By Alex Rodriguez
Whew! Spring training may only be a week old, but boy am I glad to finally be back with my teammates and playing the game I ostensibly love so much I repeatedly compromised its integrity as I sought any means necessary to gain an unfair advantage over my opponents.
They say you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone, and over the last 12 months, much of which I spent traversing the world on my spacious and fully staffed luxury yacht as I served my season-long performance enhancing drug suspension, I realized that what I had, in addition to my hundreds of millions of ill-gotten dollars, was pretty great.
Yeah, some might even say I had it all. I played for the most storied franchise in baseball history. I had a direct pipeline to all the human growth hormone and testosterone one athlete hell-bent on circumventing the rules of the game he professes to love could possibly want. And I was right in the middle of a lucrative, airtight contract I signed under false pretenses.
Yup, that was the life of Alexander Emmanuel Rodriguez in the summer of 2013. But then all of that, with the exception of my fleet of classic and luxury automobiles, extensive real estate portfolio, impressive art collection, and vast, unscrupulously acquired wealth, up and vanished. It seems your old friend A-Rod simply got caught with his hand in the insulin-like growth factor 1 jar. Oops!
But don’t cry for me, Argentina! Now I’m back, playing the game I purport to love alongside the teammates I so sorely missed. Because when you do something you claim to love, there’s only so many spur-of-the-moment trips to Dubai you can endure on the private jet you purchased with tainted money before that voice inside tells you it’s once again time to start feigning interest in fielding a few grounders or taking some clenbuterol-laced cuts in the batter’s box.
Because deep down, beneath my staggering wealth, enormous sense of entitlement and ill-fashioned frame, I’m just a baseball player. And hitting all of those primobolan-powered dingers is as much a part of who I am as my strict adherence to a rigorous cycle of on-again, off-again illicit drug use designed to make my already deep pockets even deeper.
After all, when I’m not arranging clandestine meetings with disreputable clinicians, planning ill-conceived press conferences or financing lucrative business deals with my fraudulently accumulated wealth, playing baseball is what I do. And now I’m back. And boy am I supposedly happy to be here.