Tonight in the big leagues

If nothing else, it sure explains the red-dyed soul patch. Utility man Scott Spiezio, erstwhile groomer of that hirsute error, checked himself off the Cardinals roster and into rehab today for unspecified substance abuse problems that our friend in the newsroom tells us include steroids. Of course. But, at least the team has managed some kind of triple play during this waste of a season: drunk, dead, and now drugged.

But, this being baseball, there was another story on the field, beyond even the box score. The timing was orchestrated by the Cardinal brass in a, "hey! look over here! something shiny and not addicted to cocaine!" move, but that doesn't make it less of a story. A 28-year old was called up from the minors to make his outfield debut tonight. What, pretty lame story? Sure would be, especially since his middling team has no real chance, even in its sorry division. But this aging player (imagine to live in a world where 28 is old), though he has limited major league options, has been the story of Triple A, knocking balls out of every park. Seven years ago, however, he was a phenom pitcher for this same St. Louis team, the bonus baby with the miracle arm, until this same manager broke him on national TV.

So that's a story.

I know it's not a fair story, to frame it that way, to blame Tony LaRussa for the then 20-year-old Rick Ankiel's control to go sailing right out his fingertips and into the backstop again and again and again after he pretended Darryl Kile was starting the Division Series instead of Ankiel, fake press conference and all, so there wouldn't be pressure, but tonight he sure did cheer like a man vindicated--or relieved. I think this 2001 New York Times Magazine story is most interesting for what it says about young(er) Ankiel and his dad, but between that man and his coaches there are maybe some whys and wherefores about what happened.

That game, that start--that inning--back in 2000, was a spectacle, a personal mortification that most of us are lucky enough to never endure. And then, in the next series, against the Mets, it happened again. His pitches sailed everywhere but through the strike zone. I throw like a girl, but I like to think even I wouldn't float a pitch ten feet over the batter's head. It was that bad. Whatever happened in the mind of that kid pitcher, it happened but good. The wild pitches stacked up like cordwood the next year too, and though he eventually quit pitching, he didn't quit baseball. That's a lot of plodding, a lot of perseverance, and it's seeming to pay off fairly spectacularly. And well, good for him. During his quest to get back to the Show, he even lost two full seasons to injuries, and lord, here's hoping it's sheer athleticism and not pharmaceuticals that triumphs over all. And here's hoping his organization doesn't break him again.