An idea that’s taken some legs in print is Jason Giambi, erstwhile Yankees slugger and outed steroid user as baseball’s Comeback Player of the Year. In fact, it’s even the topic tonight on ESPN’s Outside the Lines.
The logic is that Giambi — falling off a cliff statistically last year — has rebounded even after the Yanks considered sending him to the minors earlier this season. He’s been a large part of their run to the playoffs, and his statistics do reflect a massive upswing.
However, skepticism enters the equation because of Giambi’s admitted steroid use. While its true that no one can 100-percent accurately say how much steroids contributed to his earlier success — or how much the apparent withdrawal contributed to his decline. Of course, the letter of MLB’s law, or even the letter of MLB’s fan voting policy (it’s included at some level in this award, this season) doesn’t forbid a player’s comeback should not be from rampant illegal drug use.
So, again, baseball voters are in a mire — not knowing exactly who to vote for, and in attempt to put on a profound civil rights’ attorney’s hat — voters wonder whether or not Giambi should be considered. After all, isn’t it difficult to come back from addiction? From drug use? From the bottom of the barrel? If that’s not a comeback, then what the hell is?
This is just another exhibit of baseball’s problem with steroids. Not with testing, not with enacting a workable policy, and not with suffering a spike in home run statistics.
It’s in accountability.
As in, there is none. Why do players continue to inject themselves to gain an edge? Because they face zero serious repercussions.
I’m not talking about the policy, which suspends first-, second-, third-, and final offenders. That’s got its issues, its strong points, and may actually be effective at some level.
I’m talking about players’ legacies.
Consider: After Rafael Palmeiro tested positive in 2005 for steroids, not only did his career suffer little public scrutiny, he actually was defended in some circles — as if one isolated incident should not skew his entire decorated career.
Well, surely that’s not fair, personally, to Palmeiro. Of course it’s not. But that’s the way it works. When players — Giambi, Bonds, McGwire, Sheffield, and now Palmeiro, finally have their skeletons extracted from their closets — they should prepare to suffer the consequences that follow.
Instead, the following happens.
First, sabermetricians and baseball stat geeks pound their heads against their desks, as if numbers, accolades, and achievements from the past are above current scrutiny — it’s blasphemous for that pesky truth to get in the way of tallied achievements! No way numbers lie!
No way, they say. McGwire had 70 home runs, that’s the benchmark. Never proven to use steroids then, so his records can’t be viewed unfairly just because of skepticism now.
Or a race to craft Palmeiro as a HOF first baseman regardless — dredging up his 3000-hits and high batting average, and confidently stating that steroids don’t do anything but add distance to fly balls. (Untrue.)
And secondly — and perhaps more egregiously, columnists everywhere look at their HOF voting credentials, and offer a profound declaration of, Yeah, but…
His life, his career, his legacy will never be the same now.
But I’d still vote for him. First ballot. Every ballot.
Why? Because I’m not a cop. I’m just a guy who covers baseball for a living.
So it’s not my job to police this sport. It’s the sport’s job to police itself. And for 15 years — maybe 20 — baseball’s police station was a place where the cops just sat around, played cards, smoked cigars and let the inmates hit 900-foot home runs.
That’s not only hardheaded, stubborn, and out of touch, it’s ridiculous. Stark isn’t alone — he’s simply typical of the old guard of baseball’s reporters.
It is absolutely the voters’ job to police baseball. To regulate the Hall of Fame. To render baseball’s statistics — thought to be of paramount importance — legitimate in the end.
Instead, voters and columnists increasingly spout ludicrous arguments that wind up defending baseball’s sacred numbers alone. It’s as if you reach a certain plateau — and how you arrived becomes moot. The ends do not justify the means. Rafael Palmeiro’s inclusion in the 500-homer club does not excuse his steroid use.
And to claim an isolated event? A black mark? That’s fine — but this really isn’t the legal system. It’s not a court of law. Palmeiro’s not fighting for his rights to freedom, a fair trial, or any of that. He’s fighting for a privilege – to be a player, a successful player, and a Hall of Famer. Privileges are tricky — one can wipe them out cleanly with a simple unforgivable act.
It’s simply absurdfor a voter to claim that the same rules of the American justice system apply when determining inclusion or validity to a game’s hall of fame. It’s moronic. It pollutes the game, its players, its future, and its fans.
Voters are given a privilege to vote supposedly because they are informed, trusted, and lucid. Claiming it’s not in their power to determine a candidate’s legitimacy outside the numbers is not only a cop-out, it’s a blatant violation of the fans’ and observers’ trust.
If even more than 50 percent of baseball’s Hall of Fame voters don’t consider it their job to hold Raffy accountable for a career of likely steroid use, then how will he know he did anything wrong? Palmeiro waits for the dust to settle, sees a plaque, and instead of feeling actual remorse for abusing any role-model status — he now becomes a politician, who said, did, acted out something stupid, but simply waited for the public-relations dust to settle, content that in the end, he was right.
More importantly than Palmeiro knowing he got away — other players see that. And as steroid uses evolve, and rules are circumvented — then baseball hasn’t really accomplished anything at all. Minor leaguers fear nothing, college players fear nothing, even kids … well, would you trade a few years here and there for a few years of imminent success? No strings attached, after you walk away? It’s not a difficult choice.
It’s criminal and idiotic, and it’s now reflected in the award that Giambi may win.
Sure, it’s possible to empathize with Raffy or Jason. He tasted fame. He wanted to stay on top. With Palmeiro, he wanted to extend his career. We can understand. We all hit bottom sometime.
But to pretend it’s simply a minor hurdle, an isolated event, or that it shouldn’t mar an otherwise legitimate body of work — that’s too much.
It’s too much to ask that fans trust a sport that reveres its numbers over actual physical triumph.
Too much to hand out awards to players who abused the system, which positioned them for the very award.
Too much to assume that the Hall of Fame is of such profound importance that it merits the same standards of protections as citizens’ basic rights.
And too much to wave off transgressions, suppositions, and actions just because of a reverence for numbers and achievement.
Rafael Palmeiro’s not a Hall of Famer. Neither is Mark McGwire, Barry Bonds, nor Gary Sheffield. Jason Giambi is not the comeback player of the year.
Numbers don’t lie, we’re told.
It doesn’t matter. Players and voters do. The Hall of Fame and Major League Baseball should attempt to guard against the effects of that, at the very least.
