To A-Rod, from one fallen sports icon to another... [Humor]

[New York Times News Item: Rodriguez Admits He Used 'a Substance' -- Alex Rodriguez told ESPN on Monday that he did not know what he was taking and that he has not used performance-enhancing substances since 2003.]

***

The year: 1966.

The setting: A little league baseball diamond... in a small town in blissfully bucolic Wisconsin.

The situation: In the pre-game warm-up and I'm on the pitching mound for the Indians, feeling an incredible amount of pressure.  The opposing team is packed with ringers... some of them quite possibly even 13 year olds!  I, a lefty with a wicked curveball, know that they are afraid of me.  (Nevermind that curveballs were illegal.  Just try convincing anyone that an 11 year old could even throw one.  Not a jury in all of Wisconsin would believe it.)

"We're the Indians... We Wear Cups!"

The source of the immense pressure on me went beyond the fact that I was pitching against a team with a stacked batting order.  I'd faced that in many a game.  What worried me most of all was that most of my infielders were fearful of actually having to touch the ball.  Don't get me wrong... they really excelled at the infield chatter and trash talking the opposing batter, but let a ground ball even hint at heading in the general direction of anyone of them and you would've thought their pants legs had suddenly filled up with crap.  (Come to think of it, they very likely had done exactly that!)

As for the outfield, don't even ask!  Once we actually lost two outfielders in a single game (in back-to-back innings) because they each let a fly ball bean them directly in the face!  Try to understand what must happen in order to to achieve this... they somehow managed to follow the ball in a long arc off of the bat, continue through the sky over the infield, and allow it to pass immediately over their outstretched glove, only to have it strike them directly on the bridge of the nose.  They managed to do this because their eyes were shut rigidly from the moment they determined the ball wasn't going to stay in the infield.  Obviously, one such injury occurrence is tragic, but two... two! When this sort of thing happens twice in a single game, you can kiss any subsequent fly ball catches good bye!  The moment that ball leaves the bat, those little weasels are crouched on the ground with their arms wrapped over their heads, hoping that the projectile will spare them this time and kill one of their teammates ... please, just let me live this time!

So that was my predicament.  If I let the opponents get even one hit, the game was likely to fall into complete chaos.  Our only hope was my left arm... I knew it, my teammates knew it, and the opponents knew it.  So as I began my pregame warm-up, I understood that I needed a big game.  To do so, I must take it to the max... that proverbial level often talked about but seldom achieved... 110 PERCENT!

The answer is caffeine

But there was a catch.  In order reach this mythical level of performance, I would need to go over to the dark side.  Yes, LSD was still legal at this point in history; indeed, the CIA was trying it out on anyone who left their kool aid unattended for more than 5 seconds (without disclosing same, of course.)  However, I'm referring to something much more sinister.  I'm talking about that magical cocktail known as Mountain Dew and No-Doz.  Sure, it's like playing with fire... sooner or later you will get burned.  But that didn't matter to me... not at that moment anyway.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my secret stash from the crumpled little cardboard "matchbox" that I'd lifted from my oldest brother's room.  (He subscribed to the theory that he could drink more beer if he took No-Doz... he was wrong.  The "incident" with the '59 Chevy that he managed to park in the neighbor's flower garden earlier that summer pretty much proved that fact.)  I popped two of the little white pills into my mouth, and gulped down some Mountain Dew,  that sweet elixir that has endured another four decades (and shrinking gonads all the while thanks to FD&C #4... or maybe it's #5... whatever the artificial food coloring that makes it look like nearly the same going in as coming out.)

***

I pitched a no-hitter that day.  I didn't "fan" every batter, but my curveball was so wicked that when they did make contact they did it with their bat out as a defensive shield.  They were out before they got half way to the bag.  It was almost too easy.

Sure, it was wrong, I'll admit it.  But I'd do it again.  How often do you get your name mentioned on the local radio station AND in the local weekly newspaper?  Exactly!

And so, A-Rod, I just wanted you to know that I understand.  Performing at our level isn't something most people can understand.  We do what we must, knowing that their accolades are as hollow as their accusations are hypocritical.  Such is the fate of the gladiator.  We exist only to feed the bloodlust of those who can only dream of our greatness.

By the way, brother A... can you hook me up with Madonna's phone number?