Say it ain't so

It's true that he was a pitcher then, and a recuperating one at that. A doctor's signature did validate the prescription, and no anti-HGH rules were in effect. My heart breaks nonetheless.

I've been accused of being a baseball cynic, and sometimes that label rings true. Despite last October's miracle, there's only so much credit I've been willing to give a team that's struggled to find .500 in a division that nobody's seemed interested in winning. Mudville's always right around the bend. The last month has been something else, though, an exception to the doomed rule, mostly thanks to the kid in right field. "Feel-good" is the cliché no sports writer has been able to resist, and no thanks to the mental Mötley Crüe soundtrack it inspires, the adjective did fit. Witnessing Rick Ankiel's unlikely ascent back to the majors has been quite literally a joy; I don't remember enjoying any August game as much as the one I watched him play against the Dodgers. It was just so fun. Only yesterday I nearly posted his stats from this last home stand--capped by a 7 RBI rain-shortened game--just to marvel at them. And then today, when the dawn cracked, so did the dream.

I have no I told you sos, no I knew it all alongs. I did say, here and elsewhere, that I hoped that no pharmeceuticals were involved, but that wish was little more than reflex. I didn't really expect it would come to this, whatever this may prove to be. A blip on the radar gun. A harmless foul, deep into the stands. A runaway fastball to the gut.

Has this whole month been a sham? I don't think so, or at least can't bear to. Add an -e, though, and I'm your girl. For a shame it is at the very least that this sporting miracle now carries the tragic stink of cheat. His career will never quite be what it could have been, either for him or us, no matter how successful he may yet become. How sad. How reality-based. All I wanted, I've come to realize, was to watch, and to cheer, and to believe.