By Alex Rodriguez
It’s only three weeks into my season-long suspension, but I’ll be honest my fellow baseball fans, I really miss my teammates. Sure the nearly half a billion dollars I’ve earned under false pretenses provides a sense of security few in the world will ever have the luxury of enjoying, but a few hundred mill in a vault somewhere really can’t compare to the thrill of striding toward the batter’s box in front of a packed house at Yankee Stadium on a summer night.
I must admit, I didn’t think it would be this difficult to serve my season-long suspension for my involvement in baseball’s latest performance-enhancing drugs scandal. You see, I made my Major League debut 20 years ago this July, so the idea of my first summer off in two decades didn’t seem so bad at first. When I dropped my frivolous lawsuit against Major League Baseball back in February, I figured I would spend this summer enjoying all those activities that normal people get to enjoy in the summer, like private yacht trips I can now easily afford thanks to my willingness to abuse illicit drugs in the hopes of earning another couple hundred million dollars. Heck, I even figured I’d spend a few summer nights watching my teammates compete as I sat on my hand-tied upholstered couch in the waterfront mansion I certainly couldn’t have purchased had I never decided to inject myself with a host of banned substances in what ultimately proved a fruitful attempt at earning the second quarter-billion dollar contract of my tainted career.
But even the piles of money I keep stacked around each of my half-dozen or so homes can’t compare to the joy of hitting another hormone-fueled homer into Monument Park. The rush of playing in the big game, like the 2012 American League Championship Series when I summoned Biogenesis founder Anthony Bosch to Detroit so he could administer a potent batch of testosterone I was too frightened to inject on my own, is a feeling you just can’t find anywhere else. Trust me, all the real estate holdings in the world can’t compare to that kind of excitement!
But that’s a feeling I won’t get to enjoy until next season, when even the $21 million in guaranteed salary I have coming my way won’t make up for missing Derek Jeter’s final season in pinstripes. It’s not being around for special moments like Derek’s final game in Boston when it will really be difficult to sleep in any of my bevy of custom-made beds, which I can spare the price of only after hoodwinking the Yankees into giving me a decade-long $275 million contract in 2008 despite my body beginning to show signs of the decline one might expect of a physical structure that’s endured an endless string of abuse at the hands of a megalomaniac hell-bent on fueling his performance with unsanctioned substances.
Certainly, the thousands of extraordinary moments my exorbitant and ill-gotten wealth affords me each and every day are something to hang my hat on. But those moments simply don’t compare to the ones when I’m showered with undue adulation by fans willing to turn a blind eye to my misdeeds so long as my performance lives up to the unrealistic expectations created in large part by my habitual use of testosterone and human growth hormone.
Because as much as I cherish the personal glory and staggering material prosperity baseball and my willingness to disregard its rules has afforded me over the last 20 years, the real joy of my career has been the bonds I’ve formed with my teammates. Teammates like Francisco Cervelli, who I not only taught how to hit a slider but also introduced to Biogenesis, paving the way for his 50-game suspension without pay in 2013. Over the course of a 162-game season, the bonds you form with teammates like Francisco are nearly as strong as the ones you might form with a now-disgraced clinician willing to risk his career and reputation in an effort to gain access to the exclusive professional and social circles you’re a part of thanks to your clever circumvention of rules designed to protect the integrity of a game you profess to love. Bonds like that don’t grow on trees, and they’re even harder to form when you’re spending your summer sitting in your favorite top-grain leather armchair at your palatial European villa instead of sitting alongside your teammates in the visitor’s dugout at Kauffmann Stadium in Kansas City.
But don’t cry for me, baseball fans. After all, when life gives you lemons, you simply ask your personal chef, whose salary is largely subsidized by your decision to partake of performance-enhancing drugs, to make you some lemonade.