Tag Archives: alex rodriguez

A-Rod’s Apology

aroid.jpgTo all the Yankee fans, baseball fans, and sports fans out there, I would like to humbly apologize for getting caught doing steroids. I promise that, in the future, I will restrict my performance-enhancing drug use to designer chemicals still untraceable to known science.

I ask that those who would judge me put themselves in my shoes. I had just signed a huge contract with the Texas Rangers. A ridiculous contract. I mean, good Christ, you can’t even imagine how much money that is. Like, Oprah money. Therefore, people who want to criticize me should first prove that they have as much money as me. Otherwise, I think they’re unqualified to judge my state of mind.

You also have to understand that I tested positive in 2003, a much simpler time. I know that’s only 6 years ago, but think about how much we’ve changed as a society in just that short amount of time. You know what came out in 2003? “Rock Your Body.” That was, like, Justin Timberlake’s first big solo hit. Everyone was still like, “pfft, the guy from NSync? He’ll never have a sustainable pop career!” Now the guy’s huge! How far we’ve come…

In 2003, I was young and dumb. Sure, I was already 25, and married, and had already done more things and seen more of the world than most people my age. But I think “young and dumb” is a relative term. I’m young and dumb compared to Einstein, who is smart and dead. See? Science proves it.

If you want anyone to blame for destroying your illusions, go talk to my cousin from the Dominican. He’s the one who got me the steroids and showed me how to use them. I mean, don’t really go talk to him, because I totally can’t give you his name. But trust me, that guy’s bad news.

Also, I have this other cousin who totally let me touch her boob one Christmas when I was 13. Is that weird?

Speaking of the Dominican, I hope no one perceives my sudden acquisition of a Latin accent as some sort of pandering ploy for sympathy from Hispanic baseball fans. Because it totally is.

In conclusion, I look forward to putting this all behind me and once again disappointing Yankee fans solely on the field.

Up the Middle with Skitch Hanson: A-Roid Has Singlehandedly Ruined Baseball

Scratchbomb hands over the reins to nationally syndicated sports columnist Skitch Hanson, as we’ve done many times before. You may know him as the author of the highly popular syndicated column “Up The Middle.” You may also have read his best-selling book I Liked It Better When Home Run Hitters Drank Like Fish. He’s also a frequent guest on ESPN’s sportswriters panel show 4th and Forever. Without further ado, here’s Skitch.

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Without A-Rod, who will the Yanks turn to as their playoff scapegoat?

The news about A-Rod couldn’t have come at a worse time for baseball. Just when everyone was ready to believe again, just when it seemed Barry Bonds was finally going to get his just deserts, just when all of us were ready to move on from steroids altogether, we get a reminder that performance enhancing drugs are a scourge that may never be removed from the game.

But for me, the A-Rod scandal broke at the perfect time! I’ve struggled to come up with column idea since I got back from Tampa. My editor rejected my Super Bowl column for being “rambling” and “incoherent” and “possibly libelous.” To be honest, it wasn’t my best work. My head wasn’t in a good place at the time.

I don’t want to point fingers, but a night I spent out with a certain Steelers kicker may have had something to do with my mental state. The whole evening is kind of fuzzy now. I remember drinking something called Irish car bombs (top o’ the mornin’ to ye, ol’ sport!) and then going to some place called Wild Cherries which, despite the name, was not a pastry shop.

From that point on, I only recall bits and pieces involving exotic dancers and a VIP room, and I think I might have drank human blood, but that’s a story for another column.

It’s unlikely that A-Rod will do any jail time for his crimes. But he may find himself in a far worse prison: the Big House of Negative Public Opinion.

Instead of bread and water, he will be fed a steady diet of scorn. Instead of bars, he will be confined by constant whispering about his accomplishments. And he will fear the questions that will be raised every time he passes another batting record, instead of just the threat of sexual assault.

On further thought, I’d rather face questions than prison rape, but my point is clear.

What’s even worse about the A-Rod situation is that he’s a hitter. A hitter who hits home runs! And the home run is a sacred thing, passed down to us from our cherished forefathers. When Washington suffered through the brutal winter at Valley Forge, he had one vision: that men could watch other men hit home runs and not worry about their purity!

I mean, he didn’t literally dream about that, because he had a lot of other important things to worry about, and also baseball hadn’t been invented yet. But I think he did dream about that, in a way, in spirit. I think he would have dreamed of baseball, if only he knew what baseball was.

Baseball must get its steroid problem under control. Because if they don’t, what will we tell our children? I had no idea how to tell my son about this whole mess–and he’s 28! Still, he was pretty upset. Granted, it was mostly because I didn’t go see him in that regional theatre production of Promises Promises.

The fact remains, our children look up to these athletes as role models. They see their heroes on TV doing these horrible things, and they think it’s okay to do them, too. When she was in high school, my daughter told me she thought it was okay to take some money from my wallet because Mark McGwire cheated, too. And when she stole my Discover card, she said she thought that was okay because Rafael Palmeiro had cheated, too.

And when she stole my car and drove it through the food court at the local mall, she said it was all because of Sammy Sosa. I’m still not sure how the two relate. Truth be told, I think it was just because she was mad at this girl who worked at Panda Express. Still, I wonder if Sammy would have thought twice about doing steroids if he knew it would cause my daughter to park a Kia on top of a White Castle fry cook.

If baseball wants a clue about how to handle this issue, look no further than the NFL. They used to have a pretty serious problem with performance enhancing drugs. But thanks to increased testing and public scrutiny, you never hear about steroids in football anymore!

I mean, sure, guys get caught doing them all the time and get suspended for several games, but it’s never any major players like you see in baseball. Except for those times when it is. Oh, and ex-players come forward all the time with tales of steroid use and guys taking drugs to play through concussions and other injuries. In fact, I think that might be worse than steroids. A lot worse, probably.

However, the NFL is very good at making sure no one at ESPN pays any attention to these things, and that’s what’s most important.

Rocky Rhodes: How to Play Ball Without Playing Ball

Grant “Rocky” Rhodes is America’s oldest living sportswriter. He rose to prominence with his 1921 column “Eight Men Way Out”, in which he proposed that the White Sox who threw the World Series should be publicly immolated. His weekly sports column, “The Cat’s Pajamas”, appears in 7000 newspapers nationwide when not bumped for “Love Is… ” or “This Week In Bridge “. Today, he graces Scratchbomb with his nine decades of sports wisdom to comment on the stewing Alex Rodiguez controversy.

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Everyone needs to lay off Alex Rodriguez. I ain’t gonna call him A-Rod, because that’s not a proper baseball nickname. Baseball nicknames should be no nonsense and to the point, like a good pair of slacks. Killer Killebrew. Hamerrin’ Hank. Stan The Man. “A-Rod” sounds like a nickname for some god damn Brazilian model, not a third baseman.

Still, the press needs to get off the man’s back. Whatever went on in that Toronto “gentleman’s establishment” is between him and his wife. Or perhaps between him, a thong, and a strategically placed towel.

In my day, this kind of garbage would never make its way into the papers. Not because it could damage a man’s marriage, or because it might tarnish a player’s reputation for all the wide-eyed kiddies out there. Screw the kids, I say. Let ’em learn about life the hard way, the way I did–by having every one of their illusions shattered like Faberge eggs.

And if you think that ballplayers were more moral back then, I got three words for you: HAR DE HAR. They were the same wife swappin’, dog fight organizin’, wife and children threatenin’ sons of bitches they are now.

But in my day, athletes knew how to play ball. And I don’t mean on the field.

True story. Jack Dempsey’s restaurant, 1932. The Yankees just finished sweeping the Cubs in the World Series, and the whole team’s waiting around for the Babe to show up and join the party. At a quarter to midnight, Babe finally breezes through the front door, three sheets to the wind, wearing a raccoon coat and a straw hat. He’s got two chorus girls under each arm. “Boys,” he says, “the missus is at home with the kids, so tonight, I’m gonna take these chippies over to my suite at the Ritz and stuff ’em all like Thanksgiving turkeys!”

The guys in the press laughed, and then they launched into their questions. “Hey Babe,” said some squeaky-voiced cub reporter, “did you really call your home run in game 3?”

The Babe snickered and said, “Nah, kid. I was just pointing out the place on Waveland Avenue where I once punched a nun in the throat.”

Then The Babe reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a funny looking, ivory-colored pipe. “Ah, there’s nothing like fine Chinese opium,” he said. “I love it almost as much as I love Satan. Yes, all of my home run power comes straight from The Dark Lord himself.”

Sounds like a juicy story, huh? Sure, until the Babe started throwing twenties around like Kleenex. Then our memories got real hazy real fast. “Listen, all you boys in the press,” he said, “the first one of you that writes up another ‘Ruth hits home run for sick kids’ story gets The Babe’s sloppy seconds.” Lucky for me, I brought along my portable Underwood that night.

That’s why I can’t cotton to today’s athlete. Not because they’re rich and spoiled, but because they’re so god damn cheap. They make millions of dollars a year, and they can’t peel off some change to buy off the beat reporters? It wouldn’t take a lot of scratch, trust me. I once helped Rocky Marciano dispose of a body in exchange for a slice of rhubarb
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My advice to you, Mr. Rodriguez, is to loosen them purse strings and take care of the boys in the press corps. It ain’t too late for you to turn your image around. Invite the beat reporters to come with you to the Brass Rail, buy them a few lap dances. The next thing you know the press forgets about the whole “bush league play” angle.

I’ll be glad to do it, Alex. My rates are reasonable. At my age, a lap dance won’t do me any good. But I’d pen a piece on you building orphanages in the ghetto if you could promise me a good BM.