How many times have we been told that sports and politics don’t mix?
Enough times not to believe a word of it, that’s how many.
Sports and politics always have been in bed together, always will be, and it is no bed of roses.
In March, a congressional committee summoned stars of baseball’s executive and uniformed branches for a hearing on illegal substances.
It’s doubtful that if, say, General Motors suddenly began producing twice as many Pontiacs, its factory workers would be interrogated about suspicions of performance-enhancing drugs. But of course, inviting guys from the assembly line into your chambers isn’t as punchy as hanging out with Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa. The photo opportunities are not the same, and neither are the autograph possibilities.
Washington windbags made sure to seek maximum exposure in March, when they also received a scolding from Rafael Palmeiro, the finger-pointing slugger, who told the televised (naturally) hearings of his cleanliness.
He has since been suspended for testing positive, evoking another movement by elected officials to get tough on cheaters in the only major sport blessed with a precious antitrust exemption.
Commissioner Bud Selig doesn’t want that overturned on his watch, and you’ve got to feel for him. In one corner he finds Donald Fehr, the pugnacious pit bull, chief of the country’s most powerful union. In the other corner are politicians who, instead of voting to seal America’s borders from terrorists, issue proclamations to protect professional athletes from professional chemists singing the same hymn–chicks dig the long ball, as do agents who arrange those multimillion-dollar contracts.
Meanwhile, one governor who respectfully abstains from monitoring Palmeiro’s bodily fluids is Ohio’s Bob Taft, recently convicted for failure to report 52 gifts, 47 of which were free tee times. In his spare hours, Taft also accepted tickets to the Columbus Blue Jackets, a hockey team not likely to be suspected of using steroids.
The ethics scandal involving Gov. Taft seems somewhat overcooked. The sum of his indiscretions amounts to only about $6,000, petty cash in the pantheon of pliable pols. This tells you, if nothing else, that the Blue Jackets are not a particularly hot item and he got what he didn’t pay for.
Also, the revelation of a politician collecting goodies without declaring them doesn’t feel like a stop-the-presses news bulletin. Taft can’t be the first in his field to have his hand out. Besides, he is only following family tradition. Great-grandfather William Howard Taft generally is regarded as the first president who admitted being an avid golfer.
What’s so delicious about the give-and-take between politicians and athletes is all the posturing. Politicians who grandstand on TV by examining wayward ways of players aren’t always qualified to occupy the confession booth. The very notion that either group could teach the other honor and accountability is comical. What’s not so funny is how both sides go wink-wink and take the public for stupid.
Sports and politics mix and match because insincerity loves company. Meanwhile, we await, as Paul Harvey would say, the rest of the story from Palmeiro. He promises to tell all, but he can’t quite yet. He hasn’t said why. While Selig sells fans in Kansas City on the virtues of revenue sharing, we ponder what will happen when Palmeiro becomes eligible for the Hall of Fame.
After his congressional performance in March, he’s got my vote. For the Hollywood Hall of Fame.
