Lou Merloni launched a cruise missile into the Bud Selig “Let’s Blame It All On The Players” steroids defense with a very damning accusation that a Red Sox team doctor instructed players how to properly take steroids.
As more players get nailed in testing or have confidential test results released (Manny Ramirez’s record were leaked today) and feel the feigned wrath of the sportswriters, more players are going start talking to ensure they aren’t the only fall guys. In fact Donald Fehr should suggest his players to do this that — the code of silence needs to end to protect the players interests. All parties were complicit in the sham; why should one only be taking the heat for it?
Once the players and owners dirty themselves, they will point their fingers at the complicit sportswriters who nudged and winked their way to exclusive stories. These guys were silent for years, and now they are about to find out that the majority fans are very tired of the moral goose-stepping posturing from a bunch of whores who line up to get a spot on “Around The Horn.” The free buffet to find out quickly that the free buffet spread is not going to offer them much cover.
Once the above guilty parties are good and sullied, the proper attention can then be turned the fans who pretended not to believe anything was amiss. They were like twelve year olds who still believed in Santa Claus — they were old enough to know damn well that Jolly St. Nick was a farce, but played along with the scam because there was something in it for them — “Mommy and Daddy (Selig and MLBPA) told us Santa was real (steroids aren’t a problem); why were we supposed to believe otherwise? It can’t be our fault; we just listened to the adults.”
The entire mess is headed to its delicious proper ending.
The smoke between asleep and dreams
And in that clear blue undertow
I saw Royal City far below
Borders soft with refugees
Streets a’swimming with amputees
It’s a Bible or a bullet they put over your heart
It’s getting harder and harder to tell them apart
Days are nights and the nights are long
Beating hearts blossom into walking bombs
And those still looking in the clear blue sky for a sign
Get missiles from so high they might as well be divine
Now the wolves are howling at our door
Singing bout vengeance like it’s the joy of the Lord
Bringing justice to the enemies not the other way round
They’re guilty when killed and they’re killed where they’re found
If what’s loosed on earth will be loosed up on high
It’s a Hell of a Heaven we must go to when we die
Where even Laurel begs Hardy for vengeance please
The fat man is crying on his hands and his knees
Back in the peacetime he caught roses on the stage
Now he twists indecision takes bourbon for rage
Lead pellets peppering aluminum
Halcyon, laudanum and Opium
Sings kiss thee hardy this poisoned cup
His winding sheet is busy winding up
In darkness he looks for the light that has died
But you need faith for the same reasons that it’s so hard to find
And this whole thing is headed for a terrible wreck
And like good tragedy that’s what we expect — Josh Ritter
Dead Religions 