Ortiz, Ramirez Latest Victims of MLB's Leaky Faucet

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Another day, another name revealed. David Ortiz and Manny Ramirez, the potent 1-2 punch from the 2003-2008 Boston Red Sox, are the latest drips from MLB’s leaky faucet: the infamous 2003 anonymous drug test. Excuse me, while I yawn.

Only Brett Favre comeback stories are more repetitive and less interesting than baseball’s steroids saga. Haven't we been down this road enough times already?

The script certainly hasn’t changed: Star player gets exposed. Star player issues awkward PR-manufactured denial. Media feigns shock and outrage. Fans get upset. Fans and media jointly anoint new “clean savior of sport”. Time passes and “clean savior of sport” is exposed. Repeat from start. Enough already, who cares?

Amazingly, four and a half years have passed since 2005’s infamous Congressional hearing on steroids in baseball. Countless stars have been revealed yet somehow steroid use is still making headlines. So what have we learned, if anything, since the day Mark McGwire refused to talk about the past?

A) Lots of great baseball players used steroids.
From 1995 to 2005, 14 of the 22 MVP awards were won by players once linked to steroids. Roger Clemens monopolized the Cy Young Award. You’d be hard-pressed to find a star player who has avoided any whispers. Name your favorite team’s three best players from this era. Each has likely used performance enhancers at one point.

B) Lots of terrible baseball players used steroids.
The most forgotten aspect of the steroid era is the large number of losers who have been divulged as steroid users. Jeremy Giambi, Larry Bigbie, Jason Christensen, Matt Franco, Cody McKay…the list continues for days. Take one look at the list of players named in the Mitchell Report and it is obvious that steroid use was not exclusive to the game’s greats.

Now given the fact that steroids are portrayed as miracle drugs that chemically created the careers of our generation’s superstars, it is interesting to note that these less-talented players did not ream the same benefits. Were their drugs bad? Or could the effects of steroids possibly be overstated? If the stars were still stars and the scrubs were still scrubs, maybe the playing field was more level than we were led to believe after all.

C) We have no way of knowing who used, who didn’t use, and what effect it had.
Power hitters juiced. Contact hitters juiced. Speedy Outfielders juiced. Slap hitting middle-infielders juiced. Strikeout pitchers juiced. Control pitchers juiced. Starting pitchers juiced. Middle relievers juiced. Closers juiced. Stars juiced. Scrubs juiced.

Minor leaguers juiced. College players juiced. High school players juiced. Big guys juiced. Small guys juiced. Players who got bigger juiced. Players with no apparent change in physical-appearance juiced. White players juiced. Black players juiced. Hispanic Players juiced. Fan-favorites juiced. Hated rivals juiced. Winners juiced. Losers juiced. Good guys juiced. Bad guys juiced.

One of the biggest misconceptions of the era is that we can intuitively distinguish a steroid user. We cannot. Steroid users are impossible to typecast. The drugs were used by players of all shapes and sizes for all different purposes: speed, power, recovery, health, etc.

For every obvious Mark McGwire, there are twice as many less obvious Andy Pettittes. We will never fully know who used and who didn’t. Worrying about it is senseless.

But if there is any good that comes of each exposal, it is that fans are beginning to realize how commonplace performance enhancing drug use was.

When steroid discussions first came in vogue, most fans were outraged. I was among a minority who did not care. Today, my indifference is shared by many baseball fans. If anything, we’re making progress.

No matter whom the next superstar revealed is, my reaction will remain unchanged. I haven’t cared about steroid use in baseball from the start and I will not begin now. But for those that do? Be prepared, because the faucet isn’t getting fixed anytime soon.

Drip.



Drip.



Drip.



And a quick addendum-

1) Baseball writers need to quit trying to make up for their own negligence with their over-the-top stands against the great players of this generation.

Each time that a new star is exposed, guys like Bill Plaschke, Mike Lupica, and Jay Marriotti jump on their moral high horse in some ridiculous outrage. Enough already. You guys did not care enough about steroids to report on it while it was happening; stop pretending to care now.

There is no excuse to keep extraordinary players like McGwire, Bonds, Sosa, and Clemens out of the Hall of Fame. Please stop trying to rewrite history.

2) If you are a Red Sox fan who believed that no prominent Red Sox had ever used steroids, shame on you. Hopefully, you got your A-Roid jokes in while you had the chance. For those of you, 2004 and 2007 will become tainted.

For me, Big Papi is the same man today that he was yesterday; a remarkable entertainer who provided me with some of my greatest memories as a baseball fan. Nothing will ever change that or retroactively diminish his personal accomplishments or his teams’ accomplishments. Nothing.

Here’s one more salute to the greatest clutch hitter in Red Sox history. There was never a more fitting home run than Ortiz’s game winning bomb this afternoon.

The Anatomy of the Entrance Song

Last month, my friend and I were discussing the importance of entrance music in boxing.

On the surface level, there isn’t a more insignificant aspect of a fight than the music blaring as a boxer steps into the squared circle; but at the same time, the entrance song is the last opportunity that a fighter has to make a statement before the moment of truth between the ropes. If two unknowns are fighting, their entrance songs could help you decide who to root for.

So what makes a great entrance song? There are a number of elements that fighters need to consider in selecting the proper song.

Style of Song
Not all genres work here. Hip hop is a safe bet and salsa music for Latino fighters always works. But R&B, Pop, and Rock require some discretion. If you are going to pick a song from one of these genres, you better have a good explanation why. For example, I love The Hills; but it really wouldn’t work to enter the ring to “Unwritten."

Mainstream Recognition
I am a big Joe Budden fan. I love Slaughterhouse. But the truth is, most people in an arena will not. No matter how much you like a song, you need to pick a song that has a certain level of mainstream popularity. The crowd should be feeling it.

Uniqueness
This past January, Shane Mosley resurrected his career with a dominant victory over Antonio Margarito to recapture his spot as the best welterweight in the world.

While most post-fight conversations broached upon Margarito’s illegal hand wraps or Mosley’s return to the sport’s elite, one aspect went unnoticed. Mosley entered the ring to “Live Your Life” by Rihanna & T.I.—which would have been a solid choice had Paulie Malignaggi not used it one month earlier in his loss to Ricky Hatton. Boxers on big HBO shows can not be using songs that were just used on big shows. It just doesn’t look right.

Time Sensitivity
Not as important as the other characteristics but it belongs on the list. Your song must either: A) be recent enough to elicit an immediate reaction from the crowd, B) fit the rest of the criteria so well that the song’s debut date is irrelevant, or C) have a good enough reason to warrant ignoring time sensitivity. For example, after Michael Jackson passed away, it was completely acceptable to enter the ring to ANY M.J. song as tribute.

And finally, the most important element…

How Well the Song Reflects You
The significance of the song must reflect the fighter’s persona. If you aren’t a brawler, you can’t come out to “What’s My Name” by DMX. If you aren’t flashy, don’t enter the ring to Fabolous’ “Diamonds on my Damn Chain." If you’re from Atlanta, no matter how big of a HOV fan you are, “Brooklyn We Go Hard” can not be your entrance music.

This is one of the most overlooked aspects of theme song selection. Fighters will choose a hot song without giving much thought to whether or not it applies to them. BIG MISTAKE!

Agree? Disagree? Share Your Thoughts!


As I was writing this, I started thinking about songs that the best current day boxers should come out to. Using my iTunes collection only, here’s what I got:

Zab Judah - “Brooklyn, We Go Hard”: Eh, only because Brooklyn doesn’t have anyone else right now.

Miguel Cotto - “100 Percent” by Big Pun: Cotto has surpassed Felix Trinidad as the biggest Puerto Rican draw in the sport so naturally I’d pick a Big Pun song for him. I’ll be honest; my computer isn’t heavy on Puerto Rican music so there might be a better choice out there, but “100%” can surely get the job done

"Sugar" Shane Mosley - “Amazing” by Kanye West: Mosley’s performance against Margarito truly was amazing. In his devastating upset, Mosley recaptured his status amongst the sport’s elite and solidified his already remarkable Hall-of-Fame caliber career. This song just feels right.

Manny Pacquiao - “Just Dance” by Lady Gaga: Pacman is the happiest killer that I’ve ever seen. Maybe I just love “Just Dance,” but I feel like this song would be perfect. The beat goes as hard as Manny’s left cross, and the song is as happy as Pacquaio is during his ring entrance. Boxing is party time for the pride of the Philippines and what better song is there to signify party time than “Just Dance”?

Floyd Mayweather Jr - “I Get Money” by 50 Cent: I was tempted to go with Maino’s second verse/T-Pain’s part from “All the Above” (On second thoughts, I think Paul Williams came out to “All the Above” against Winky Wright…That fits him actually) but “I Get Money” personifies Money May to a tee. I vaguely remember 50 saying in an interview once that he wrote “I Get Money” for Mayweather to use as entrance music. There isn’t a song in the world that is better suited for the best pound for pound fighter in the world.

No return like Nomar's

The 2000 World Series triggers all sorts of memories for New York baseball fans.

For Mets fans, it was a teasing taste of meaningful October baseball—a taste unfamiliar to those who cheer for the orange and blue. Though the Mets have had opportunities, the Amazins have been unable to make a return visit to the Fall Classic since losing to their inner-city rivals.

For Yankee fans, the Subway Series is the pinnacle and, though unbeknownst at the time, culmination of the Yankee Dynasty. Since then, success—and by success, I mean the Yankee definition of World Series championship or naught—has been absent from the Bronx.

For me, one memory of the 2000 World Series stands out—well, two, if you count the Roger Clemens-Mike Piazza fiasco. On October 22nd, I had friends over to watch Game 2 as part of some makeshift birthday party, i.e. an easy way to make a few extra bucks.

[Aside: The original birthday party was supposed to be to watch Stone Cold Steve Austin’s return against Rikishi at No Mercy on WWF PPV but because my friends are all Yankee and Mets fans, I was forced to call an audible]

Sure the Clemens-Piazza bat incident provided some laughs, but for me, the night reached its apex when I opened a birthday present from my parents.

That night, I got my first ever authentic jersey: A Boston Red Sox grey road uniform with “Garciaparra 5” stitched into the fabric. The jersey became one half of the only four outfits I wore over the next three years: Garciaparra jersey with black jeans, Garciaparra jersey with blue jeans, Garciaparra jersey with denim shorts, and Garciaparra jersey with khaki shorts.

So as my Yankee fan friends celebrated their team’s third consecutive World Series, I was celebrating the addition of a Nomar Garciaparra jersey to my wardrobe, while my team was not playing October baseball. The irony is certainly not lost on me.

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Garciaparra’s time spent with Boston was a juxtaposition of hope and disappointment, much like every Red Sox’ superstar before him.

Garciaparra burst upon the scene in 1997 as a breath of fresh air to an otherwise stagnant franchise. He was the once-in-a-lifetime homegrown potential superstar, the type that Red Sox fans had grown used to watching play elsewhere. His subsequent decline from baseball’s elite makes it easy to forget just how good he was during his prime.

Garciaparra transcended the sport and became an iconic, yet mythical figure in New England culture. He could do no wrong. He was a sure first-ballot Hall of Famer. He was the Red Sox’ answer to Derek Jeter. He was the best right-handed hitter since Joe DiMaggio. He was Ted Williams or Carl Yazstremski to this generation’s Red Sox fans. He was the only player who could make a run at batting .400. He was the best shortstop in baseball for a four-year period (1997-2000), his first four seasons in the league. He was “Nomahhh”.

But in reality what he was, was too much too soon.

For a fan base that seemed to grow exponentially desperate for a World Series by the second, an unwarranted burden was placed on #5’s shoulders. Eventually, the daily pressure to win a World Series and end “The Curse” became overwhelming for the laid back Californian.

At the 2004 trade deadline, after months of feuding with management and the media, a bitter Garciaparra was traded to the Chicago Cubs. The Red Sox went on to win the World Series. Most people believe that the Red Sox would have never won the World Series had Theo Epstein not dealt Garciaparra.

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Twelve years have passed since Nomar burst onto the scene as the 1997 American League Rookie of the Year.

Garciaparra is now a 36 year-old broken down part time infielder/DH with the Oakland Athletics on a one-year, $1 million contract. By comparison Alex Rodriguez and Derek Jeter his contemporaries in the American League’s shortstop triumvirate, are making $32 million and $20 million respectively. (Granted, neither A-Rod nor Jeter has Mia Hamm’s income to fall back on, but still.)

In Boston, the Red Sox have become baseball’s premier franchise on the field and in the front office. The Sox have won twenty-eight playoff games and two championships (MLB highs) since trading Nomar; twenty-three and two more than they won during his seven and a half years with the team.

Only Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears have had a more one-sided breakup.

If sports are a reflection of real life, Garciaparra’s career represents how quickly life passes you by. When Garciaparra first played for the Red Sox, I was not even a teenager yet. He was the last player I rooted for in that “little kid way”.

By the time he was traded, I was old enough to hold him responsible for the poor way in which he handled himself at the end of his Red Sox run. Today, I am grown enough to rationally reflect on Garciaparra’s tenure with the Sox. For me, Nomar came along at the perfect time.

But in reality, Nomar came along at precisely the wrong time.

If the Red Sox were bringing Garciaparra up through their system today, he’d have likely thrived in the new Happy-Go-Lucky Fenway Park. The negativity that consumed Nomar has vanished. Today, Jacoby Ellsbury and Dustin Pedroia can simply play baseball, while drunken college kids sing Sweet Caroline and do the wave in their pink and green Sox hats, oblivious to any on-field happenings.

The stability that Nomar brought to the franchise, along with the professionalism that he competed with, played an immense role in getting the Red Sox to this point.

So last night, as Nomar stood in the batter’s box milking every last second out of what is likely the last extended applause of his career, I legitimately felt bad for him. It was a sorry moment for a fallen-star, who in a perfect world would have been the most celebrated Boston World Series champion of all.

But as we know, the world is not perfect—it just keeps moving along. The sun rises and the sun sets. New players come and go, just as quickly as people in everyday life come and go.

And in a few weeks, Jed Lowrie will be back starting at shortstop, free of the Boston negativity, as part of a team looking for a third (post-Garciaparra) championship in six years, all while Nomar remains largely forgotten.

I’m sorry Nomar but I thank you Nomar.