By Alex Rodriguez
Whew! What a whirlwind the last 24 hours has been. It’s not every night your chemically enhanced body gets a hold of one and makes history, but that’s just what happened last night when my unlawfully enlarged physique and I took over sole possession of 4th place on the career homerun list.
Y’know, as my artificially augmented body and I trotted back to the dugout after sending that 1-1 changeup over the center field wall last night, I started to think about what #661 meant to me. While that tainted tater is a moment I’ll ostensibly never forget, I have to admit I love each of my blemished big-flys equally.
I still remember my first stanozolol-infused round-tripper like it happened yesterday. The rush of watching that ball soar over the fence washed away all those pre-injection jitters I had just hours earlier, when I made a conscious decision to supplement my incredible God-given talents with the best performance-enhancing potions modern science had to offer.
I know, I know. You’re probably sitting there thinking, “But Alex, surely the blemished bomb that established you as the fourth most formidable power hitter of all time is more significant than the hundreds of faulty four-baggers that preceded it?”
But abandon your better judgment for just a moment here, gang, and trust ol’ Alex on this one. Because as much as I’ll purportedly cherish passing a living legend like “The Say Hey Kid” on the career homerun list, I can’t say that hormone-charged homer is any more or less meaningful than any of the 660 other primobolan-powered pokes I’ve authored during my 20-plus seasons in the big leagues.
And that’s not just the tetrahydrogestrinone talking. No, I’m speaking from my winstrol-weakened heart on this one, gang. I guess it might help if you were to walk a mile in my ill-gotten New & Lingwood Russian Calf shoes. But unless you’re willing to double down on deca-durabolin in pursuit of staggering wealth and asterisked acclaim, chances are you may never understand why I simply can’t say one damaged dinger is more meaningful than another.
Maybe my point of view will change when I pass Babe Ruth after smacking steroid-stained souvenir #715 someday. But me and this fresh batch of dehydroepiandrosterone highly doubt it.
I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree on this one, gang.