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February 14, 2005

Can You Ever Forgive Me?

Jose Canseco And the truth will set his fee

Dear readers, I have a confession to make. I realize that what I'm about to tell you all might shake the faith that you've come to have in me, both as friends and as readers. I realize that it might be difficult for you to read this. What I have to say might hurt you, and I'm deeply sorry if I am about to end our friendship. But we can only grow as people by acknowledging our mistakes, and hopefully I'm going to grow a little today.

In 1995, I took steroids with Jose Canseco.

At the time, Jose was playing for the Boston Red Sox and I was working as an analyst at a consulting firm in the Back Bay. We used to meet in the dark corners of college dive bars or in Green Line subway stations late at night. Jose would wear an old brown bowler and mirrored aviator sunglasses, so as not to be recognized. We would exchange only a few words in his native Spanish, barely acknowledging each other's presence, before we injected each other with those sweet, sweet synthetic hormones.

I don't know why Jose didn't mention me in his new book. Particularly seeing as how he dropped the dime on nearly everyone else he's ever met. I'd like to think that it was some small token of respect. We were, after all, 'roid buddies for two whole seasons. It's also entirely possible that his publisher read the passage about me and said, "Who the hell is that?" Perhaps my name will come up during his highly publicized interview with 60 Minutes' Mike Wallace on Wednesday evening. Or perhaps it will never come up. The point, gentle readers, is that I can no longer live with the guilt, so I must come clean.

In light of this revelation, I feel that all of my records from 1995 and 1996 must be looked upon with skepticism. My second place finish in the 1996 NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament office pool should probably have an asterisk placed next to it. The night I rolled 11 Mexicans during a single game at a Labor Day barbecue in 1995? Never would have happened if I weren't on the juice. My streak of 22 consecutive days of showing up at work before 8:00 AM happened mainly because I couldn't sleep with all those steroids coursing through my veins. And on the advice of counsel, I'm afraid that I can't bring up my 1996 Federal Income Tax Return.

Confession is good for the soul, and my soul is feeling better than sucker-punching a hobo during a full-on 'roid rage. To Jose, I hope that coming clean about your past gives you peace. Or at least enough money to get far, far away from all the people you ratted out.

Posted by Dan at February 14, 2005 08:37 PM

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