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ENLARGE
A scene from the upcoming “The MLB Matrix” film, brought to us courtesy of the MLB Network and Bob Costas' plastic surgeon:
Fade in: Dimly lit room, 2006. Two arm chairs facing each other. In each, a man sits. The man on the left — stocky with a full 5 o'clock shadow, a San Francisco Giants ball cap and a No. 25 Barry Bonds jersey on — sits uneasily at the front edge of the chair. The other man, likely a low-level accountant with palm-flattened hair, wire-rimmed glasses and a cheap tie sits across from him. Only as the camera moves closer in do we realize this disheveled, unimpressive-looking man is actually Milwaukee Brewers owner, er, I mean MLB commissioner, Bud Selig.
Selig leans in toward the other man and speaks in a high, nasally voice.
Selig: I hold in my hand two pills — red and blue. Take the blue one, and you'll wake up tomorrow without the slightest memory of this ever happening. Take the red pill, and you'll know all of the game's dirtiest secrets: Who took what, who failed what drug tests, all of it. You will, for the first time, see baseball for what it really is.
Fan: Um, well, if I take the red, won't my favorite sport be ruined in my mind forever? Won't I just feel cheated out of every memory I have of the players, teams and the game I love?
Selig: That's the risk you have to take.
Fan: I guess I'll just go with the blue one. I'd rather just enjoy what I'm watching.
Selig nods and hands over the blue pill. The fan takes it dry, and it seems painful as it goes down. Suddenly, the fan looks up at Selig, shaking his head.
Fan: Wait, Bonds took steroids? Clemens took steroids? Manny, Big Papi, Giambi — all of them took steroids?
Selig simply stares at the fan, unblinking.
Fan: I thought the pill would make me ignorant of it all? I thought I could go on enjoying everything I've seen?
Selig: Both pills did the same thing. You never actually had a choice. And, you really only have about one-third of the actual info — just the stuff we want you to know and the stuff against the people I don't really like. And, for the rest of your life, we're going to tell you over and over and over that nothing you've witnessed was real, it was all just some juiced up dream.
The fan puts his head in his hands and sobs.
Selig: Oh, and that'll be $149.50.
Fan (through tears): What?
Selig: Yeah, we're raising ticket prices again.
... And scene.
OK, this would actually be a horrible movie, and really, we should be grateful that there will never be a film that has Selig in it. You know, unless it's a documentary about what's really wrong with baseball.
But, still, doesn't it feel like we all had this moment at some point in the last few years? (Well, in a much less creepy way.)
On Friday, Manny Ramirez retired from baseball after failing another drug test for performance enhancing drugs. He would've had a 100-game ban, since he became the first player ever to test positive twice. Instead, he'll fade off to Planet Manny, hopefully washing his dreads at some point, and most will remember him for his PEDs not his RBIs.
Arguably the best right-handed hitter of a generation reduced to a laughable caricature of himself, or, worse, a glaring example of everything wrong in sports, particularly in baseball.
The Bonds trial, the pending Roger Clemens situation and, now, Manny no longer being Manny (ever again) — It's all pretty disheartening, and it all brings about a slew of questions.
Does everything we now know taint what we saw before? Are the records, titles, wins, losses all false? Will all the greatest players of the era I grew up watching ever be enshrined in Cooperstown? Should we even care?
This is what I know: I watched from the stands at Coors Field as Bonds blasted home run No. 762 of his career. I paid for the ticket, and I saw it. No one can tell me it didn't count or didn't happen. I watched it.
Sure, Bonds' workout regiment was about as legit as Bernie Madoff's money-making schemes, but that doesn't mean we should start ignoring what he did, what we all saw him do.
The same goes for Manny, Clemens and every other juicer we watched.
It was part of the game, for better or (mostly) for worse.
Selig, Major League Baseball, the media — no one can tell us how to view it. They can't force-feed us their version of the story.
All I can tell you is that I'm not taking any pill.
Sports editor Bryce Evans claims Diet Dr Pepper as his only performance enhancer. Maybe he should look into finding more.
Fade in: Dimly lit room, 2006. Two arm chairs facing each other. In each, a man sits. The man on the left — stocky with a full 5 o'clock shadow, a San Francisco Giants ball cap and a No. 25 Barry Bonds jersey on — sits uneasily at the front edge of the chair. The other man, likely a low-level accountant with palm-flattened hair, wire-rimmed glasses and a cheap tie sits across from him. Only as the camera moves closer in do we realize this disheveled, unimpressive-looking man is actually Milwaukee Brewers owner, er, I mean MLB commissioner, Bud Selig.
Selig leans in toward the other man and speaks in a high, nasally voice.
Selig: I hold in my hand two pills — red and blue. Take the blue one, and you'll wake up tomorrow without the slightest memory of this ever happening. Take the red pill, and you'll know all of the game's dirtiest secrets: Who took what, who failed what drug tests, all of it. You will, for the first time, see baseball for what it really is.
Fan: Um, well, if I take the red, won't my favorite sport be ruined in my mind forever? Won't I just feel cheated out of every memory I have of the players, teams and the game I love?
Selig: That's the risk you have to take.
Fan: I guess I'll just go with the blue one. I'd rather just enjoy what I'm watching.
Selig nods and hands over the blue pill. The fan takes it dry, and it seems painful as it goes down. Suddenly, the fan looks up at Selig, shaking his head.
Fan: Wait, Bonds took steroids? Clemens took steroids? Manny, Big Papi, Giambi — all of them took steroids?
Selig simply stares at the fan, unblinking.
Fan: I thought the pill would make me ignorant of it all? I thought I could go on enjoying everything I've seen?
Selig: Both pills did the same thing. You never actually had a choice. And, you really only have about one-third of the actual info — just the stuff we want you to know and the stuff against the people I don't really like. And, for the rest of your life, we're going to tell you over and over and over that nothing you've witnessed was real, it was all just some juiced up dream.
The fan puts his head in his hands and sobs.
Selig: Oh, and that'll be $149.50.
Fan (through tears): What?
Selig: Yeah, we're raising ticket prices again.
... And scene.
OK, this would actually be a horrible movie, and really, we should be grateful that there will never be a film that has Selig in it. You know, unless it's a documentary about what's really wrong with baseball.
But, still, doesn't it feel like we all had this moment at some point in the last few years? (Well, in a much less creepy way.)
On Friday, Manny Ramirez retired from baseball after failing another drug test for performance enhancing drugs. He would've had a 100-game ban, since he became the first player ever to test positive twice. Instead, he'll fade off to Planet Manny, hopefully washing his dreads at some point, and most will remember him for his PEDs not his RBIs.
Arguably the best right-handed hitter of a generation reduced to a laughable caricature of himself, or, worse, a glaring example of everything wrong in sports, particularly in baseball.
The Bonds trial, the pending Roger Clemens situation and, now, Manny no longer being Manny (ever again) — It's all pretty disheartening, and it all brings about a slew of questions.
Does everything we now know taint what we saw before? Are the records, titles, wins, losses all false? Will all the greatest players of the era I grew up watching ever be enshrined in Cooperstown? Should we even care?
This is what I know: I watched from the stands at Coors Field as Bonds blasted home run No. 762 of his career. I paid for the ticket, and I saw it. No one can tell me it didn't count or didn't happen. I watched it.
Sure, Bonds' workout regiment was about as legit as Bernie Madoff's money-making schemes, but that doesn't mean we should start ignoring what he did, what we all saw him do.
The same goes for Manny, Clemens and every other juicer we watched.
It was part of the game, for better or (mostly) for worse.
Selig, Major League Baseball, the media — no one can tell us how to view it. They can't force-feed us their version of the story.
All I can tell you is that I'm not taking any pill.
Sports editor Bryce Evans claims Diet Dr Pepper as his only performance enhancer. Maybe he should look into finding more.
