By Elizabeth Finn
They were supposed to have saved baseball. After stadiums had gone silent and box scores disappeared from the morning paper, fans were looking for something–anything–to revive their beloved game. Equal parts skeptical and starving, they were willing to embrace the first sign that baseball had not, in fact, betrayed them long before the first frost. And Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, and the Great Home Run Chase were waiting for them with open arms. Truly, these Saviors of The Nation’s Pastime would pull baseball out of its self-imposed hiatus and bring life–and fans–back to the abandoned ballparks.
It really did work, and for a while. The baseball nation was captivated during the late 90s, as displays of power erupted in stadiums all over the country. Fans were entralled at the prospect of one of the great records falling in their time. By 1997’s All Star break festivities, the entire sport was buzzing with anticipation, as no fewer than three sluggers were on pace to reach Roger Maris’s mark. Home run fever had hit a frenetic pace the following year, and by the time McGwire’s spike hit home plate to record his 62nd round-tripper of the 1998 season, the strike was ancient history.
Back then, steroids were something that disgraced East German swimmers and made androgynous once-powerful Olympians. Oh, sure, implications of performance enhancers whispered through American sports, but somehow, our beloved pastime, with its wholesome appeal, was meant to remain immune. In a game where individual accomplishments are revered, and listening to play-by-play on scratchy AM radio after dark is an almost-universal childhood experience, the connections we feel to our favorite athletes makes us feel like we know them personally–and maybe that’s why we feel so betrayed when reality sets in.
As our awareness of just how widespread performance enhancing drugs have been in baseball, and our heroes fall, one by one, we’re forced to question past glories and accept the fact that we may soon have to choose between embracing the simplistically-named Steroid Era as part of baseball history or abandoning the players we’ve admired for so long. Call it a generation gap or a difference in ideology, but this dilemma has created a dichotomy of sorts between those loathe to question any unexplained power surges out of a willingness to give the benefit of the doubt–and maybe also to speed up healing–and those who have been jaded, and now feel entitled to wonder.
Part of the reason that PEDs continue to have a hold on the sport is due to how much of baseball’s dark days are still unknown to the fans. Almost 100 of the “anonymous” ballplayers on what is quickly becoming known as The List have yet to be revealed, and what we do know hardly reinforces a faith in the game. With every revelation comes a confirmation of suspicion, and the most recent fallen hero is no exception. Not a Cooperstown candidate, David Ortiz may be the first pure team player to be outed as a PEDs user, and his individual success has been justifiably overshadowed by the role he played in dragging a downtrodden franchise up from from Lovable Loser to perennial champion. Because of this, he hasn’t been perceived as a self-aggrandizing slugger. Still, in this increasingly-aware baseball climate, we’ve come to be surprised by nothing.
But who’s to say that questioning apparently naturally skilled power hitters isn’t a justifiable offense? Fans can only be deceived so many times before pre-emptive judgment seems like a practical approach. This past June, a blogger named Jerod Morris penned an analysis-based speculation of Raul Ibanez’s recent power surge, contemplating but not accusing the Philadelphia Phillies’ outfielder of dabbling in performance enhancers. When Morris’s post went viral, it set off a momentary firestorm of debate on, among other things, the ethics of speculation, especially in print. Ibanez himself took a shot at Morris’s credibility, calling him a “42-year-old blogger typing in his mother’s basement.” Journalistic integrity aside, perhaps all the ire is misplaced. Instead of lashing out at writers and fans, why not direct criticism toward the athletes who were willing to do anything to gain an edge? Or the modern game itself, whose leadership pushed for glitz and grandeur over grit and heart in an effort to increase the brand and put fans in the seats?
The epilogue of that thrilling display of power following the strike, of course, is that every single hitter to have surpassed Maris’s mark has now been proven, on one level or the other, to have used PEDs. What was once an energizing shot in the arm for a sport that had put itself on life support has become a regretful chapter in baseball history, enhanced in its disappointment by what we know now. But the reason we now speculate and question, raise eyebrows in wary disbelief, and distance ourselves from favorite players is not a reflection or an indictment on the fans. Rather, it’s the sad result of having been burned one too many times. If baseball is hoping that wide-eyed innocence will return to the game, they’re in for a long wait.
