Mark McGwire*

Over the past two decades, Mark McGwire has broken our records and our hearts. Now, after five years of isolation, the slugger has finally broken his silence. Emerging from exile, McGwire released a statement to the AP yesterday admitting that he took steroids throughout the 90’s—including the 1998 season—officially turning the question mark after his records into an asterisk.

For most of us, the news comes as no surprise. After years of watching homerun balls leave the park faster than a Pirates fan in August, we pretty much figured that both McGwire’s numbers and his hulk-like frame were artificially inflated. McGwire may as well have released a statement saying Santa wasn’t real. After all, anyone older than 12 probably figured out for themselves that the big man in the red suit was a fraud five years ago.

So why confess now? Why not confess at the 2005 congressional hearing on steroids in baseball? Why not in the ensuing years? Instead at the hearings, Big Mac responded to each question with, “I will not talk about the past.” And after the hearing, McGwire went into hiding.

According McGuire’s statement, the slugger wanted to come clean at the time, but couldn’t because he wasn’t granted immunity and feared potential legal backlash. He says now that he is rejoining the Cardinals as a hitting coach he finally has an opportunity to own up to his mistakes. But I’m not buying that one, not now.

I might have been a bit more gullible back in 1998. Hypnotized by the magical homerun chase, I followed McGwire’s moonballs and counted along with the rest of the country all the way up to 70. But I’m not eight years old anymore and won’t be so easily duped.

If you ask me, McGwire’s admission has less to do with conscience than with Cooperstown. I think Big Mac remained silent for all these years because he was hoping Hall of Fame voters would immortalize him alongside the folkloric homerun heroes he tainted. McGwire hoped that without proof that voters would look at his 583 career homeruns (eighth all-time) and ignore the speculations. But when that strategy failed for the fourth time on January 6th with McGwire receiving 128 votes (23.7 percent), the slugger decided to change streams.

Maybe McGwire thought a public statement and a couple tears on TV would make it all go away like it did for Manny, Big Papi, and Alex Rodriguez. Heck, it worked for A-Rod. Last winter, he was exposed for steroid use and deemed A-Fraud in a bestselling book by the same title. But after powering the Yankees to their 27th World Series championship, the nation is calling him a hero again.

Likewise, Yankees pitcher Andy Petite was exposed in the 2007 Mitchell investigation but owned up. The lefty said he used Human Growth Hormone twice in 2002 to recover from elbow surgery and the national quickly forgave him.

McGwire echoed Petite’s medical defense for using PEDs and was looking for the same forgiveness. In his statement to the AP McGwire said, “During the mid-'90s, I went on the DL seven times and missed 228 games over five years. I experienced a lot of injuries, including a ribcage strain, a torn left heel muscle, a stress fracture of the left heel, and a torn right heel muscle. It was definitely a miserable bunch of years and I told myself that steroids could help me recover faster. I thought they would help me heal and prevent injuries, too”

In Petite’s case, I don’t overlook his drug use, but I believe his story. But McGwire’s latest lie proves this is the new go-to deflection technique, replacing the old excuses that the accused never “willingly or knowingly used steroids” and the “everyone was doing it” claims. It ranks right up there with “My dog ate my homework” and “I was just holding it for a friend.”

The only part of McGuire’s statement I agree with is, “I wish I had never played during the steroid era.”

Looking back, I wish you wouldn’t have played during the steroid era as well Big Mac. In fact, I wish you— along with Bonds and Palmeiro and Sosa and Conseco— would have never played at all.

From Lombardi to Lethargy

A season of dropped balls, blown coverage, and missed opportunities has turned the defending Superbowl Champion Pittsburgh Steelers into a squalid 9-7 squad. Sportswriters and analysts blame the “Superbowl hangover” for Pittsburgh’s fall from grace, and maybe accurately so. Like a hangover, the black and gold’s lackluster performance has Steeler Nation feeling bleary-eyed, a bit nauseous, and asking “What the hell just happened?”

Early on it looked like the franchise that has won more Superbowls than any other in NFL history was cruising for the postseason once again. Through eight games, the team was fighting atop the division with a 6-2 record, including back-to-back wins against what were considered, at the time, two of the best teams in the league (undefeated Minnesota and one-loss Denver). Conceivably, the team could have been undefeated headed into week 9 if it wasn’t for a couple key slip-ups (see Santonio Holmes’ dropped pass in the end zone and Jeff Reeds’ two missed field goals in a three point loss to Chicago and a Limus Sweed dropped touchdown pass in another three point loss to division rival Cincinnati.)

But rather than fixing the flaws, the boys from the ‘Burgh allowed them to fester. And Pittsburgh went on a five game losing streak that all but eliminated the team from playoffs contention. The stretch featured torturous losses against divisional opponents (Baltimore and Cincinnati), some of the worst teams in the league (2-7 Kansas City and 3-8 Oakland), and both (1-11 Cleveland). The losses to the Ravens and Cincinnati—especially after seasons of supremacy—felt like losing to your little brother. But even worse, the Browns-- the cellar-dwelling mutt that the black and gold has kicked around even during the worst stretches-- bit back at the Steelers and left the team feeling like they’d just been smacked by their little sister.

Game after grueling game, fans pulling their hair out at Heinz field and kept asking, “Is this even our team?” Sure they were wearing black and gold, but other than that the team looked like a whole different ball club. All the Steeler signatures, a hardnosed defense and a powerful rushing attack, were gone. Instead, Big Ben commanded the offense out of the shotgun in Bruce Error-ians, or I mean Arrians, pass-happy system. While on the other side of the ball, the defense surrendered the lead five times in the fourth quarter.

Rather than twirl them, Steeler Nation was about ready to throw in the towel on their team. What happened to the beloved Blitzberg? Where was the Pittsburgh pride? And for god’s sake, what the hell was Ben Rothlisberger doing in the shotgun on first down? With all the questions fans had, one thing was certain—this was not Steeler Football.

Cowardly Jim Caldwell

They say there is a fine line between being brave and being stupid. But Sunday at Lucas Oil Stadium, first year Indianapolis Colts head coach Jim Caldwell proved that in football there is an even finer the line between being cautious and being cowardly.

With the undefeated Colts leading the Jets 15-10 mid-way through in the third quarter, Caldwell made the most controversial decision of his young coaching career. On one hand, with the playoffs looming and risk of injury ever-present, he could play it safe; pull the starters; and concede the perfect season. On the other hand, Caldwell could man up and play for keeps; leave the starters in, risking injury for a shot at glory and the first perfect season since the ’72 Dolphins.

The team would be heralded as the best team in NFL history. Champagne would flow. Confetti would fill the streets. Payton Manning, with his forehead so big it could double as a landing pad at Indianapolis airport, would finally get a date.

But Caldwell sent in the scrubs.

Champagne bottles were re-corked. Confetti was recycled. And Payton Manning took his seat on the bench and watched rookie QB Curtis Painter throw away the game and the team’s perfect season.

For 14 games and 2 quarters, the Colts had outplayed anyone who stepped on the field with them, pounding opponents into submission with a potent passing attack and swarming defense. The team had all the signs of a magical perfect season—blowouts, come from behind wins, a little luck. They were just six quarter away from only the third perfect regular season in NFL history. But two days after Christmas, Caldwell played the grinch.

In post game interviews, the coach defended his decision saying a championship is the team’s number one priority, not a perfect season. He said he was thinking about the big picture, not one meaningless win. But if you ask me, that’s a bunch of Colt crap.

I’ve got news for Caldwell, sports are about more than championships or wins and losses. It’s about the story. What if White Sox manager Ozzie Guillen pulled Mark Buehrle at his 100 pitch count during his perfect game this summer? Or what if Yankees skipper Joe McCarthy decided to give Joe Dimmaggio a day off during his 56 game hitting streak in 1941? The bottom line is there is a time to be cautious, and there is a time to be a man. Sometimes you have to listen to the crowd and send the offence back onto the field on fourth and one.

But you know, I shouldn’t be mad. I should be grateful that Caldwell acted like the overly protective parent who won’t let his son jump on the trampoline. Because a contact shy momma’s boy like that does deserve to be remembered among the gridiron greats. Caldwell had a chance to ride his Colts into the post season perfect and primed like a band of wild horses. But instead he pulled back on the reins and turned his Colts into a bunch of petting zoo ponies.

The 1972 Miami Dolphins will remain the NFL’s only perfect team. But as for Caldwell, he’ll be remembered as something else.

A cowardly Colt.