sfgate.com
Mark McGwire's pathetic downfall is the story right now, in the wake of Thursday's House committee hearings, and, in a twisted way, Major League Baseball should be grateful. Somewhat lost in the shuffle -- although hardly lost on committee members -- was an act of inconceivable incompetence from the office of Commissioner Bud Selig.
Can you imagine filing for a bodyguard's job, listing yourself as a robust 6-foot-5 and 230 pounds, only to later admit you're about 5-3 and a noted pacifist? "Whoops," you'll say. "Forgot a couple little details!"
That, essentially, is what happened when the committee requested a copy of baseball's new agreement regarding steroid use. It had been assumed all along, based on Selig's public comments, that a first offense would mean a 10- day suspension. The written language as presented to the committee, however, featured a bizarre new twist: A player could be suspended or fined -- an option that could exempt violators from the dreaded public exposure.
Rob Manfred, baseball's vice president in charge of labor issues, was the man responsible. If you weren't sure of that, you got the picture when Selig, at one stage of questioning, pointed his thumb in a hitchhiking-like gesture toward Manfred. Let's be clear that this is one of the most important documents in the history of the sport. And there's a blatant error in its most crucial passage? Who edited the thing, Smokey the Bear?
Apparently, this "drafting error," as Manfred called it, related to a carryover from the previous drug-testing language in 2002 (yeah, that's always a problem; I know when I filed my taxes this year, I inadvertently sent them everything from '98). So this crucial piece of information goes out -- to Congress , no less -- and it's grossly inaccurate? No wonder committee members were so relentless on this issue. Some of their comments -- like "unbelievable" or "an embarrassment" were precisely on target.
If it was indeed a simple mistake, Manfred's defense was not convincing. He told the committee, "In retrospect, the language should have been altered" and "the agreement might have been drafted better." Going on the assumption that Manfred and his minions aren't complete idiots, a logical conclusion is that MLB tried to pull a fast one: Documents ratified by players would not include the fine option (ESPN's Peter Gammons confirmed that, from the Angels' camp), nor would the media or anyone else hear a word about it. But in a crisis -- say, the uncomfortable notion of exposing a superstar who tested positive -- MLB could hide behind the "fine" option and cover the whole thing up.
Either way -- astonishing stupidity or an act of deception -- MLB comes off looking ridiculous. And that doesn't even address the disgrace of having an admittedly raw, unfinished policy at a time when players are being tested for steroids in spring training camps.
Say what you will about the hearings. Say the representatives should be paying attention to the real world. Say the hearings were a reaction to Jose Canseco's book, or that Rafael Palmeiro, Curt Schilling and Frank Thomas (by videoconference) should have been replaced by Barry Bonds, Gary Sheffield and the Giambi brothers. It was worth it to watch McGwire hang himself, and to have the committee remind us that we can't believe anything Major League Baseball tells us, ever, on any subject. The results were tremendously relevant and excruciatingly instructive.
Yes, with a side of no Nice work by Canseco. After extolling the virtues of steroids in his book, he completely flipped during his testimony, prompting some hilarious and devastating criticism from Rep. Stephen Lynch, D-Mass. "The book took nearly two years to write," Canseco explained. "That may have been my opinion two years ago, but it's not today." Conclusion: Canseco says any old thing that comes to mind, and might not actually believe it ... McGwire's tears were real, but deceiving. A longtime activist and spokesman on child abuse, McGwire is understandably emotional on a subject he brought up himself. But this was about steroids, not child abuse. Meanwhile, Mr. Positive McGwire sits there waiting for an Osmond Brothers concert to break out. Yo, Mark: This is about the past. You're here to "put a positive spin on this"? Putting it in a negative light is how the message gets through ... The entire players panel was a joke. It took just a single, defiant gesture -- pointing a finger toward the committee in defending his position -- to make Palmeiro a hero. He didn't say a thing of relevance the rest of the day, but in this company, he came off as Cary Grant on the set of a Three Stooges movie ... Sammy Sosa, fluent in English, wasn't at all believable. He looked uncomfortable, played the part of the know-nothing Hispanic guy, and had his not-quite-foolproof steroid denial read by an attorney. As one unnamed baseball writer was quoted in the Washington Post, "So, I guess that doesn't quite cover taking steroids orally if they were prescribed legally by a Dominican doctor." ... Thomas could have been in China, for all we know, and Schilling, who made some relevant comments about the steroid crisis in the past, turned into a blowhard spokesman for baseball's head-in-the-sand faction ... ESPN's analysis was valuable all day, especially in revealing a 1995 article quoting Selig as being in conversation with owners about steroids some 18 months before. That doesn't mix too well with Selig's insistence that he never heard about steroids until July 1998 ... There was a lot of bluster from the House committee about taking the reins on steroid punishment, removing baseball's antitrust exemption and perhaps acting unilaterally right now. We'll see. It might have been a steaming rush of buffoonery. If those representatives were serious, things could get interesting.
Mark McGwire's pathetic downfall is the story right now, in the wake of Thursday's House committee hearings, and, in a twisted way, Major League Baseball should be grateful. Somewhat lost in the shuffle -- although hardly lost on committee members -- was an act of inconceivable incompetence from the office of Commissioner Bud Selig.
Can you imagine filing for a bodyguard's job, listing yourself as a robust 6-foot-5 and 230 pounds, only to later admit you're about 5-3 and a noted pacifist? "Whoops," you'll say. "Forgot a couple little details!"
That, essentially, is what happened when the committee requested a copy of baseball's new agreement regarding steroid use. It had been assumed all along, based on Selig's public comments, that a first offense would mean a 10- day suspension. The written language as presented to the committee, however, featured a bizarre new twist: A player could be suspended or fined -- an option that could exempt violators from the dreaded public exposure.
Rob Manfred, baseball's vice president in charge of labor issues, was the man responsible. If you weren't sure of that, you got the picture when Selig, at one stage of questioning, pointed his thumb in a hitchhiking-like gesture toward Manfred. Let's be clear that this is one of the most important documents in the history of the sport. And there's a blatant error in its most crucial passage? Who edited the thing, Smokey the Bear?
Apparently, this "drafting error," as Manfred called it, related to a carryover from the previous drug-testing language in 2002 (yeah, that's always a problem; I know when I filed my taxes this year, I inadvertently sent them everything from '98). So this crucial piece of information goes out -- to Congress , no less -- and it's grossly inaccurate? No wonder committee members were so relentless on this issue. Some of their comments -- like "unbelievable" or "an embarrassment" were precisely on target.
If it was indeed a simple mistake, Manfred's defense was not convincing. He told the committee, "In retrospect, the language should have been altered" and "the agreement might have been drafted better." Going on the assumption that Manfred and his minions aren't complete idiots, a logical conclusion is that MLB tried to pull a fast one: Documents ratified by players would not include the fine option (ESPN's Peter Gammons confirmed that, from the Angels' camp), nor would the media or anyone else hear a word about it. But in a crisis -- say, the uncomfortable notion of exposing a superstar who tested positive -- MLB could hide behind the "fine" option and cover the whole thing up.
Either way -- astonishing stupidity or an act of deception -- MLB comes off looking ridiculous. And that doesn't even address the disgrace of having an admittedly raw, unfinished policy at a time when players are being tested for steroids in spring training camps.
Say what you will about the hearings. Say the representatives should be paying attention to the real world. Say the hearings were a reaction to Jose Canseco's book, or that Rafael Palmeiro, Curt Schilling and Frank Thomas (by videoconference) should have been replaced by Barry Bonds, Gary Sheffield and the Giambi brothers. It was worth it to watch McGwire hang himself, and to have the committee remind us that we can't believe anything Major League Baseball tells us, ever, on any subject. The results were tremendously relevant and excruciatingly instructive.
Yes, with a side of no Nice work by Canseco. After extolling the virtues of steroids in his book, he completely flipped during his testimony, prompting some hilarious and devastating criticism from Rep. Stephen Lynch, D-Mass. "The book took nearly two years to write," Canseco explained. "That may have been my opinion two years ago, but it's not today." Conclusion: Canseco says any old thing that comes to mind, and might not actually believe it ... McGwire's tears were real, but deceiving. A longtime activist and spokesman on child abuse, McGwire is understandably emotional on a subject he brought up himself. But this was about steroids, not child abuse. Meanwhile, Mr. Positive McGwire sits there waiting for an Osmond Brothers concert to break out. Yo, Mark: This is about the past. You're here to "put a positive spin on this"? Putting it in a negative light is how the message gets through ... The entire players panel was a joke. It took just a single, defiant gesture -- pointing a finger toward the committee in defending his position -- to make Palmeiro a hero. He didn't say a thing of relevance the rest of the day, but in this company, he came off as Cary Grant on the set of a Three Stooges movie ... Sammy Sosa, fluent in English, wasn't at all believable. He looked uncomfortable, played the part of the know-nothing Hispanic guy, and had his not-quite-foolproof steroid denial read by an attorney. As one unnamed baseball writer was quoted in the Washington Post, "So, I guess that doesn't quite cover taking steroids orally if they were prescribed legally by a Dominican doctor." ... Thomas could have been in China, for all we know, and Schilling, who made some relevant comments about the steroid crisis in the past, turned into a blowhard spokesman for baseball's head-in-the-sand faction ... ESPN's analysis was valuable all day, especially in revealing a 1995 article quoting Selig as being in conversation with owners about steroids some 18 months before. That doesn't mix too well with Selig's insistence that he never heard about steroids until July 1998 ... There was a lot of bluster from the House committee about taking the reins on steroid punishment, removing baseball's antitrust exemption and perhaps acting unilaterally right now. We'll see. It might have been a steaming rush of buffoonery. If those representatives were serious, things could get interesting.
