When off-the-field matters begin to affect the game on the field, the fairness of sports is further compromised. Former New York Giant Lawrence Taylor used to send women to opponents’ hotel rooms on Saturday nights, the 1919 Black Sox threw the World Series and NBA referee Tim Donaghy was a part of an intricate gambling ring. Loose women and gambling mobsters add variables to the sports equations. As any math student will tell you, more variables equals less fun.
Another loophole in sports’ supposed meritocratic nature arises when radio hosts and bloggers with nothing better to say try to compare teams or players from different eras. Did the 1985 Bears have a better defense than the 2001 Ravens? Was Michael Jordan better than Wilt Chamberlain? While, because of my Chicago roots, I can tell you that the previous questions have unequivocally correct answers, I have no way of proving it. All I have at my disposal are stats and awards, which aren’t exactly cold hard science — again, too many variables.
Off-field issues and cross-generational analysis are the two main reasons why baseball’s steroid era, which is back in the spotlight after allegations that Alex Rodriguez tested juice-positive in 2003, is so complicated. We expect games and statistics to be the pillar of truth, a just representation of exactly how talented each team or player is, and how they stack up against current, former and future teams or players. Steroids muddle the numbers posted by individuals in the last ten or fifteen years, posing a serious problem for the Baseball Hall of Fame. Should Cooperstown ban suspected steroid users, or should they be held to higher standards? What if there’s no positive test like A-Rod’s, just accusations and hearsay?
Before rushing to an answer, imagine, twenty years from now, taking your child on the hovercraft to visit the Hall. You visit the shrines of the greats from before your time — DiMaggio, Koufax, Williams and Ruth. You peruse the newest group of legends — Mauer, Santana, Pujols and Howard. Your kid asks you who you grew up watching, your favorite players from your youth. Sure, you can point to Ken Griffey Jr.’s bronze bust, but what about Barry Bonds? Where are the heroes of baseball’s rejuvenation, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa? Where is A-Rod? None of them are present in the Hall, none of them immortalized because baseball decided to take a stand ten years too late.
Bud Selig, team execs, writers and players had no problem letting McGwire and Sosa save their sport, no problem turning the blind eye towards rampant steroids use. A-Rod was one of 104 players to test positive in the 2003 anonymous league testing — meaning three or four players per team were on the juice. McGwire, Sosa, Bonds and A-Rod were not isolated incidents, yet Hall voters have no problem, in McGwire’s case, and will continue to have no problem making martyrs of them, wagging a finger at the results of a broken system, yet leaving the makers of that system untouched.
“But the records! The numbers! They’re all tainted!” I can already hear the shouts of disapproval. Yes, they cheated. Yes, it was wrong. But baseball’s precious statistics, the common thread between over a century’s worth of players, are not the consistent measure of merit they’re made out to be. Roger Maris’ 61 dingers in the summer of ’61 came without the benefit of enlightened weight training and proper diet. Babe Ruth put up his staggering numbers fueled by beer and hot dogs, not Muscle Milk and Power Bars. Then again, the pitchers were weaker as well, and not the recipients of modern sports medicine. As were the fielders, who didn’t have the ability to close gaps or jump walls like the Torii Hunters of today.
Baseball’s precious stats are not so precious when looked at cross-generationally. They help convey a player’s impact on the field, but hitting .325 with 30 homers today and hitting .325 with 30 homers in 1960 are two completely different animals. I’m not arguing that one was harder or easier, just that they are different.
With the introduction of steroids into the majors, baseball took another evolutionary step that would affect statistics, albeit an unnatural one. The drugs were not limited to hitters but also made pitchers stronger and more durable; witness Roger Clemens and Andy Pettite. The league also brought in tightly-wound baseballs to increase the number of longballs in an attempt to bring back fans still bitter from the 1994 strike.
If the league made a conscious decision to let all of this fly to keep home runs, revenues and ratings soaring, then Hall of Fame voters need to make a similar decision. If the baseball players union did its job and destroyed the supposedly-anonymous results from the 2003 test, then A-Rod’s name, unlike his conscience, would still be clean, forever changing the way baseball fans perceive his gaudy statistics. There’s just too much uncertainty about who did it.
We have no way of knowing just who did steroids, and how much steroids inflated players’ numbers. Did juice contribute to Barry Bonds’ .609 OBP in 2004 or his 73 dingers in 2001? There’s no doubt about it. But just how much did they help? Enough to make him not Hall-worthy? Steroids didn’t hit curveballs, steroids didn’t pull the ball down the right field line, and we’re conveniently ignoring that many of the pitchers Bonds destroyed also had needles in their lockers.
The players of my generation, McGwire, Bonds and A-Rod, deserve to be immortalized. Like steroids, baseball’s story is incomplete without them.