"Say it ain't so, Lance."
Say those drug accusations, which you have been pooh-poohing, and which we have been ignoring for years, ain't so. Say that we haven't again misplaced our trust in sports heroes. Say that you aren't just the latest incarnation of Mark McGwire, Marion Jones, Barry Bonds, Jason Giambi, and Bill Romanowski.
Say that being a cancer survivor - no, a cancer conqueror - is your true legacy. Say that our children won't be mentioning you in the same breath as the 1919 Chicago Black Sox, and Rosie Ruiz. Say that all of those millions of Live Strongs, with their treasured yellow bracelets, aren't just victims of the hoodwink-of-the-month club.
Say that the French newspaper, which has been dogging you for years, is on a witch hunt. Say that the director of the Tour de France - the race you made a household phrase on this side of the Atlantic - is just another Uncle Sam-bashing frog who would sooner swallow a sprocket than proclaim an American to be king of a European sport. Say that the newspaper just happens to be owned by the same company that organizes the Tour de France.
"Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you".
Say that the Tour Director, Jean-Marie Leblanc, revealed his Ameriphobia by calling the newspaper's allegations "proven scientific facts", while declaring that "we were all fooled". Say that it is impossible for you to respond to testing of a six-year old sample that has been stored who-knows-where and handled by who-knows-who. Say that it's all about selling newspapers.
Say that former five-time champion Eddy Merckx stated, "Choosing between a journalist and Lance's word, I trust Armstrong". Say that another five-time champ, Miguel Indurain, astutely questioned why scientists would choose frozen 1999 blood for testing, since the necessary control samples were all used up. Say that even the French Sports Minister acknowledged that without those control samples, there could be no disciplinary action.
Say that all of those who-me? press conferences, where you looked us in the lens and proclaimed "not me, no, never", weren't just Rafael Palmiero in tight shorts. Say that there is still one hero left out there who we can trust.
"Sometime, when the team is up against it, and the breaks are beating the boys, tell them to go out there with all they got and win just one for the Gipper."
Back in the days of Knute Rockne, youngsters thrilled to the radio exploits of another Armstrong - Jack Armstrong, All American Boy. Unfortunately, in the new millennium, we suffer from a lack of Jacks, and a self-inflicted overdose of overdosers. Athletes who pump up, or shoot up, or use whatever is up to get an advantage. Tens of millions of dollars are at stake. We are not satisfied with wins - we need records. We don't pause to celebrate records - we crave them to be smashed. We don't glorify the smashing - we demand that they be obliterated, again and again and again. What have you done for us today?
A mere twenty-two major league baseball players have hit 50 home runs in a single season. Now 50 doesn't even make our radar. A thousand-yard rusher used to be the gold standard in football. Our interest today is piqued at 2000. Does anyone even know who scored the most points in an NBA or college basketball game last year? It hardly matters after Wilt hit 100.
As salaries and endorsement contracts have skyrocketed, so have the needed physical tools of the participants. Bicycle racers like Armstrong are basically enlarged heart muscles with legs. The bar has been raised so high that the human being God originally had in mind is falling farther and farther behind the success curve.
And neither evolution, nor intelligent design, can explain the amazing metamorphosis of some of today's physical wonders. If you still think that the only magic ingredient is Wheaties, you may qualify to testify before the next Congressional investigation.
"Today, I consider myself to be the luckiest man on the face of the earth ."
Lou Gehrig never had the advantage of steroids or supplements or Balco cocktails. In fact, sixty-six years after he humbly retired, the same medical science that has given us Andro, THG, EPO, and HgH still has not given us a cure for ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig Disease. The squeaky wheel gets the juice.
It is said that America lost its innocence on November 22, 1963. The day the music died. We became willing to believe that our government might mislead us. Our presidents might mislead us. Our cigarette manufacturers might mislead us. Madison Avenue might mislead us. But in sports, the illusion of innocence lasted much longer. Surely the compadres of Gehrig and Rockne and Staubach and Babe Didrikson Zaharias and Esther Williams were beyond reproach. We whistled in the dark about Willie, Mickey, and the Duke.
Now, when we see the Palmieros and Giambis and McGwires - players who we once cheered, and adored, and, in our naivete, respected - swearing that they never took their nutrition from a syringe, we are somewhere between cynicism and total lack of trust. The whispers of enhancements have become a cacophony of tattletale teammates and positive lab tests. The same neo-science that pumped them up has brought them down.
And right in the middle now is Lance Armstrong, All American Boy. We so badly want to embrace him, to agree that this is all a witch hunt. But what happens if we actually catch a witch???
"What's that you say Mrs. Robinson, Joltin' Joe has left and gone away..."