The All-Steroids Team

For many baseball fans, watching Barry Bonds circle the bases after crushing home run #756 to dead center field is the lasting image of the Steroid Era: Hammerin' Hank's mighty tower toppled on a cold San Francisco night. For others, it's the frozen rope to left McGwire hit off Steve Trachsel for #62 in 1998, the Cubs infielders getting caught up in the moment and defying convention (and their pitcher) to congratulate him as he rounded the bases, and rival Sammy Sosa even sprinting in from right field to give him a hug. For those who didn't witness these events live, images of Sosa, McGwire, and Rafael Palmeiro at the subsequent Congressional hearings come to mind. These fallen icons will forever bear the burden of banishment from baseball, blackballed from the Hall with their legacies forever muddied; ugly reminders of an embarrassing past.

Players like these, however are only half the story. They were already perennial All-Stars, who used PEDs to take their game to previously unimaginable heights. Lost in all the bile and derision directed at Bonds and McGwire are the unsung contributers to the Steroid Era: the players who used steroids to rip off obscene power numbers for a couple of seasons, then faded back into oblivion when drug testing began. In some cases, players who had no business even being in the league were getting MVP votes, all thanks to absurd amounts of steroids and a complete lack of concern for any long-term health effects. These are the players who make up BL's All-Steroids Team. Ridiculous steroid-enhanced power numbers alone weren't enough to make this team, we looked for shockingly terrible pre-steroids years, precipitous dropoffs once testing started, and ignominious exits from the game when their body completely deteriorated. Bonus points if their steroid-inflated seasons occurred in their mid-30's after an unremarkable 12 years in the league. These legends wanting to put up superstar numbers after a half of a decidedly mediocre career is something we can identify with, even while we publicly disparage their actions. We are simultaneously sympathetic and incensed, we marvel at them while we shake our heads in judgement.

Over the next few days, we'll be going position by position as we name the Boston Legends All-Steroids Team.

Baseball's Legendary Substance Abusers Series

Josh Hamilton





In the case of Josh Hamilton, thank God for, well, God. After a tattoo and crack-fueled four year descent into the darkest depths of humanity, Josh Hamilton has somehow emerged not only sober, and not just a Major League Baseball player--but an exceptional one, an All-Star. The other-worldly potential he displayed as a high school senior has materialized. How did he do it? God, faith, and ability.

Hamilton was drafted with the first overall pick in 1998, one pick ahead of young Texan fireballer Josh Beckett, and given a hefty $4 million signing bonus. Amongst scouts who had been following his growth and development in high school, he had already achieved legend-status. A five-tool centerfielder, he had it all, garnering comparisons to Mickey Mantle. He could even pitch, with a fastball consistently clocked at 96 mph.

Former Reds first baseman Sean Casey was in awe of this young talent: "I remember seeing him taking BP with the Devil Rays in 2000 during spring training, and I was like, Who's that? He was 18 years old and hitting balls farther than anyone else. I said, 'That's one of the greatest swings I've ever seen.'"

His first two minor league seasons, he hit a combined .306 with 23 HR and 101 RBIs in 699 at bats; he was seemingly on the fast track to the Major Leagues, and up until this point in his life he hadn't even sipped drugs or touched alcohol. Then in 2001, he got into an accident while in the car with his parents. Hamilton was subsequently sidelined with various injuries, while his mother needed to return home to North Carolina to treat her own injuries.

It was at that moment--when Hamilton became injured and separated from his family--that he became worthless to himself; he lacked identity and direction. His reaction to his injury, and his subsequent drug and alcohol-induced retreat from the game reveal perhaps not only a personal flaw, but also a societal one.

In the words of author Benoit Denizen Lewis:

Today we find more and more ways to distract ourselves—and as we obsessively search for new and innovative ways to 'feel better'—we've created a schizophrenic culture where nothing is ever enough, where stillness is equated with boredom, and where we need increasingly intense experiences just to feel alive...In essence, we've created a culture that supports and encourages addiction while at the same time shames, ridicules, and criminalizes those of us afflicted with it.

The thrill of the crowd was gone; he was stationary, rehabing, and away from his family, which had acted as his entire support system. Perhaps, then, it was the desperate need for excitement, praise, and validation that led to Hamilton's urge to find a replacement high: something to fill a growing sense of inner emptiness (If I can't succeed and receive praise on the ballfield, then I'm worthless).

His reaction is not uncommon in a society that has become increasingly narcissistic, a society where "To live for the moment is the prevailing passion--to live for yourself, not for your predecessors or posterity."

One day Hamilton wandered into a tattoo parlor. Three years, 26 tattoos, and countless binges later, he hit rock bottom. In the words of Hamilton, he had become a "dead man walking."

I was so out of it I had lost consciousness, but my body had kept going, down the middle of the road, cars whizzing by on either side. I had run out of gas on my way to a drug dealer's house, and from there I left the truck and started walking. I had taken Klonopin, a prescription antianxiety drug, along with whatever else I was using at the time, and the combination had put me over the edge. It's the perfect example of what I was: a dead man walking.

How did he emerge? It may sound cliche, but he "found God," forming an intense relationship with Him.

What's crazy about religion is the power it wields, and sometimes I wish I could be a devout Christian. For every disgusting story of fundamentalist hypocrisy—the Ted Hagers and Father Geoghins of the world—there are those who have given themselves up to a higher being, and truly live their lives according to a creed—and achieve real success doing so. I don't think it's a coincidence that so many athletes are devoutly religious (Tim Tebow immediately comes to mind). After all, if one truly believes that he is being guided by God, or has a higher power on his side, he must be bursting with confidence—arguably the most crucial psychological advantage in sports.

In an interview with ESPN during his rookie year with the Reds in 2007, Hamilton displays the extent of his new relationship with God, along with the confidence that this relationship exacts

Baseball is third in my life right now, behind my relationship with God and my family. Without the first two, baseball isn't even in the picture. Believe me, I know.

On May 6, I hit two homers against the Rockies at home, and I felt like I did in high school. I felt like I could do anything on the field...amazing that God allowed me to keep my baseball talents after I sat out three years

His successful return to baseball is enough to validate Hamilton's legend-status, and the home run derby is the icing on the cake: a singular, defining displayof his otherworldly talent--the power of his own faith, the gift of pure athleticism that so few are blessed with, a reminder of the legend in all of us--our potential, our faith-infused abilities--what Hamilton is to baseball, you are to something, whether it is physical, social, or emotional.

The offseasons, the injuries, and his post-baseball career are the biggest cause for concern. We'll never have to worry about Hamilton when he's on the ballfield, where he's doing what he loves (and doing it really really well); it's when he's off the field that problems can arise. A slip up this past offseason serves as a reminder of his continuing fraility.

Yet we here at BostonLegends will continue to be his biggest fans, hoping for nothing but greatness and sobriety from here on out.

What is a Legend?

An introduction like "Welcome to Boston Legends, read on to find the passionate, yet irreverent ramblings of two legends from the greatest city on the planet," aside from being incredibly played out, would be dishonest to the spirit of what we're trying to do here. It starts with the first word: "Welcome." We're from Boston, not LA; we don't feel the need to welcome you to our postulations, and we won't apologize for them. In addition, calling our ramblings "passionate, yet irreverent" is an obvious euphemism for us being "usually drunk, and at times wildly inaccurate," and we're not trying to bullshit you like that. Calling ourselves "legends" from the "greatest city on the planet" doesn't give you any information you couldn't glean from the blog's title, and finally, a self-proclaimed legend isn't a legend at all; true legends would never tout themselves as such.

So what is a true legend? It's a slippery topic. Being legendary transcends any kind of one-sentence definition. Legends can be real (Teddy Ballgame) or fictional characters (think Eastwood in Gran Torino), but the best legends are a mix of actual exploits and mystique. Legendary is Wade Boggs gassing 55 (ish) Bud Lites on a single cross-country flight, and it's also Tom Brady winning the Super Bowl while battling a 103 degree fever. It's Dennis Eckersley's mullet and John Kruk's beer gut. It's Eric Clapton's Rainbow Concert, but also the crippling heroin addiction he overcame to play it. The meaning of legend has been diluted over the years, being thrown out to describe everything from deals at Burger King to episodes of Two and a Half Men. Rather than further this trend, we seek to restore the term to the luster it used to have.

A little background: Boston Legends was formed out of necessity in Stanford, California in late 2005, when two displaced Boston sports fans were thrust into the doldrums of sports fanaticism that is Northern California. Through our four years in college out West, we gained a unique perspective on our beloved city, finding out for ourselves that the entire country doesn't worship Tom Brady, Ted Kennedy, and Carl Yastrzemski like us. Our goal is to entertain, but at the same time, hopefully drop some knowledge and dispel popular myths (for instance, some people still think Daisuke Matsuzaka can be a top-of-the-rotation starter). Ideally, we'll rise above the myriad blogs with the same drunk Bostonian schtick and create our own legend.

Like a feather caught in a vortex, Williams ran around the square of bases at the center of our beseeching screaming. He ran as he always ran out home runs—hurriedly, unsmiling, head down, as if our praise were a storm of rain to get out of. He didn't tip his cap. Though we thumped, wept, and chanted "We want Ted" for minutes after he hid in the dugout, he did not come back. Our noise for some seconds passed beyond excitement into a kind of immense open anguish, a wailing, a cry to be saved. But immortality is nontransferable. The papers said that the other players, and even the umpires on the field, begged him to come out and acknowledge us in some way, but he never had and did not now.

Gods do not answer letters.

-John Updike, Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu

Papelbombed

It's difficult to despise someone who performs so admirably on the field, but with Jonathan Papelbon, there's a lingering dislike. In the rare occasion that he fucks up, I'm ready to pounce; he has a shorter leash than any other player on the Sox.

The stale taste in my mouth goes back to Spring Training 2007. After closely following Papelbon's ascent through the minors, and being thoroughly impressed with his one year as a closer, I was ready for the big step: his permanent move to the rotation. I salivated over the thought of a young staff anchored by Beckett, Daisuke, Papelbon, and Lester, a foursome that, in my mind, would go on to dominate the American League for a decade (I had even taken notice of a young fireballer, Clay Buchholz, who had just dominated the lower minors, racking up 11 wins and 140 K in 199 IP, with a 2.42 ERA to boot). The Red Sox brass held a similar vision, offering him Clemens' number 21--a gesture loaded with a singular implication: that he would become something truly great.

Well we all know how everything turned out. During Spring Training '07, conveniently for Papelbon, the club couldn't settle on a closer; then he had a "revelation" and decided he just didn't have it in his to be a starting pitcher. Sure, we won the World Series that year. But who knows? Maybe I wouldn't have had to suffer through a seven game nail biter vs Cleveland, cringing at every pitch the nibbling nip threw during his epic-ly horrific five inning-120 pitch-six walk outings. Maybe in the 2008 ALCS he could have been the filler for Beckett's ineffectiveness.

The relative value of a good closer versus a good starter is not even debatable. A closer contributes roughly 70 innings per year, while a healthy starter can contribute upwards of 200. Closers are interchangeable and plentiful. For all the praise heaped upon Mariano Rivera and Joe Nathan, there are Jose Valverdes and Heath Bells ready to rip off a couple 45 save seasons before fading into oblivion. The great closers are lauded for their consistency, above all else. But there are plenty of closers who can be great for a season or two, and plenty of failed starters who make excellent closers (Tom Gordon, Eric Gagne + steroids).

In other words, I don't care how good Papelbon is as a closer; I still consider a pitcher who can give me 200 innings, an ERA under 4.00 and a WHIP under 1.25 more valuable than an elite closer. Although it's all speculation, I feel like those are baseline numbers that Papelbon could have consistently reached on a year-to-year basis as a starter.

Unfortunately, we'll never find out. The notion of Papelbon one day becoming a starter a la Derek Lowe and Ryan Dempster has been repeatedly shot down by "Cinco Ocho" himself:

"Print this," he said in an Esquire interview during the 2009 offseason. "I will never start a baseball game in my life, ever." (Then again, this is the same guy who once said, "I just feel I'm better as a starter. The reason why this team drafted me in '04 was to be a starter. I'm going to take this opportunity and run with it...")

Furthermore, we may never see Papelbon in a Boston uniform after the 2010 season. He's refused to discuss a long term deal with the club prior to his free-agent eligibility, sacrificing the security of a long term deal in the mold of Lester-Pedroia-Youkilis' for what he believes will be a monster deal in the 2010 offseason.

"I've got a lot of money to be made in this game," he said in 2007. "Whether it's with Boston or not." (Let's hope your arm doesn't blow out in 2010, chief)

Maybe it's the fear that his arm will blow out that led to his altered delivery this season, designed to put less stress on his arm, but more stress on his fans, who shuddered as he labored through every 30 pitch ninth inning, and cringed at every warning track shot. His ERA this season is deceiving--his WHIP is up , and, frankly, he may be primed for an epic collapse in the playoffs.

I'm all for trading you him this offseason to some team like the Mets, a club willing to give him the contract he thinks he deserves (that K-Rod contract will absolutely blow up in their face). Bard has the stuff to take over; if he can't hack it, someone will--an Octavio Dotel or Rafael Soriano is lurking around somewhere.

For me, theatrics have grown old; "Shipping Up To Boston" has been beaten to death, somehow having become more cliche than his first entrance song, "Wild Thing." Between him and his meth-addict counterpart in New York, I've seen more fist pumps than a Thai hooker.

Papelbon, you, my friend, are not a legend.

Boggs would drink you under the table