Soul of the game lost in the baseball steroid drama

I'm so naive. It's a wonder I don't still believe in the tooth fairy. I've only recently discarded the idea that "Why can't we all just get along" is a powerful and effective intervention for race rioting and war. I give a few moments of serious consideration to the idea that the 20-something barmaid with the navel piercing is being really nice to me and tossing her blond hair back and forth because she wants me.

But this one's really embarrassing: I thought the hallowed traditions and savage integrity of Major League Baseball would be forever defended and preserved by the Goose That Laid the Golden Egg.

Yeah. You remember. The Aesop fable. There's this goose that lays golden eggs. Goose's owner really likes that. In fact, he likes it more and more as time goes by. Begins to wish the goose would lay the eggs faster. Finally can't stand it anymore. Gets a knife and cuts the goose open to get at the rest of the eggs.

The goose dies. No more eggs.

Mind you, I had no illusions that Major League Baseball would respect the goose. Just thought the players, the union, the owners and the commissioner's office possessed a median core of intelligence and mercenary self-interest that would at least moderate their restless, relentless and inexplicable impulse to kill their feathered benefactor.

Quick -- how is Major League Baseball not like the Corleone crime family in Mario Puzo's novel "The Godfather"? Answer: You could always count on the Corleones to act in their own best interest.

I thought the players' union would have long ago stood on a table and volunteered to submit to random, independent urinalysis/blood testing, for the same reason that airline pilots do -- because there is so much at stake. For pilots, it's the lives of all aboard, including their own. For baseball players, it's the very soul of the game. The golden egg that makes clapping and cheering and Cooperstown even plausible. Not to mention endlessly open wallets.

I thought it was the goose that made Kansas City Royals fans, Pittsburgh Pirates fans and other small market franchise fans keep buying tickets, even knowing full well their beloved team was just a de facto farm system for the New York Yankees, Atlanta Braves, Los Angeles Dodgers, et al.

Barry Bonds' home run record* isn't worth what Hank Aaron's is worth. I'm a lifetime Sports Illustrated subscriber, but I threw away unopened the magazine that covered Bonds' record-breaking* shot. And I hope the bronze of Roger Clemens hangs proudly at the entrance of the soon-to-be-constructed Major League Baseball Pharmaceutical Hall of Fame. I think the gift shop in that place should sell Official Major League Chemistry Sets.

The league commissioner's office is gelded. The players' union sounds more and more each day like a heroin addict explaining why he's just not quite ready to go to rehab. He assures his family he'll go. Says he knows he needs to go. He'll really give it some thought. OK, he promises he'll go. But later. Because, why would you go to rehab while there is still perfectly good heroin to shoot up?

Ever seen the 1975 Norman Jewison film "Rollerball," based on the short story by William Harrison? Ah, just give the major leagues another 100 years or so ...

I thought the goose would protect the soul of Major League Baseball. But I was wrong. Beyond wrong.

What I didn't count on was the goose losing respect for himself. Turns out the goose doesn't care if the eggs are golden. He's fine with synthetic eggs. Egg Beaters. Chemically engineered eggs. Papier-mache eggs. Chocolate eggs. Hollow chocolate eggs. Fine with being goose liver pate on a Ritz cracker. Or, for that matter, licked off the knife.

Whatever. Just show up. Hit home runs. Throw unhittable fast balls. Don't tell us how you're doing it. Just win, baby.

Oh, yeah, and we promise to really be there for you in retirement and old age. Count on that. We'll nod sympathetically about your enlarged heart and failing liver. We'll listen to your nostalgic stories about back when you used to have a sex drive. We'll buy you lingerie for your gynecomastia. (Oh, you didn't know steroids make men grow breasts? But, cool name for cleavage, right?)

My bad. There is no longer a critical mass of fans that give a damn about golden eggs. Sorry I bothered you.

Please pass the pate.

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Clear View Counseling and Wellness Center in Las Vegas. His columns appear on Tuesdays and Sundays. Questions for the Asking Human Matters column or comments can be e-mailed to skalas@review journal.com.