Is it possible to follow baseball without turning into a hopeless romantic?
I haven’t penned so much poetry since 8th grade.
But somehow I was able to stand alone in a bookstore, reading about a player who cheated and lied.
And forgive him.
I first read about Alex Rodriguez in 1993.
He stretched and caught a line drive, and someone took a photo of it.
He was from Miami; wore green, and attended a Christian high school called Westminster.
When he played in the majors during Derek Jeter’s era, I couldn’t pick a favorite AL shortstop between them.
So I picked Nomar Garciaparra.
Those three. In history.
But I prefer the National League.
Besides, when Rodriguez signed for $252 million in Texas, my head spun with nausea.
When he used PEDs to get ahead, I turned my back.
Because soon I realized he’d been cheating his whole career.
His life.
Not mine.
If I continued to resent him for all he’s done against baseball, it wouldn’t change Alex Rodriguez.
But it might change me.
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