As a Red Sox fan, I could care less the poster child for Inferiority Complex in MLB got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Imagining Jeter, Posada, Mariano, and Hank stomping around the Spring Training facility cursing under their breath and wishing they'd have just left him toiling in the cellar in Texas puts a smile on my face.
As a Dad? This whole thing sucks. I grew up believing Pete Rose, Doc Gooden, and Wade Boggs were hero's who got to play a kids game for a living. Turns out one was a degenerate gambler, one was a drug addict and the last one was having sex with an ugly woman and had an obsession with chicken. Who knew?
Point is, I found all that out when I was an adult and was past the point where this kind of stuff bothered me.
OK, I'm lying. I'm STILL torked off about Rose and I'll never think of Boggs without imagining him and Margo sharing a bucket of the Colonel's finest while watching "Debbie Does Dallas".
But for my boys, instead of it happening when they could sort of understand it, it's happening now. I've already had to try and explain to Ciera why Nomie went to the Cubs and Rakes just can't grasp why Manny is/was a Dodger, although he likes the Dodgers because they wear blue.
It's a better reason than I've heard from some Yankee fans so I'm willing to cut him some slack.
However, if the day comes where Trot Nixon gets named in some steroid report, I'm not really sure how I'm going to explain that to my baby boy, who just so happens to be named after my all-time favorite Red Sox player.
Add that to the fact that my kids won't ever have the innocence regarding athletes that I grew up with and I'm ready to sign them all up for competitive dance class.
And if you know me at all, you realize how much it pained me to type that last sentence.
Note to Victor Conte: If I ever meet you in person, expect a size 9 Nike to be kicked in the general area of your gibleys.
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