Barry will trump him as a black man. Everyone, however, is worries that he will trump the Babe AND Hank while using illegal substances to enhance his performance. The issue is integrity, as mentioned above, not race.
Which leads to my final point. I am a former collegiate-level baseball player, who still dabbles for fun. I know the game, inside and out. What I also know is that increased strength and recovery ability WILL enhance one's performance, no question. Bat speed, power, leg strength......all phases benefit from the sheer muscle mass that can be acquired. Hitting is more than biceps. Forearms, thighs, trunk, shoulder.....it is a full body action. Increasing any of those muscles (as well as refining the fast twitch muscles) will not improve one's hand-eye coordination, or improve his mental acuity, however, it will combine with those natural talents to create an artificial result. To say that "steroids don't make contact easier" or whatever is so immaterial. No one is disputing the natural talents of Barry, or any other accused major leaguer, however, it must be noted that when that natural talent is introduced to a performance enhancing substance, the results will change drastically. Hard ground balls get through the hole quicker. Hand speed catches up to 98 on the black finally. Warning track fly outs become gargantuan blasts into the loge. In your haste to defend someone you felt needed defending (since no body else will), you neglected to really think about what you were writing.
In the end, I do NOT believe Barry is a steroid abuser, nor do I think he ever was. He is a clear demonstration of what happens when talent collides with hard work (ala Jerry Rice). I root for the guy, and will continue to root.
I am sure many of you are wondering how I am doing, in light of my recent marital issues. I am here to announce to I am doing very well. Many people have been worrying about me, and an equal amount of you have been extremely supportive. I can unequivocally say that without the love and support of my friends and family, I would have struggled mightily to keep my otherwise eratic life "on track." I recently consulted a therapist. For years, I have been too stubborn and egotistical to admit that a counselor's objective view might do me some good. No longer do I have such an outdated mindset. At the urging of my wife, I made an appointment and saw someone yesterday, and I can't put into words what a refreshing experience it was. For as long as my memory permits to remember, I have always thought that I suffered from depression. I considered myself lazy, lacking motivation, and not goal oriented. Eventually, my negative self value was projected to my wife, who has since reiterated those feelings back at me. It was only a matter of time. So now, I am in the unenviable position of exploring my own life and making some changes. Though I have been frustrated by my wife's insistance that we take some time apart, my therapist conceded that it is exactly what I need. He said that I do in fact have some issues that need to be resolved if I want to be the type of husband MB deserves. The type that I promised her. What I learned was that the problems I have self diagnosed for myself, and have in turn tried to fix, probably aren't my real problems. I suffer from anxiety, and a sincere fear of success. Sounds weird huh? It didnt to me. For whatever reason, I consider myself a fraud. Out there, putting on a show for everyone, yet feeling inadequate deep down. Asserting a desire to excel, but scared to actually do anything about. My fear is that if I do succeed, I will mishandle my new power, and fail. Fail miserably. Before I can truly be successful, it appears that I need to develop a mentality that is unafraid of failure, and willing to accept it as a part of the journey to success. I could honestly go on forever on this subject (haven't I already?) but I believe you get the gist of it. Look for more positive thinking in the days and weeks to come.
Ok, back to some real ramblings!
Todd Bertuzzi. Have you seen the hit this guy put on Steve Moore in an NHL game? In a premeditated act, he came up from behind, punched Moore in the side of the face, then grabbed him by the scruff, and drove his head into the ice like he was stamping out a fire. As a result, Moore now has a concussion and a broken neck. Bertuzzi has been suspended indefinitely, and gave the tearful apology today. One problem: During the apology, he offered that "I didnt mean to hurt him." Ok, Im an idiot again. I must have dumbass stamped on my forehead, because another athlete is selling me crap in a baggie and calling it cookies. I'm not buying! Of course you meant to hurt him! You just didnt mean to hurt him so bad. If not hurt him, then what? Help him get a better view of his own skates? Introducing him to the blue line? Demonstrating the shortest distance to China? Either dont lie, or back up that lie with an even better lie, like, "I didnt mean to hurt him, I simply mistook him for a Zamboni."
Why do I have to go through 7 months of mudslinging to decide a President? Can't they just arm wrestle or something? How about, the Presidential Decathalon. 40 yard dash, a game of Mortal Kombat on the PS2, ping pong, a drinking contest, trivial pursuit. Who wouldnt vote for the guy who won a contest involving all that stuff? We want a President that is two things: normal like the rest of the country, and smart enough to handle the job. Sound familiar? It should, it's Bill Clinton to a tee. The guy was brilliant, a Yale grad, a lawyer, an accomplished political figure and business man. Yet, he loves college hoops, Big Macs, and chicks. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a leader we can get behind.
Is there anything worse than a summer cold? You feel miserable, you want to die, and, you are sweating. That is horrible! At least in the winter, everyone else is sick. Its cold, so you can curl up in bed and be happy. And, the weather sucks so bad, you dont want to go out anyways. In the summer, everyone is happy, at the beach, partying, and you have the sniffles. Meanwhile, you are lying on your bed, sweating like George Bush in final Jeopardy, watching One Day at a Time reruns. Just the worst....if not for the humorous antics of Schneider, you'd strangle yourself.
Nothing ruins a weekend quicker than being the late guy to the bar. It sucks so bad to wait in line, get to the bar, and your friends are all wobbly, drunk out of their skulls. It's like, I cant possibly catch up. And if you stay, then you are the sober guy. And when you are the sober guy in a room full of drunk people, you want to open fire with an automatic weapon. When you are drinking, then everyother person is awesome, no matter if they are sober or drunk. But when you are sober, no one is more annoying than a drunk person. That's why no one wants to go out without a friend. At least one other person needs to be on the same drinking schedule for it to be a good time. You need to hit your 5 Stages of Intoxication at the same pace. Lets review:
Stage 1: The Starting Line - you crack that first drink. Its ice cold, the sun might still be up, but starting to move down. Every drink is a cheers to life, friends, whatever. The only topic of conversation is the future drinking to be done. Certain levels of intoxication are promised, and pacts are made. We will be trashed! you exclaim, it's gonna be great. Well, no, no it isnt, but we keep telling ourselves that as the opening night case dwindles.
Stage 2: Lubricated - the alcohol is starting to work. You arent buzzed yet, but you can "feel it." You know this because you turn to your buddy and say, "I'm not buzzed, but Im feeling it." At this point, everything is becoming fun. Smiles around, jokes, laughing. It is the start of the apex of the evening. At this point, it's time to go out. Your inhibitions are evaporating, but you are still lucid enough to have an intelligent conversation, and to convince a striking blonde with her cleavage popping out of her turtleneck that you are, in fact, an international spy or a producer. Time to go!
Stage 3: Buzzed - you are getting drunk. You are now at the absolute zenith of fun in the night. It's late, but still relatively early in regards to how much longer you will be out. You begin looking at your watch every 15 minutes and exclaiming in utter disbelief, "It's only _____ o'clock!" You have reached a point in the night where everything is perfect. The balance between the crowd, the taste of the drinks, your drunkedness, the amount of friends with you, it has all come to a head. It is the drinking nirvana. And, best of all, if you are single, it is the point where there are still available women in the bar. The odor of desperation has yet to creep into your nose.
Stage 4: Drunk - ok, now you are too fun. You are walking slightly side to side. You are using the restroom very frequently, and the lines are getting longer. The drinks are no longer tasting as good, and you have lost track of your tab. You are starting to buy 10 shots of Johnny Walker Black Label, screaming incredulously, "Put it on my tab!" The repurcussions will be felt for weeks. Whatever cash you once had has evaporated. The women are all taken. You are searching frantically to get someone to dance with you, but it's hopeless. Having missed the window, there is but one thing to do: drink more. Its late now, but you have an hour or two to enjoy. Half of your friends have left. Unidentified liquids appear in the form of softball sized stains on your sleeves and pant legs. Your speech is getting fuzzy, and you are saying things you wouldnt normally say. At this point, you will do one of two things for the next hour: (a) dance with a mediocre looking girl to music you absolutely hate, like trance or house, desparately trying to convince her that she should come over, or (b) sit down, order the strongest drink you can think of (invariably, Long Island Ice Tea) and get into a heated debate with your remaining, equally drunk friend, about who your team should sign in free agency.
Stage 5: The Curb - at this point, you will either end up standing on the curb, or lying on it. You have signed your tab, which has a number on it you were unable to decipher and will be shocked to read tomorrow. It is possible you just forgot the tab, and will have to return the next day to get your card. Bouncers are screaming to go home as you shuffle out like cattle. Someone behind you is giving the, "I paid for this drink, Im not leaving til its done." routine, or the "You close at 2! I can stay till 2!" argument. This argument is soon replaced by the "You dont own the sidewalk." argument out in front of the establishment. You now must find your friends. If you can, you will be either riding home with them, riding home with people they met, or getting left behind to find your own way home. Luckily, the Curb stage has you at a point where you are granted superhuman powers. One power is the ability to get a cab ride home, no matter how drunk you are. Somehow, you will wake up in your bed tomorrow, with no idea how. Or, you will use your power of walking and navigation. People at this level of intoxication develop the ability to trek extremely long distances without getting lost. Amazingly, it works in any city, whether you have been there or not. At this point, you enter the 6th stage, which is a wild card. You either go to Your Place or Mine Stage, Put in a DVD and Fall Asleep Stage, or the most popular, Taco Joint Stage. Be warned that choosing Taco Joint Stage leaves open the possibility of Fight Club Stage which leads to Why Does My Hand Hurt so Much in the Morning Stage.
