Why I Hate PEDs in Baseball: A Manny Ramirez Story
By Cecilio's Scribe on Apr 10, 2011 with Comments 0
Back in April of 2008, I took a moment to pontificate on Manny Ramirez. The premise? Simple. Manny Ramirez was the best hitter of my era. That particular post was neither scientific nor groundbreaking, but it did state what I firmly believed at the time. Which was that from a pure hitting perspective, there was arguably no one better than Manny during a certain stretch.
Considering his recent retirement in the face of a a possible second PED-related suspension, my post from two years ago of course demands revisions (edits that could’ve been made immediately following his first suspension in 2009). That, in and of itself, is depressing. However, for me, this “story” begins much earlier. It also speaks further to why the role of these substances in baseball, and their muddying/sullying effects on the game’s history, is maddening. Bear with me on this stroll.
It’s 1990. I am 13 years-old and sports-obsessed. If officially-licensed sports apparel was currency, I’d have been a teenage billionaire. One of my haunts of choice is an epic store called Big League Threads about five minutes by my house. Run by two great dudes always rocking classic hockey sweaters from the original six, they sell customized jerseys from every sport causing my mother to shell out absurd amounts of money (on my behalf) over the years. I’ll make the connection in a minute.
Anyway, at 13, I was already a died-in-the-wool Mets fan. However, my parents had spent some time in Cleveland earlier in their life, so if there was an American League team that held any portion of my heart it was the Tribe. Did I mention I was also sports-obsessed at this time? And I had a thing for jerseys? Trust me, it’s coming around.
In the summer of 1990, I found myself raptly engrossed in a six-part series in The New York Times. It was about a young phenom from Washington Heights. A gifted baseball talent playing for George Washington High School who had “baseball people” from the neighborhood predicting legend at age 18. My mom is a crazy sports fan, too. She got sucked into the story. We both found ourselves pulling for this Manny Ramirez kid to be the real deal.
So, when we read that the Cleveland Indians selected Ramirez with the 13th pick in the 1991 draft it felt more memorable. And my first instinct was a natural one. I asked Mom. I wanted a Tribe Ramirez jersey. I remember trying to convince my often-more-prudent mother that this was a can’t-miss investment that would inevitably send my cool creds through the roof. Nobody would know who this was, she claimed. Exactly, was my reply. I would be in-the-know before any other teen could possibly be hip to the game. It was a no-brainer.
Despite my continued and extremely persuasive arguments in support of the purchase, mom eventually shot down my hopes and dreams of being the cool kid with the expensive official jersey of a 19 year-old minor-leaguer playing in Burlington, NC. But how cool would I have looked four years later, after rocking that “Ramirez guy” since 1991?? Seriously?? Yes, I’m still slightly bitter.
Bitter. A good word to bring this all back around to Ramirez. This story, meandering as it may have been, made the PED discussion that much more real and demoralizing for me. Here is a guy who I’ve literally followed for two decades. A player I watched develop into one the best hitters I have ever seen play baseball. And now…it’s crap. He’s crap. The jersey story is crap. It’s all dirty crap.
A story that might have been shared with any future offspring is now a tale that will inevitably be less about a hitting star and more about another “steroids-era” stud. Manny being Manny has now firmly taken on new meaning. I don’t really know what to do with all of this, and conversations about the Hall of Fame and how we compare players and all of this other stuff feels useless and tiresome.
I just hate PEDs for screwing with my memories…for making me question everything…for making it harder to tell stories…and for causing me to want to forget that I was ever begging for the jersey of a 19 year-old kid from Washington Heights who’d never played a minute of professional baseball.
