Alex and me

I wish to believe I am morally superior to Alex Rodriguez: the cheater, the jerk, the fraud.

That if I had his talent, I wouldn’t need PEDs to get a bit closer to God.

(That is, of course, if God’s a baseball fan, and surely a Yankee fan at that –

But if that’s the case I’m done with religion, for everyone else needs title hats)

I remember reading of Alex in Sports Illustrated when he was 18 and I was 9.

He played shortstop at Westminster Christian, wearing a jersey of white, black and lime.

Or maybe it was more like green, but I did my best with what I knew at the time.

And I know it’s easy to say I’d never cheat and I’d never do anything unkind.

But I have and I will and I suppose that’s the issue –

not A-Rod’s issue, but mine.

For it would be nice to shake my fist and write the whole fellow off

And listen to fans discuss his hits and his glove, and scoff

Four home runs from 700, he won’t give chase, he would have liked to, though

He would’ve enjoyed giving the fans the benefit of a show

Never mind the protests and questions and rage about what was legit

For despite the drugs, the cheating, the noise, the man could surely hit

And it does no good to say, well, these old jerks are in the Hall

There’s no check for character complaints when fellows can hit a ball

And eventually we’ll toss up our hands and welcome them, one and all

Because now who cheats, and when and why, isn’t so clear at all

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