Alex Rodriguez now left to face his sad situation
The news that Alex Rodriguez has confessed to routine performance-enhancing drug use probably means we’ve eliminated the last person who might have believed in his innocence, the existence of witch hunts and the over-aggressiveness of Bud Selig: that person being Alex Rodriguez himself.
So, now, we can all move on, Rodriguez included.
Not “move on” as though it never happened, but “move on” to the notion that this thing was ever anything but the obvious, and that the denials were nothing more than attempts to save some of his money (and what remains of his career), and that once again Rodriguez had listened to the wrong people far too often and for far too long.
He’ll be 40 next summer, so maybe it was time to learn that lesson anyway. Today’s decisions might indeed make today more livable, but might not do much for tomorrow. Generally, tomorrow comes. Rodriguez has worn a lot of tomorrows.
Take Wednesday, another one of those.
According to the Miami Herald, Rodriguez told DEA agents in January he’d had a $12,000-a-month habit supplied by Tony Bosch. That meant testosterone and HGH, and it meant injections and gummies, and it meant lying and cheating and midstream pee-cup strategies.
In exchange for Rodriguez’s presumed candor, the DEA and its pals promised immunity, and then likely got a huge kick out of Rodriguez’s public denials. How many federal agents, you think, have started sentences with, “This guy …”?
Only the ferociously loyal (or intentionally blind) bought any of what Rodriguez said to Rob Manfred or the New York-based radio guy or the crowds on Park Avenue anyway, or viewed Rodriguez’s attorneys as anything other than, well, Rodriguez’s attorneys, and now along comes the purported evidence we knew was out there anyway.
Here’s the bright side for Rodriguez: nothing’s changed. His actions were what we thought they were. His defiance was what we thought it was. And he’s done his time. He had no legacy left to burn, no credibility left to save, no lawsuits left to file.
Two weeks after arbitrator Fredric Horowitz dropped the 162-game ban, a decision that basically questioned the believability of Rodriguez’s representatives (Rodriguez himself declined to testify), Rodriguez confessed to the authorities. A couple weeks later, spring training began, and then the season started, and then Rodriguez’s New York Yankees won 84 games and missed the playoffs again, and then Rodriguez was reinstated.
That, of course, takes us to yet another of his tomorrows. They’re relentless like that.
(It’s not that Rodriguez steps on so many rakes. It’s that – you’d swear – he aims for them.)
So what now for the endlessly exhausting, supernaturally reckless, preposterously fallible A-Rod?
Baseball.
You know, maybe.
It’s almost time to start stacking todays atop todays. And tomorrows atop tomorrows. It’s almost time to show up, grab a glove and a pocket of sunflower seeds, and play baseball on a body that could be a little wrung out or could be rejuvenated by a good 17 months out of the game. When the Yankees host the Blue Jays on April 6, Rodriguez will have played in 44 real games and taken 156 real at-bats since 2012. He’ll be standing above hips and knees that haven’t endured the daily grind going on 2 ½ years. He’ll be almost 40, and Tony Bosch will be out of business, and it’s not unfair to ask what Rodriguez has left, besides automatic deposit and $61 million coming.
He’ll produce or he won’t. The Yankees will win or they won’t. For today, it’s just that simple. Can Alex Rodriguez still play? Can he be a good teammate? Can he hold up over six or seven months? Can he become something better?
If he can, if his strength and hands and eye have survived the past year, then today will be worthwhile.
If not, damn, there’s a lot of ugly tomorrows waiting. And then we can all move on.
