They Always Come In Threes

The master plunged down to his knees As strength gushed swiftly from his limbs. His proud possessions drifted by While tears streamed freely, proud and grim. The prize snatched by the dragon then. The master grieved, as well his wife. The fluid seeped and filled the ground, But stabbed him as a long-blade knife.

A new vat graced the cryptic base
And dosh in thousands then changed hands.
His checkbook light, his spirits low,
He paid the man from foreign lands.

The master set upon his couch,
The sweat from labor spanned his brow.
A shriek he caught, it was his mate.
He thought, "Good Gosh, what is it now?"

Descended now to cellar still
The master breathed a weighty sigh.
"What do you want, my stunning bride?"
He held before her forlorn eye.

"There is no heat," she said with ache,
"The motor's dead, what do we now?"
The master stooped and peered inside,
But fixing it he knew not how.

Sir Edwin came and sold them new.
Forsooth he seized four hundred more.
"The poorhouse will be our next home,"
He thought, ere Ed trod out the door.

The master's wife laid down her pate
As heat anew filled hearth and bone.
The master groaned and rested, too,
"If this keeps up we'll need a loan."

He shut his eyes and clutched her hand,
And stroked her elbow and her knees,
Then settled down and sighed and said,
"I hope these things don't come in threes."

POSTSCRIPT

A few days passed, the master dreamed
And worked and slept, his visage beamed.
With all things good inside his world,
All things were right, or so it seemed.

But fate can kill the sweetest thought,
Can waste the world, or so we're taught.
He came from work, his wife in tears,
What could be wrong? They hadn't fought.

What had he done? Why did she cry?
What did I do? He asked her why.
She look through tears and held his hand.
"Computer data doesn't lie."

"I've run the stats and run the sums.
I've seen the end, my heart it numbs.
I cannot lie, it makes me sad.
Beware the day, the taxman comes."

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Not So Much

I'm a cyclist. Not a great one. Not even a good one. But a cyclist nonetheless.

For the last 15 to 20 years, if you're a cyclist, you look up to Lance Armstrong. I mean, there was no one better in the whole world. Seven Tour de France titles? Come on. No one else had even won six. And he did it in consecutive years!

Since I read his book, "It's Not About The Bike", back in 2002, I have been a big fan. Having lost my dad to cancer, I marveled at Armstrong's comeback from the disease and was thrilled when he won each of his seven championships. I kept track of the Tour on my PC and shed tears of pride when he won. I even bought his bracelets and wore them for months on end.

The year before, in 2001, I watched with amazement as he and Jan Ullrich ascended L'Alpe-d'Huez. Armstrong had a lead of a couple of bike lengths when he turned and faced Ullrich and gave him what's now known as "The Look". "I'm leaving you in the dust," he seemed to say, "and there's nothing you can do about it." Unbridled, raw talent mixed with pure machismo.

And performance enhancing drugs.

After years of vehemently denying he had doped, it now appears that Lance is set to confess to the world that he cheated. Instead of shedding tears of pride and joy like I did in the years between 2002 and 2007, now I feel like shedding tears of pain and disgust.

I'm not one for cheaters. As with Roger Clemens, I stood behind Lance through the thick of it, never daring believe that he was lying to me and trusting that he was telling the truth, no matter what anyone else said. I chose to believe him, to take him at his word. Now that trust has been betrayed and I feel like I've been punched in the gut.

Honestly, I almost wish he'd kept it to himself. I was blissfully ignorant. Despite what everyone else said about him, I still trusted him. Now, not so much.

I've done some soul searching during the last few days and here's what I've found. Lance did a lot of good in this world. He's raised millions of dollars for cancer research. I know, I've heard the same reports you probably have, that most of that money went to pay staff and to buy advertising for cancer awareness. I still think he's done a lot of good.

Let's look at the facts. A lot of average Joe's like me have taken up cycling and gotten in better physical shape, at least in part because of him. Many, many people say that they've been cured of cancer because of his efforts. Who knows how many lives he's saved during his 41 years? A person who's done that kind of good can't be all bad, can they?

So, I have to ask myself, "why confess now?" Why tell we millions of fans who supported you, and supported Livestrong, that you've been pulling the wool over our eyes for years? Why not just keep it to yourself? I mean, I touted your skills for years! I cheered you on in every single race! I even bought a cotton-picking yellow jersey!

Here's what I think.

First, doping aside, Lance is still an amazing athlete. Most athletes of his caliber have extremely healthy egos. Being out of the public eye is a blow to their psyche. Look at Tiger Woods as a case in point. I liked him, too.

Second, Lance will be 42 in September. Father Time is coming up the drive toward his front door. How many years of competitive life do you think Lance has left in him? His lies notwithstanding, Lance is no idiot. He recognizes this, too.

Third, a lifetime ban is a loooong time. I think he realizes that if he can somehow reduce that virtual death sentence he might be capable of remaining a celebrity a little while longer.

Fourth, Lance can't compete in any of the USADA-sponsored events he loves so much. No Tours, no triathlons, no mountain-biking competitions, no nothing. He's done. He can't compete.

When you take all four reasons together, I think Lance thinks he can make this ugly situation go away just like he has done with everything else in his life. For years he figured that if he told a lie long enough, it would somehow become true, so that ugliness went away. Now he realizes that won't work after all, so tell the truth and make it go away. The American public is dumb. We'll forgive anyone. We reelected Bubba, didn't we?

I'd seriously love to think that Lance just wants to come clean, but I don't. I'd like to think he wants to clear his conscience, but I don't. I want to like Lance, but I don't.

Still, it will be interesting to see what unfolds for him in the next little while.

But seriously, I think I'll pay attention now and save myself a few bucks when the book comes out.

And you know it will.

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Keep It Pure

Let's get the disclaimer out of the way right from the beginning:

When it comes to baseball, I'm a traditionalist, and maybe even somewhat of a purist.

I believe in Lou Gehrig and Mickey Cochran. I didn't like it when they put lights on Wrigley Field. I don't like the DH. Artificial turf is a sin against nature.

I believe in doubleheaders, day games, wool uniforms and stirrups. I liked knowing that I could root for Mickey Mantle his whole career. Throw in some apple pie, a Chevrolet and a hot dog or two and you've got America at its absolute finest.

And while we're at it, let's play two.

Baseball is the greatest sport in the world. It's the only sport in which a fan could realistically believe that the players of yesteryear could have been better than the players of today.

And that's where my real subject comes in.

This week the Baseball Writers of America failed to vote anyone into the Hall of Fame. And for my money, that's exactly what they should have done.

Let's face it. A lot of these guys are cheaters, plain and simple. They may have been exonerated in a court of law, but come on. You and I both know that they took PEDs and the rest is just spit and giggles. Marian Jones kept saying she was clean, too, but it didn't make it so. Now we all know better.

We all know better when it comes to some of these guys, too. Bonds? He's guilty people. He took PEDs and we all know it. If you knew him in real life, instead of this sham world in which everyone pretends to believe that your head can grow like that after you're already 30-years old, you would think he was a freak. NOBODY'S head grows like that! And his feet grew from a size 10.5 to a 13! Come on, folks. Let's get real.

Rocket? I used to be a big fan. He'd repented of being a part of Red Sox Nation to finally sidle up to the bar at the Evil Empire. I was happy when he was acquitted. I hoped he'd come back one more time. I even had a Roger Clemens action figure on my desk at work, for Pete's sake.

Now I believe he was guilty all along. He took PEDs. We all know he did. He can continue to affirm that he didn't, and we'll all pretend to believe him, but when it's all said and done, he's guilty.

Sosa? Same thing.

Palmeiro? Ditto.

McGwire? Yup.

Don't get me wrong. I believe there are some guys on this ballot who were clean. Craig Biggio for one. I don't think he's a first ballot Hall of Famer, but I think eventually he should be enshrined.

Jack Morris is another one. Not first ballot or second, and maybe not even 14th, but an eventual Hall of Famer, sure.

But those who took PEDs, in my opinion, should NEVER get into the Hall of Fame. Here's why.

Think back to high school. You're sitting in Mrs. McKee's Algebra II class and you're starting to sweat. Your buddy, who sits next to you, is always getting better grades than you. You're taking a test and you don't know some of the answers. You want to get good grades, too. So what do you do? You let your eyes wander to your buddy's paper. You copy his answer. You cheat.*

The only trouble is that Mrs. McKee is expert at catching cheaters, and before you can write down "Associative Property" she's grabbed your paper, torn it in half and ordered you to the Principal's office. Once there, the principal tells you it's your third offense.

You are summarily suspended from school.

Other than your parent's boot sticking out of one of your orifices, what do you now reasonably think you can expect? Election to the National Honor Society? Nomination as Student Body President? Your number retired on a banner in the gym? Um, no.

What you can expect is an uphill road. No elections. No enshrinements. You get kicked out of school.

And if you're studying at West Point, you're gone for good. Don't come back and don't let the door hit you on the way out.

Same thing here. Reward these guys for cheating and you validate that cheating. You tell kids that it's all right to cheat, as long as you excel at whatever you do. The Hall of Fame, and America, would never recover.

What do we do with these players, some of whom were the "greatest players in their generation"? I don't know. I wish I did. Do you invalidate all of their numbers? Do you alter the record book? Make Hank Aaron and Roger Maris the greatest home run hitters of all time...again? I don't know. But that's the way I would lean.

One thing I do know. Cooperstown is a beautiful, small town jam-packed with rustic America. There are picket fences, houses with wrap-around porches and a beautiful, glimmering lake. When you visit, it's almost like you go back in time to when all was right in the world. It's filled with what's right with America.

So is the Hall of Fame. Let's keep it that way.

If Bonds, Sosa, Rocket and their ilk want in the Hall of Fame, they can get in the same way I do.

Buy a ticket.

* Here's my second disclaimer. I didn't cheat. I knew plenty who did, but I'm clean. Hmm. That may sound a little like someone we've been talking about.

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