Get out of here, you punk bitch!
Damn. Thought you were my personal trainer there. Or my agent or girlfriend. Or one of my fans. Or the 9-year-old, star-struck boy wanting my autograph. Stupid kid.
You see, I’m not used to this writing thing. I’m taking an elephant steroid, and it’s making me crazy. Understand? No? Did I stutter?
Damn. Man, thought you were the manager or team president. Of course I’m on edge. I get an e-mail from this slime-ho Bookfraud, saying that he’d score some designer HGH if I’d “pinch-hit” for him. First, I told that guy I’m a starter, not a goddamn pinch hitter. Then I told him I’ve got better shit to do, like destroy sportswriters’ cars with my Louisville Slugger.
But this Bookfraud dude sounded like he was about to hang himself from a string, whining about how the stress was getting to him, and don’t let anybody say the Greatest Ballplayer of All Time doesn’t have a heart. Plus, if there’s anything that the single-season homerun record holder (count ‘em — 73 homers) and soon to be ALL-TIME homerun record holder needs right now, it’s a little damn positive publicity.
Normally, I cuss, but I don’t sound like some street pimp — I went to college, and read books, OK? But try losing your hair, watching your balls shrink to the circumference of a dime, and have a minefield of bacne. If you were to interview me, and I was in the mood for talking, you might be surprised by my eloquence. But I’m usually not in the mood for talking.
Unlike most other baseball players, I realize that baseball is just nothing more than elaborate entertainment for the masses who watch the game and employment for all the sportswriters who hate me. I don’t see why everybody’s all uptight about records and shit. George F. Will is America’s Number One Baseball Fan – “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” is his cell phone ring. I don’t need to say anything more.
Just say yes
But I’m so good that they’re going to name feats after me. “Ruthvian?” Forget it. “Bondsian?” Or maybe “Bondsroidian.” Bondsroidian. I like that.
My dad was a ballplayer, one of the best, and even though his career was in shambles by the time he was 37, mine was just taking off. Why? Because I wanted it more.
When those two muscle-bound freaks were breaking Maris’ homerun record back in 1998, I was pretty mad. Those guys were more juiced up than a thousand orange-bannana smoothies. Everybody knew “Big Mac” had more steroids in him than the cattle that end up making Big Macs. And “Sammy” said he got big and strong because he used to be poor, and didn’t have enough money growing up for food. Got that?
The thing is, without steroids they’d bat .229. But I had already won a bunch of batting titles and MVP awards before all this crap. I was the one who deserved all the attention and fame, not them.
You just to have that extra edge these days. Don’t think it’s just position players taking the stuff. How else can you explain ancient pitchers — some even older than Bookfraud — getting 250 strikeouts a year and winning Cy Young Awards while their necks melt into an immovable blob of candle wax attached to their shoulders?
You see, it wasn’t enough for me to have a Hall-of-Fame career. I had to show that I’m greater than Babe Ruth, “the greatest player of all time,” who really wasn’t so great because there weren’t any blacks or Latinos playing back then. Could you see The Babe hitting 60 taters a year if he had to face Satchel Page or Bob Gibson or Juan Marichal or Pedro Martinez all the time? I thought not too.
Get out of my way
What? Shut up, you punk bitch! Damn. I didn’t mean that. Sorry, mom.
That’s the thing about the juice. When you’re on it, you lose your temper pretty damn quick, and start to be someone that you’re not.
But that’s what this Bookfraud needs to do — he says he’s a writer, but if he wants to be one of the greats, like me, he needs some literary steroids. Do like that James Frey or JT LeRoy or “Nasdijj” did — make up somebody who doesn’t exist and write about him, or write as him. Make up a bunch of wack shit about them, and people will buy your story.
Those guys are probably insane, but so what? But you don’t even need to be on the juice. You just need to be able to draw attention to yourself. What I know about writers and artists, is that if you’re a selfish egomaniac, that’s half the battle. Look at Normal Mailer, or Wagner. Ezra Pound was a complete jerkoff. But they knew they were the best.
They didn’t need “the juice,” but they wanted to be the best, so they did a little extra to boost their profiles. Mailer stabbed his wife and ran for mayor. Wagner was a vicious anti-Semite, as was Pound, who was also a war criminal. (See, I told you I read).
So before you’re so quick to judge me, consider all the crap out there. Once you consider things, I’m not different than anybody else put in my situation. You punk bitch.