“Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets,” Robert DeNiro’s character, Travis Bickle, said in the 1976 Academy Award nominated film Taxi Driver.
Bickle was referring to the prostitutes, those that frequent their services and other such vile people. I think it perfectly applies to the mayhem that’s going on now in professional sports. The scum being steroid users and the rain is Roger Clemens’ Congressional testimony.
I stuck up for Clemens. I let my heart do my thinking though, and that was my mistake. Like a true Yankees fan, I defended the Rocket to the doubters who accused him of cheating and using the notorious Human Growth Hormone. “He has a crazy intense workout routine, that’s all!” I’d say. “He’s dedicated to his sport, he wouldn’t risk his reputation and his shot at the Hall of Fame by being as dumb as Barry Bonds,” I’d add.
Sure, Clemens hasn’t proven a liar yet, but being investigated for perjury isn’t exactly helping his cry of innocence. Part of me still believes him when he says he didn’t take performance enhancers, but I think that’s the part of my brain that still believes Auburn will pay your tuition if you get hit by a Tiger Transit.
On Sunday, I went to Atlanta to meet up with my dad for his birthday. We spent hours walking around Centennial Park talking about something that lights both of us up: sports. We made plans to go to Braves games, spring training in Florida and his surprise of taking me to my first Yankees game in Yankee Stadium August 2.
We talked about the time we saw the Bronx Bombers play the Tampa Bay Devil Rays from easily the worst seats in the house, and the time I cried tears of sheer joy after getting Derek Jeter’s autograph when I was 16. He shared stories of growing up in New York during the era of Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris and of seeing Nolan Ryan pitch for the Astros in the ‘80s.
Growing up talking to my dad about this topic is what made me so desperately want to be a sports writer.
While walking around the park, we spotted something that made us both stop in our tracks. It was a mom with three kids, none of whom could have been older than six, playing whiffle ball together.
One of the kids, who was maybe four years old, set up at the plate and started practicing the mannerisms of a pro baseball player. He hit his foam bat against each foot about five times as if to knock the imaginary clay out of his cleats.
He even did the goofy Nomar Garciapara foot tap while his mom was getting ready to lob him the ball. My dad and I couldn’t help but laugh, and we wanted to see what happened next. This little boy, who hopefully knows nothing about the steroid scandals, knocked a liner up the middle that almost drilled Mom in the stomach.
At that exact moment, my faith in sports was restored. Here is this little boy with his family having a great time at the park, and baseball was the force that brought them together. The looks on their faces were of pure happiness. Surely all sports fans out there have memories of tossing a ball with their parents, having a game of touch football on Thanksgiving or playing H-O-R-S-E with other kids in the neighborhood.
That’s why we love sports. We, the average fans, don’t care about contracts, endorsements or signing autographs. We play and watch because of the fun. Remember that, Clemens? Fun?
More than 80,000 Auburn fans don’t show up at Jordan-Hare Stadium on Saturdays in the fall to think about which guy on the field is going to be the next professional superstar so they can say, “I saw him when ...”
Those fans are there because they adore Auburn football and, more importantly, this school and what it represents. At any sporting event, no matter who you are or where you come from, you have thousands of friends within that stadium or arena simply because you’re a fan.
Personally, professional baseball has let me down. I feel like I did when I found out the truth about Santa Claus. Finding out the Boys of Summer who I admire are actually cheaters was like someone telling me all the credit hours I’ve taken at Auburn don’t count, and I’m really a 22-year-old freshman. I put my faith in Clemens, but I’ve been let down. Disappointed.
Thankfully, a new generation of die-hard baseball players are about to emerge. Spring training starts this month, and rosters are filled with kids out of high school and college dying to make a name for themselves. Let’s just hope, for all our sakes, they’ve taken mental notes from the bums who’ve taken steroids to try and get that edge and now know what not to do.
Let’s hope they eliminate that despicable shadow that looms over MLB, tainting what each of us held in the highest esteem.
Let’s hope this “rain” washes away the scum of baseball, so we as fans can get our beloved sport back.
