That's today's reaction -- and the person most deeply-wounded by this official announcement is definitely Sage Rosenfelds. The Houston Texans QB will make his prime-time debut on a network which nobody watches -- and his wee bit of NFL thunder was stolen by The MLB.
It would make perfect sense for ESPN to dispatch one of its newest hires -- Sage Steele -- to get a reaction from Sage Rosenfelds ... y'know, just to gauge the rage of Sage (that is, if a chick named Sage can gauge the rage of a dude named Sage, despite the fact that the name alone suggests that his meter probably tops out at "scorn").
That's a cool word ... "scorn" (although it would be way cooler if it was the QB's first name ... "Scorn Rosenfelds").
Either way, scorn is what America is feeling today now that the Mitchell Report has hit the fan.
Actually, it's probably more like "mock scorn" -- which Americans are coupling with "pseudo-indignation" for a delightful quasi-rage combo platter.
America still has not made up its mind if this faux-outrage stems more from "the esteemed Senator" (who, pro-Mitchell loyalists, swear is one of the original apostles) put his name/reputation (whatever that's worth) to a report overloaded with hearsay poppycock -- or if what this nation is feeling is actually make-believe anger to mask our disappointment that an ikon such as The Rocket is possibly a 'roider (we spelled "icon" with a "k" a few minutes ago bekause Klemens' kids' names all begin with K and because Every Kiss Begins With Kay, etc ... ).
Almost as amusing as the 400-plus-page roll call is the wall-to-wall coverage provided by The Winter X Games Network's batallion of talking heads/opinion-givers.
Who the F is "T.J. Quinn: Investigative Reporter," anyway? That's what we read at the bottom of the TV screen ... "T.J. Quinn: Investigative Reporter."
(No relation: "Doctor Quinn: Medicine Woman")
The Texas Hold 'Em Channel needs to be a little more careful when it comes to applying the "investigative reporter" tag to this person we've never met before -- mostly because applying the faux-"person-of-significance" tagline gives America the impression that Olney, Kurkjian, Stark and Pope Gammons don't do any actual "investigatin'," but maybe probably spend more time "collectin'" tips from nameless front-office personnel on their wildly-vibrating cellphones.
Not that it matters. After all, their facts might not be any more reliable than what the Mitch-'Port gave us (a document which is comparable to a sobriety checkpoint which flags two DUI offenders and misses 15 others).
Still, America wouldn't be the same w/o baseball purist Steve Phillips -- the (allegedly) reformed sex addict -- showin' up on our TV screen and, with that mini-goat-tee he wears to make him look like less of a 50-year-old Ken Doll, actin' so darn full-of-conviction in telling the nation how to feel about the sport he loves.
Actually, the ex-Mr. Sex he has that same earnest expression no matter if the topic is performance enhancers or a shakeup in the Reds' front office.
Either way, America is Jonesin' pretty bad right now for Tom Boswell to swing a bat in the on-deck circle with some flowery rhetoric about how our green pastures of innocence and springtime renewal have been tainted, but, Baseball, will not toil in the morrass, but, will resurrect itself and blossom once again, blah blah blah blah blah ... "
Bottom line: TODAY'S OUTCOME AFFECTS NUTHIN' ... or, stated in simpler terms of the modern era, "It is what it is."
After it got thrown under the bus ...
For one thing, the drama today unfolded before an America which has been desensitized to such matters ever since what transpired in '85 -- back when we all gathered 'round the Magnavox black-n'-white TV and followed the Pittsburgh drug trials.
Back then, we learned all sorts of fun facts, such as the clubhouse habits of a fatso, coke-supplyin' caterer named Curtis Strong ... or how to spell "Ueberroth" ... or the testimony of the Pirates parrot mascot who was either a user or a mule, we can't remember which.
The best part of that trial, though, was when John Milner testified that the liquid (possibly cough syrup) in Willie Mays' locker (when the two were teammates for the '73 Mets) was "some nasty, red juice."
We were usin' that expression for years -- even if we were describing a sandwich at the local eatery or a date with a blonde from the previous night.
"Nasty, red juice ..."
Works every time ...
So, did Peter Ueberroth die in vain?
He did successfully rid the countryside of cokeheads (but maybe not crackheads).
Alas, junkies have a knack for beating the system.
And if America won't offer a blessing for cocaine or 'roids or HGH today, there'll be something synthetic and yummy tomorrow.
In the past 100 years of baseball-related shenanigans, we've had dead balls, live balls, corked bats, flattened mounds, booze woes, dopers, adulterers, 'roid rage ...
At the rate we're goin', by the year 2015, it'll probably be illegal for an MLB'er to inject himself with rhino semen in the middle of an at-bat.
Oh, and only bats with an aluminum/graphite shell and a uranium core will be allowed to strike at the baseball filled with weapons-grade plutonium because, dammit ... if we're banned from building more-massive ballplayers to go upper deck with the 3-run, jimmy jack, then, we'll need to juice up the bats n' balls because, dammit ... chicks dig the longball ...
No one remembers who led the league in two-base shots to the gap or into the corner.
America wants Brady Anderson.
Preferably shirtless.
Because gay Americans are people, too.
And, some of them like baseball.
The MLB is always slow on the uptake. It usually discovers too late that the Beatles may've dropped some acid; Dean Martin might've had a wee bit of a drinking problem; JFK likely ended up in bed a few times with someone not named "Jacqueline" ... oh, and that guy who always volunteered at the canned food drives -- that John Wayne Gacy guy -- maybe he's not that chubby, jolly civic-minded, fella-next-door that he appeared to be.
Johnny seemed to have some relationship problems, neighbors.
Just think: Somewhere out there in America (or in Eurpoe, maybe) right now, Gacy's adult offspring are checkin' out that recent issue of Playboy wherein Kimberly Bell -- Bonds' mistress of approx. 10 yrs. -- was photographed in a number of provocative-and-tasteful poses.
And, that's cool.
'Cuz, no matter, what Steve Phillips or Krukker or Buster tell ya, there are three things that America loves:
1) Baseball 2) Children of serial killers and 3) A well-maintained carpet.
If today's public-service announcement was a prelude to "cleaning up the game," well ... what can ya say about a sport wherein dip/snuff/spit tobacco is banned on every level, yet, if fans have noticed the back pocket of numerous MLB'ers (including the Home Run King), that AIN'T a tin of Altoids in there.
(Actually, it may be a a tin of "the clear" in a gametime-friendly container).
As we know, the upshot of Mitchell's snitch report will be step-fathers taking their step-sons (because there's a restraining order which prohibits that step-father from having contact with his ex-wife and kids) to the ol' ballyard in '08.
The end result: Record attendance (again).
So much for the "Bad Day At Black Rock" for The MLB.
Because The MLB is so poetic and full of purity for the purists.
Such as when LaRussa falls asleep at that green light and is so nimble and baseball-like that his foot remains on the brake while the car is in drive.
And, later, LaLoser will sing the alphabet on YouTube.
Look ... we all had fun singing along with LaLoser doin' his ABC's -- almost as much fun as we had today when we got pretty buzzed with our co-workers when we played the newest drinking game "Who's On The 'Roids Snitch List?"
Neal from Shipping looked mighty foolish when he panicked and said, "Luis Polonia" (causing him to drink twice) and then we declared Stacey from Accounts Receivable the winner when she pulled off the daily-double -- Adam Piatt AND Phil Hiatt.
Nobody saw the Piatt/Hiatt double-dip comin'.
Laughs notwithstanding, gettin' wasted while spendin' the day with some crusty, ol' dickweed named George Mitchell obscures the fact that the Senator mighta sorta totally forgotten that there's something called "due process" in this land of purple mountains' majesty and amber waves of grain.
Just about everybody wants to see the sport cleaned up, but naming names in tattletale fashion by using uncorroborated testimony from maybe not-so-reliable sources, c'mon ...
Shouldn't we be focusing our personal attacks on the 63 percent of Congress which has NAMBLA literature in its top desk drawer?
Witch hunts are such a waste of time and money.
Either way, until Congress can force The MLB (preferably at gunpoint) to produce a 1994 World Series champion, neither entity (Congress or The MLB) is to be taken seriously.
Nice try, though, Piatt & Hiatt ...
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