I arrive at my room, not completely sober, concerned about checking Facebook and my email and other nonsense. I check Facebook first, and it opens to show no new notifications, like that's something to be concerned about. The biggest thing I am actually concerned with is how the Blackhawks did, as I didn't have the chance to watch them play the Canucks. Again, another meaningless matter I attended to. The Blackhawks won, by the way.
Finally, I get around to checking my email. Three new emails. Better check Oncourse, now that I logged into CAS, the system that allows IU students to check both their grades and their email. I see my grade for a book report. 83. Once again, not important. Back to the emails. There's one from my communications law class about some review session tomorrow. There's another from a friend, about elections for a student group I'm in. Again, not really important.
There's a third email. One whose subject line doesn't make sense. "RIP Matt." Well, what does that mean? My name's Matt. Perhaps it's about me, but why the RIP? I emailed the professor of this class a few hours ago about an assignment I was turning in late. Maybe this has to do with me. It doesn't. Instead, it's something far more serious and more important. And much worse.
Matthew J. Luademan.
I don't recognize his name. It doesn't recall a face or a voice or anything, really. It's just a name I don't know. But the name's attached to a person who's been a classmate of mine since January. How is that possible, that this was someone I've been in class with twice a week since January? How does his name not ring a bell?
Along with the message is a link to his obituary in the Indianapolis Star. He died last Thursday. And I didn't hear a thing 'til Sunday night. Thank goodness someone in my class let us know, or else I never would have. There's a picture to go along with it, but I don't recognize the face. Again, how is that possible? I've been in the same room with this guy at least twenty times. I search for him, hoping to somehow make a connection that will make me remember something, anything. I sift through some other photographs, and again, there's nothing.
I get up to put on some chap-stick, I've been biting my lips all night and they're in desperate need of repair. WHY?! WHY HIM?! WHY ANYONE?! WHY DO PEOPLE HAVE TO DIE?! I silently scream these things, considering it's 2 a.m. on a Sunday night. I want to cry. I also don't want to cry. I want to yell but I can't, considering what time it is.
It was a brain tumor. I think. The obituary's not really clear.
I don't know why I'm angry. I want to be angry, I guess. I've never really been this close or connected to someone who has recently died. The closest situation I can relate to is when my cat died unexpectedly in high school. But I knew Climber. I remembered when we got him, all the times he'd scratch me, all the times he made up for it by chilling in my room as I did homework, and I also remember when his health started to decline.
Death has never really bothered me, never really hit me like this. Sure, I've heard about other IU students and teachers dying while I've been here, but nothing like this. Not this close up. The only close family members of mine who have passed away died either before I was born or when I was extremely young. I never got to know my grandparents on my father's side. That's something I'll always regret. My father is an extraordinary person, and I know his parents must have been extraordinary people, considering how well they raised him.
The same goes for my mother and her parents, whom I have had the fortune to get know real well. My grandparents, on my mother's side, have been absolutely wonderful. They have survived depressions and wars, somehow managing to raise five truly remarkable children, one of whom being my mother. And as grandparents to several others besides myself, they have done an exemplary job. My grandparents, on both sides, are heroes. The same goes for my parents, and the rest of my family. All of them, every single one of you.
I write my parents. I send my father a message over Facebook, describing what happened and what I'm going through, mentally; my mother doesn't use Facebook, incidentally, and I tell him to tell my mother what I wrote him, that I'll be ok. That's what parents need to hear. And I will be ok. I'll recover. I don't know exactly how long it'll take, but I will.
And then I write this, as a means to cope. I like writing, even though I'm not the best at it. Maybe it'll help. Maybe it's self-indulgent, insulting to Matthew's memory. I hope not, but I don't know. I just need to write about it. Maybe I'll come to terms with it, be at peace with the concept of death. But that doesn't happen. Now I'm crying, really crying, and letting it all out. I'm crying because death is unfair, because I never got to know my father's parents, because I've never truly expressed how meaningful the rest of my family is to me. Crying is often associated with weakness, but I don't understand why that is. I needed a good cry. Sometimes there's just no other way to confront the emotions one feels.
I would like to offer my sincerest condolences to Matthew J. Luademan's family. If you wish to make a donation to the American Brain Tumor Association, you can do so here: https://secure2.convio.net/abta/site/Donation2?idb=1822015821&df_id=1500&1500.donation=form1
I would also like my family to know that I love them very much and that I am extremely thankful for all the love and support they have given me.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Diary Of A Diehard Sports Fan
There is something magical about sports, something that draws us in, that can't be put into words. As I was watching game one of the Bulls-Pacers playoff series, that magic happened. Witnessing Derrick Rose and the Bulls fight their way back in the final minutes to steal the first game was an incredible moment. I was leaping up and down, silently screaming at my TV (I didn't want to disturb other people on my floor), punching my couch, resisting the urge to throw and break things, and pounding the air with my fists.
During those moments I was reminded of how much a player, a team, and/or a sport can have on someone. There I was, going berserk over some silly game. Why? Why should I care so much, and why should invest my emotions so heavily into something as ridiculous as a basketball game? I know a number of people who couldn't care about the results of any basketball game at all. To them, rooting that hard and caring that much doesn't make sense, and I'm a bit of a weirdo for it.
After watching the Bulls pull out that miraculous comeback, the feeling of vindication was overwhelming. The euphoria was overpowering, intoxicating. It's a kind of high, really. A feeling of pure, blissful joy, a feeling that doesn't come around too often. After you pour your heart and soul into a team or an athlete, nothing is sweeter than that sense of victory and accomplishment. I think it has something to do with the fact that, as a fan and an observer, you can share with the team. You put so much into that team that they become a part of you, an extension of your desire to win.
I sometimes wonder why I subject myself to all the emotional torment and torture that comes with being a diehard sports fan, knowing that when my team loses it's the worst, most depressing feeling in the world. When my team loses, I have a thousand things running through my head, none of them good. I want to curl up and cry, I want to break everything I can get my hands on, I want the opponent's fans to to feel as bad as I do, I want to hate my team for losing and never root for them again, I want to hate myself for bringing this upon myself. Then the next game starts, and I do it all again, because when they win, it's all worth it.
You know those people who do the tough and ugly jobs, the ones where there's seemingly no reward for all the mercilessly exhaustive work they put in? The jobs where we all wonder why someone in their right mind would do that to themselves every day? But then they'll show you something, something that, to them, makes it all worthwhile. That thing they show you might not make sense to you, but it does to them. It's why they do what they do. And in a similar fashion, it's why diehards like me do what we do.
Until next time, Orange Hat Guy
During those moments I was reminded of how much a player, a team, and/or a sport can have on someone. There I was, going berserk over some silly game. Why? Why should I care so much, and why should invest my emotions so heavily into something as ridiculous as a basketball game? I know a number of people who couldn't care about the results of any basketball game at all. To them, rooting that hard and caring that much doesn't make sense, and I'm a bit of a weirdo for it.
After watching the Bulls pull out that miraculous comeback, the feeling of vindication was overwhelming. The euphoria was overpowering, intoxicating. It's a kind of high, really. A feeling of pure, blissful joy, a feeling that doesn't come around too often. After you pour your heart and soul into a team or an athlete, nothing is sweeter than that sense of victory and accomplishment. I think it has something to do with the fact that, as a fan and an observer, you can share with the team. You put so much into that team that they become a part of you, an extension of your desire to win.
I sometimes wonder why I subject myself to all the emotional torment and torture that comes with being a diehard sports fan, knowing that when my team loses it's the worst, most depressing feeling in the world. When my team loses, I have a thousand things running through my head, none of them good. I want to curl up and cry, I want to break everything I can get my hands on, I want the opponent's fans to to feel as bad as I do, I want to hate my team for losing and never root for them again, I want to hate myself for bringing this upon myself. Then the next game starts, and I do it all again, because when they win, it's all worth it.
You know those people who do the tough and ugly jobs, the ones where there's seemingly no reward for all the mercilessly exhaustive work they put in? The jobs where we all wonder why someone in their right mind would do that to themselves every day? But then they'll show you something, something that, to them, makes it all worthwhile. That thing they show you might not make sense to you, but it does to them. It's why they do what they do. And in a similar fashion, it's why diehards like me do what we do.
Until next time, Orange Hat Guy
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
"Requiem"
To whomever or whatever is out there:
I am a human and I am one of the last. It’s kinda funny, you know? I mean, not really, but I think it is in a sad kind of way. It has been a year since the event that will have ended human life here on Earth. In another year there may not be anyone left. No more anything, really. We all have to suffer. All the birds in the air, all the fish in the sea, all the deer in the forests. No more green. No more beauty. No birds singing or wind blowing.
Will anything start over? Will anyone there be to watch the sunrise or sunset? Or will it just go along without us? Sure it will rise and set long after we’re gone, but so what? If no one can see it, does it have majesty? Beauty? Questions, no answers. We’ve wasted its splendor. And now we only have a few more left. I don’t hate why it happened, but I hate what will no longer be. No one will be there to watch the sunrise.
Guess that’s what happens when you play with fire. But some people only care about themselves and their position in the world. Positions don’t matter anymore. In another year money, fame, power, or prowess won’t save you. Knowing the world ends in a few months sort of has the effect of producing anarchy. Why have laws if everything is going to hell anyway? I don’t mean to sound bleak but at this point I can’t help it. I wonder how the president feels, if he still feels he is the president. Should I blame him for all of this? It might make me feel better, but it’s pointless now, like a lot of things.
Next year I was to turn 25, but I know I’ll die at 24. It’s a strange feeling knowing what age you die at; people aren’t used to those kinds of deadlines. I almost feel like I’m looking into the future, but it’s not that hard to guess: death, and nothingness. I find it bittersweet being one of the last: there are seventy thousand of us in America, four hundred thousand or so in the rest of the world. But over half that number is already sick, like my friend. He is in the latest stages of the sickness, the point of greatest pain. He is 21 and his birthday is in three weeks, but we both know he’ll never live to see it. What do you say to an innocent dying man? He couldn’t even vote for the president and here he is, suffering that man’s choices. And as my friend lies there, I have to finds things to do as I wait for the same fate.
Some of the people can’t handle the inevitability. Suicide is the second leading cause of death right now, after the sickness. I try to find reasons to stay alive and keep my mind away from dancing towards the suicidal thoughts that creep up as I go to sleep at night. That’s when I’m most vulnerable. It’s that thing where when you’re trying not to think of something, you inevitably can’t get it off your mind. I’ve been volunteering at one of the hospitals here in the city, trying to ease the pain of the sick, like with my friend. But I can only help to postpone, not cure.
It’s strange to watch men die like this, seeing looks not of shock and fear, but of begrudging acceptance and numbness. Just like the president’s family. The Mayans predicted the apocalypse of man to occur in 2012, but I guess it’s ok if they’re a few years off. Now I don’t need predictions, I know exactly what year humanity ends. It’s hard to tell if time or the sickness is the greater enemy. One is the killer, and one drags on the killing. As I write this time passes, leading me closer to the sickness and my death. I try not to worry but it’s no use. The world worries along with me, even the president.
Hope is joke now, something to poke fun at with those that still believe it to be a word. No one’s come to save us. Hope no longer has any meaning in this world. Nor does it seem, my friend. I visited him today and he is in his final hours. There is no medicine capable of blocking such pain. It was several months before something was found that could let you pass in peace. Otherwise the pain was too great to put away with sedatives. You would fall asleep only to wake up in agony. I administered the drug to my friend, and told him to reserve a place for me, wherever he was going. He smiled before he closed his eyes.
As I write this now I can sense my time is coming. When I looked in the mirror this morning my face was different. My skin had begun to die, hardening and beginning to crust. I have trouble sleeping now, and my breath has a bad smell to it. It’s been a few months since my friend died, and the world is down to a couple thousand, and guess what? The president is among them. Maybe we’ll cross paths one of these days, though I hear he is finally sick too. The last few of us have moved to New York to spend the final days of humanity as one.
I used to look up at the stars at night, and often wondered if someone was looking back at me. The universe always seemed so full of hope and optimism, an endless frontier of mystery and discovery full of joy and wonder. Now when I look up I’m painfully aware of all those answers we’ll never have. Even though space had always made me feel so small and insignificant, I had always been comforted by the fact that we were here, alive. And as long as we were alive, we were a part of this beautiful thing. But not anymore. Now when I look up, I am reminded that our time is over, that we are no longer a part of this magic.
Many are too sick to get out of bed, but the president is not among them, nor am I. And during my stay in New York, my first visit to the city, I witnessed the loss of four thousand. One of them became my friend before he died. He was a man from east Europe, but spoke good English. We had many talks during the days in the hospital. I would run to get books he requested from the library and we would sit together, reading philosophy and discussing fate. And his came, on his 44th birthday.
Now as I write this, it is down to the president and I. Our paths have finally met, as the last two human souls on Earth. I tell him my life story and why I blame him for everything and everyone’s death. All eight billion of them, and mine. He looks at me and tells me his story. About why he made his decisions and what’s become of them. And when I tell him it’s all shit he tells me the same thing. But he turns to me and says we can’t go out fighting against each other. And he’s right. If I’m going to die and we’re all going to die then let’s die together. One last blaze of glory for humanity.
Right now the sun has nearly set, but it’s still on the horizon. The colors burn the sky as they bleed across the heavens. Will I be able to see it again in the morning? Will anyone? I guess that’s why I’m not afraid of dying. I know there will be no winter for us to feel. No snow, Christmas, or cold. All we have left is the sunset. And maybe the sunrise, but I doubt it. It’s a shame such beauty has to go to waste. But now the sun has set, and the colors have evaporated. The night brings darkness, those accursed stars, and the last summer days have come to a close. No one will see the sunrise tomorrow. Its golden flames will lick the sky and warm the land, but to an empty audience. Have we destroyed beauty?
The moon is out, and it is going to be the last thing I ever see.
Monday, April 11, 2011
"Requiem" Short Story Preview
I'd like to preview another short story (which I'll post tomorrow), a composite of two pieces I wrote way back in high school. It's quite shorter than the one I posted a few months ago (it's only about 1500 words) and at some point I'd like to expand it because I think it has the potential to be pretty good. Perhaps I'll find time over the summer to work on it, but we'll see. I'm a slow writer when it comes to fiction (not to mention I'm also fairly inexperienced at it) and it may be a while before I get around to it, if at all.
Anyway, I think I should point out that it's not a very happy story. In fact, it's quite bleak and depressing, considering it's set in a post-apocalyptic world. For some reason, I find the genre of a post-apocalyptic world to be fascinating. I know it can be quite depressing at times (The Road) but still extremely captivating and thought-provoking (The Matrix). I tend to find that setting a unique way to explore issues that are not normally addressed by more popular genres.
Science fiction is fun that way, which is why I guess I tend to lean towards that genre whenever I try to write fiction. As for this specific story, the post-apocalyptic setting allowed me the chance to explore the concept of mortality from a unique approach. The setting also allowed me to portray a world that is dark and ugly and bleak and sad, something that is not often seen, but nevertheless is true of the world today. Things are not always pretty. And considering that humanity is not always pretty, I imagine that when things fall apart, what results can be quite jarring.
Given that I don't exactly recall when I wrote it, I'll hazard a guess that I was influenced by the film Children of Men, a lush and dark film by Alfonso Cuaron that takes place in the near future where men are infertile and women are incapable of bearing children. A child hasn't been born in 17 years and the human race is falling apart. Britain has become an isolationist police state, America has collapsed into anarchy, and suicide is encouraged. Heavy stuff, but wonderfully captivating, beautifully acted (Clive Owen is great as the lead character), and magnificently directed.
Until next time, Orange Hat Guy
Anyway, I think I should point out that it's not a very happy story. In fact, it's quite bleak and depressing, considering it's set in a post-apocalyptic world. For some reason, I find the genre of a post-apocalyptic world to be fascinating. I know it can be quite depressing at times (The Road) but still extremely captivating and thought-provoking (The Matrix). I tend to find that setting a unique way to explore issues that are not normally addressed by more popular genres.
Science fiction is fun that way, which is why I guess I tend to lean towards that genre whenever I try to write fiction. As for this specific story, the post-apocalyptic setting allowed me the chance to explore the concept of mortality from a unique approach. The setting also allowed me to portray a world that is dark and ugly and bleak and sad, something that is not often seen, but nevertheless is true of the world today. Things are not always pretty. And considering that humanity is not always pretty, I imagine that when things fall apart, what results can be quite jarring.
Given that I don't exactly recall when I wrote it, I'll hazard a guess that I was influenced by the film Children of Men, a lush and dark film by Alfonso Cuaron that takes place in the near future where men are infertile and women are incapable of bearing children. A child hasn't been born in 17 years and the human race is falling apart. Britain has become an isolationist police state, America has collapsed into anarchy, and suicide is encouraged. Heavy stuff, but wonderfully captivating, beautifully acted (Clive Owen is great as the lead character), and magnificently directed.
Until next time, Orange Hat Guy
Thursday, April 7, 2011
So Apparently The Government Killed John Denver
Or at least that's what my rock history professor likes to claim. Relax, he's only joking (kinda) but it's one of the funnier conspiracy theories I've heard, so I'd figure I'd share it. I'm not a conspiracy nut (we went to the moon, 9/11 was not an inside job, JFK wasn't killed by the Fed, global warming is legit, Obama was born in Hawaii, etc.), so don't freak out and assume I'm insane. But I do find that whole religion thing a bit iffy.
Now onto our story. Back in the late 1980s, members of congress tried to clamp down on explicit lyrics in music, including that climate whack-job Al Gore (maybe he thought violent or suggestive lyrics added to the greenhouse effect). There was an organization that led the effort to censor these songs, and one of the women spearheading the organization was Tipper Gore, the wife of that climate nut Al Gore. So there was absolutely no conflict of interest. None whatsoever. Zip. Zero. Nada. Ok, maybe a little. But it was totally negligible.
Moving on, the Parents Music Resource Council decided to take on the music industry and ended up having three prominent musicians testify on Capitol Hill, which kinda backfired. Dee Snider, of Twisted Sister, Frank Zappa, and John Denver all went before members of congress, including that science-promoter Al Gore, and strongly criticized the idea of lyrical censorship.
The PMRC expected John Denver to side with them on this issue, but he defiantly rebuked them much to their surprise. Now here's where the conspiracy begins: Denver likened what the PMRC and congress was trying to do with Nazi Germany (ok so he may have SLIGHTLY exaggerated the situation), and they did not take too kindly to that comparison. And, as my professor pointed out, about ten years later John Denver's plane "ran out" of gas. If Glenn Beck's reading this, he must be salivating by now.
(You can find his testimony here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VgSjjD6rRu4)
That's right, the government killed John Denver because he called them Nazis. The so-called "accident" that Denver died in was a huge conspiracy. Excuse me while I find a blackboard and put on some glasses so I can unmask this coverup.
First, my scrounging around on Wikipedia has revealed that was no flight recorder found. And because it's assumed that all planes have them and that those things NEVER fail, it must be a coverup. It's the only possible conclusion. Unless you use logic, but logic is for Vulcans and Vulcans are fictional so clearly logic is not useful.
Second, I'm sure Van Jones is involved somehow. I have no idea how, but I'm just asking questions. Did Van Jones help the government assassinate John Denver? He's never denied it, which means it has to be true.
Third, the government doesn't like Nazis, and John Denver's real name (provided once again by the infallible Wikipedia) is Henry John Deutschendorf, Jr. See, he's German, which practically makes him a Nazi and thus a target of the U.S. government.
It's all making sense now, isn't it? There's a vast conspiracy, and the Obama administration has yet to investigate it. Clearly that socialist wanted Denver dead too, because socialists love censorship (at least that's what I assume, I never research this stuff). And because Obama has yet to deny that community organizer is code for assassin, he totally helped do in John Denver. Also, GIVE ME YOUR GOLD!!!
Until next time, Orange Hat Guy
Now onto our story. Back in the late 1980s, members of congress tried to clamp down on explicit lyrics in music, including that climate whack-job Al Gore (maybe he thought violent or suggestive lyrics added to the greenhouse effect). There was an organization that led the effort to censor these songs, and one of the women spearheading the organization was Tipper Gore, the wife of that climate nut Al Gore. So there was absolutely no conflict of interest. None whatsoever. Zip. Zero. Nada. Ok, maybe a little. But it was totally negligible.
Moving on, the Parents Music Resource Council decided to take on the music industry and ended up having three prominent musicians testify on Capitol Hill, which kinda backfired. Dee Snider, of Twisted Sister, Frank Zappa, and John Denver all went before members of congress, including that science-promoter Al Gore, and strongly criticized the idea of lyrical censorship.
The PMRC expected John Denver to side with them on this issue, but he defiantly rebuked them much to their surprise. Now here's where the conspiracy begins: Denver likened what the PMRC and congress was trying to do with Nazi Germany (ok so he may have SLIGHTLY exaggerated the situation), and they did not take too kindly to that comparison. And, as my professor pointed out, about ten years later John Denver's plane "ran out" of gas. If Glenn Beck's reading this, he must be salivating by now.
(You can find his testimony here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VgSjjD6rRu4)
That's right, the government killed John Denver because he called them Nazis. The so-called "accident" that Denver died in was a huge conspiracy. Excuse me while I find a blackboard and put on some glasses so I can unmask this coverup.
First, my scrounging around on Wikipedia has revealed that was no flight recorder found. And because it's assumed that all planes have them and that those things NEVER fail, it must be a coverup. It's the only possible conclusion. Unless you use logic, but logic is for Vulcans and Vulcans are fictional so clearly logic is not useful.
Second, I'm sure Van Jones is involved somehow. I have no idea how, but I'm just asking questions. Did Van Jones help the government assassinate John Denver? He's never denied it, which means it has to be true.
Third, the government doesn't like Nazis, and John Denver's real name (provided once again by the infallible Wikipedia) is Henry John Deutschendorf, Jr. See, he's German, which practically makes him a Nazi and thus a target of the U.S. government.
It's all making sense now, isn't it? There's a vast conspiracy, and the Obama administration has yet to investigate it. Clearly that socialist wanted Denver dead too, because socialists love censorship (at least that's what I assume, I never research this stuff). And because Obama has yet to deny that community organizer is code for assassin, he totally helped do in John Denver. Also, GIVE ME YOUR GOLD!!!
Until next time, Orange Hat Guy
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
A Conversation With A Barry Bonds Apologist
The other day, I (along with another person) engaged in a conversation with someone who came to the defense of Barry Bonds, who's currently caught up in a perjury trial concerning whether or not he lied to federal investigators about his steroid use. We had a good talk about steroids, the trial (specifically how if he's found not guilty doesn't mean he's innocent), and what fans should think about all this.
I should start by clarifying my position on steroids and athletes who knowingly use them. Athletes who use steroids are cheaters, plain and simple. I don't care about the argument that says since we don't know everyone who did or did not, we should just give everyone a free pass. That's a pathetic excuse, one that refuses to punish those who we know took steroids. We're not going to catch everyone, but we can at least catch as many as we can.
Maybe I'm alone on this, but were I a professional athlete, I'd rather be an honest loser than a cheating winner. I know that sounds naive, and my opinion would probably be different had I actually experienced the trials and tribulations that come with reaching the top, but that's the standard I hold professional athletes to. This is why Sammy Sosa no longer has my respect, which is saying something, considering how much I idolized him growing up.
Now back to that conversation I had. This guy was of the opinion that Barry Bonds may have either never taken steroids or at least had never knowingly taken them. A classic steroids apologist. I used to be like that when it came to Sammy Sosa, but I had to just accept the fact that Sosa was no longer the hero he was to me when I was young. I should point out that this person said he liked Bonds as a player, so there's an understandable bias; no one wants to see their hero fall from grace.
I read Game of Shadows when it first came out a few years ago (when Bonds was a bit more relevant) and reread it last week, and I can tell you that there is no doubt whatsoever in my mind that Bonds knowingly used steroids, based on what Mark Fainaru-Wada and Lance Williams uncovered during their investigation. I won't state the alleged facts here (just read the book, it's an eye-opener), but I doubt the Bonds fan I talked to would have the same mindset had he read it.
Then there are also the questions surrounding his physique and his statistics. It's hard to ignore what kind of physical freak Bonds turned into during the latter half of his career. It's also hard to ignore the boom in his statistics over that same timeframe. He had some of his best seasons after he turned 35, which is unheard of in baseball now. And the Bonds fan still held onto that sliver of a chance that Bonds is innocent.
Another point of contention was Bonds' perjury trial, which is still ongoing. It's important to note that a verdict of not guilty should not exonerate Bonds of steroid use. Yes, Bonds would walk free and Major League Baseball would be unlikely to do anything to punish him. Such is the mantra of Bud Selig, the commissioner of the league. I've said it before, but Bud Selig is one of the worst things to ever happen to professional baseball. Selig has cared more about promoting a positive image than cleaning up baseball, and has refused time and time again to admit how damaging steroids have been to the league under his watch.
All this brings me to what fans should think about steroids and how we should deal with those guilty of using them. As I said before, the argument that we don't know everyone who used and who didn't use is nothing more than a pathetic defense, and doesn't exonerate anyone. Apologists like these, and like those who claim Bonds is innocent, are bad for baseball and hurt the game. There is no room for cheaters in sports, and anyone who thinks otherwise is doing more harm than good.
We don't know who exactly was and is guilty, nor do we know who was and is innocent. But the old axiom of "innocent until proven guilty" should be retained by baseball fans. We know Sammy Sosa is guilty, like we do Mark McGwire and Jason Giambi. We know Barry Bonds is guilty. All that's left is to grow up and leave behind that false hope of innocence for former heroes and idols, as hard as that can be.
Until next time, Orange Hat Guy
I should start by clarifying my position on steroids and athletes who knowingly use them. Athletes who use steroids are cheaters, plain and simple. I don't care about the argument that says since we don't know everyone who did or did not, we should just give everyone a free pass. That's a pathetic excuse, one that refuses to punish those who we know took steroids. We're not going to catch everyone, but we can at least catch as many as we can.
Maybe I'm alone on this, but were I a professional athlete, I'd rather be an honest loser than a cheating winner. I know that sounds naive, and my opinion would probably be different had I actually experienced the trials and tribulations that come with reaching the top, but that's the standard I hold professional athletes to. This is why Sammy Sosa no longer has my respect, which is saying something, considering how much I idolized him growing up.
Now back to that conversation I had. This guy was of the opinion that Barry Bonds may have either never taken steroids or at least had never knowingly taken them. A classic steroids apologist. I used to be like that when it came to Sammy Sosa, but I had to just accept the fact that Sosa was no longer the hero he was to me when I was young. I should point out that this person said he liked Bonds as a player, so there's an understandable bias; no one wants to see their hero fall from grace.
I read Game of Shadows when it first came out a few years ago (when Bonds was a bit more relevant) and reread it last week, and I can tell you that there is no doubt whatsoever in my mind that Bonds knowingly used steroids, based on what Mark Fainaru-Wada and Lance Williams uncovered during their investigation. I won't state the alleged facts here (just read the book, it's an eye-opener), but I doubt the Bonds fan I talked to would have the same mindset had he read it.
Then there are also the questions surrounding his physique and his statistics. It's hard to ignore what kind of physical freak Bonds turned into during the latter half of his career. It's also hard to ignore the boom in his statistics over that same timeframe. He had some of his best seasons after he turned 35, which is unheard of in baseball now. And the Bonds fan still held onto that sliver of a chance that Bonds is innocent.
Another point of contention was Bonds' perjury trial, which is still ongoing. It's important to note that a verdict of not guilty should not exonerate Bonds of steroid use. Yes, Bonds would walk free and Major League Baseball would be unlikely to do anything to punish him. Such is the mantra of Bud Selig, the commissioner of the league. I've said it before, but Bud Selig is one of the worst things to ever happen to professional baseball. Selig has cared more about promoting a positive image than cleaning up baseball, and has refused time and time again to admit how damaging steroids have been to the league under his watch.
All this brings me to what fans should think about steroids and how we should deal with those guilty of using them. As I said before, the argument that we don't know everyone who used and who didn't use is nothing more than a pathetic defense, and doesn't exonerate anyone. Apologists like these, and like those who claim Bonds is innocent, are bad for baseball and hurt the game. There is no room for cheaters in sports, and anyone who thinks otherwise is doing more harm than good.
We don't know who exactly was and is guilty, nor do we know who was and is innocent. But the old axiom of "innocent until proven guilty" should be retained by baseball fans. We know Sammy Sosa is guilty, like we do Mark McGwire and Jason Giambi. We know Barry Bonds is guilty. All that's left is to grow up and leave behind that false hope of innocence for former heroes and idols, as hard as that can be.
Until next time, Orange Hat Guy
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