61 ain't nothin' but a number

Are we supposed to be responding to the Mark McGwire steroid admission? We've heard that's all the rage these days. We're supposed to say, "Hey, he ruined the game." Or maybe, "Hey, he apologized, but we don't think he meant it." We're supposed to rend our garments and reconsider our nonexistent Hall of Fame ballot, and we're supposed to judge every twitch, every teary eyed moment, every word.

We don't care.* We just don't. We think that guys were doing greenies before they were doing roids, that guys were corking the bat and spitting on the ball and sharpening their spikes and doing whatever it took--whatever it took--to play baseball at the highest level possible since the game began. They'll continue to do so tomorrow, and next month, and next year, and on and on; the only question is what, exactly, that next big performance enhancer is going to be. Jonathan Papelbon, for one, votes for robot parts. In particular robot knees for certain catchers who have 900 year old knees. And robot elbows. And robot--

You get the picture.

Of course, our Lack of Caring is intensified by the news coming out of Haiti at the moment.** It makes McGwire's not-at-all surprising "revelation" seem about as crucial to our lives as Heidi Montag's new album. So instead of bitching and moaning about the integrity of the sport, instead of trying to figure out the physics that explain the alternate reality where Tony LaRussa is continuously living in 1994, we're going to pony up and donate to one of these here charities. If you've got a couple of bucks stored away in your Fenway beer money commemorative plastic cup, maybe you could send that their way too.

Look, we're a sports blog, yes, but some things are more important than sports. Even if it doesn't always feel that way when your closer's in the process of giving up the lead in an elimination game. Even if it doesn't feel like it when one of your favorite players gets traded to one of your most hated rivals. We're mostly here to tell jokes about A-Rod being a douche and to laugh at Papi plunking Jimmy Fallon with an egg, to question Tito's every managerial move*** and worry about Clay Buchholz's fastball command. Once in a while we may even bring up the Bruins and their complete and utter inability to put the biscuit in the basket. Just not today.

Today is for being preachy. And time travel.


*We are glad to see him confess--to the amazing Joe Posnanski, if not on air with The Costas--that, hey, staying on the field did pad his numbers somewhat. You know, even if he doesn't believe that steroids actually helped him hit those towering shots, at least he does seem to recognize that, wait a second, he couldn't hit them anything at all from the DL. Just as JD Drew--bah dum bum.

**"Ah ha!" you think, "So this is why they've come out of hiatus after so long." And, yes, you would be correct. Though we still fully intend to write our review of the Marco Scutaro signing based entirely on his performance in that modern cinematic masterpiece, A Player To Be Named Later. Spoiler: he's a better actor than we would've expected, though not quite as skilled as Kevin Costner at playing a ballplayer.

***Us: knock knock. You: Who's there? Us: TAKE SCHILL OUT IT'S THE SIXTH INNING. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, we'll be here all night.