Mark McGuire's recent mea culpa had all the trappings of a media event, as sapped of spontaneity as an evening at The Oscars and so carefully rehearsed as to suggest pre-performance blocking and lighting cues. With his statement to the media, a series of interviews culminating with a live sit-down across from the ever-accommodating Bob Costas, and the dripping of a few salty tears, ten years of clandestine juicing was simultaneously revealed to the world and swept back under the carpet, with reputation and future Hall of Fame hopes possibly still written into the contract. It's little wonder that McGwire's daylong sackcloth and ashes routine came across as stilted and lifeless - the plan, we now know, had been formulated over the past month by none other than Ari Fleischer and McGwire's new boss, the St. Louis Cardinals. Fleischer's "crisis communications company" - creatively dubbed "Ari Fleischer Sports Communications" - had been crunching the numbers, typing up scripts, compiling contact sheets, and perhaps even conducting simulation exercises in order to present the worst-kept secret in Major League Baseball as a breaking story.
The entire concept of framing a steroid abuse confession as an exercise in "Crisis Communication Strategy" is, of course, disgusting. But one should not be surprised that more public figures turn to such approaches to handle the messier details of their private and professional lives. After all, so many celebrity athletes and entertainers have ceased to exist as human beings and must be more properly viewed as brands, corporate entities and intellectual property held under copyright. Viewed through this frame of reference, fallen heroes like Mark McGwire and Tiger Woods resemble a flooded warehouse or a buckled high-rise more than a sex addict or a substance abuser. And no doubt McGwire has learned from his fellow transgressors, such as A-Rod's earlier sold-out tour of confession and shame, sprung into action after lying bald-faced to Katie Couric.
Yet we may be forgiven if we ask what took the slugger so long to come forward and discuss what everybody already knew. After all, anybody unfortunate enough to witness McGwire's oafish performance five years back at the televised Congressional hearings knew firsthand the record-holder had something to hide - something that he was incapable of hiding. His stammering, shifty-eyed, "plead the fifth" appearance, in which the legal ramifications of his words led him to choose them carefully and refuse to discuss simple yes and no questions regarding personal steroid use, was a textbook example of a guilty man drowning in full view. His performance that day made Alberto Gonzalez look like a witness stand pro. This past week, declaring the time for storytelling to be over, McGwire produced the surest sign of authentic male remorse possible and shed some tears. One might be forgiven for suspecting Mr. Costas was holding up a sliced onion, just off-camera.
For how spontaneous can a bawl-session be that had been one month in the works? Had McGwire been coached by fellow crybaby Glenn Beck, or was he simply taking a cue from big baby Kanye West, who sunk as low as would be thought humanly possible when he allowed the likes of Jay Leno to induce a sobbing fit in front of a late night studio audience. I haven't surveyed all the sports writers and bloggers of note to see if others were swayed by McGwire's act of emotion, although the New York Times apparently thought the story was a big deal, even going so far as to suggest that the live interview "justifies what (the MLB Network) is paying" Costas. But I would hope that journalists and fans would see through McGwire's stunt for what it is - as ludicrous and as ineffectual a dog and pony show as airport security.
Poor Roger Maris. And poor Bud Selig, who must be wishing he had access to some good anti-depressants these days. Mr. Selig released a nearly incoherent statement that both referenced this latest admission and sort of made the announcement that the "use of steroids" has "greatly subsided," adding that "Marks' admission today is another step in the right direction". I'm not interested in reading it again, but Selig's statement would seem to suggest that the Age of Steroids is now over.
Even before this story made its way to the front pages, I had been thinking about making some kind of post exploring the multiple examples this past year of severe fan disillusionment in athletic icons. If McGwire had been a beacon of hope among steroid monsters to a small and retreating group of believers, what to make of the sudden plunge of former "Athlete of the Century" Tiger Woods? If anything, Woods was even more of a brand than McGwire, equipped with even fewer recognizable human qualities, less a flesh and blood athlete and really just a walking corporate logo. When a roguish red-blooded male with a taste for tail was inadvertently revealed beneath the soul-crushing banality of his false media personality, one logical response would have been for his enormous fan base to give a collective sigh of relief at proof that a beating heart lay beneath all that placidity. Yet jaws dropped almost as fast and as brutally as the endorsements. While it comes as no surprise that the likes of GM, Nike and American Express would prove to be as skittish as colts at any hint of controversy, one really must ask if what basically amounted to a fight between cheating husband and outraged wife really justified such public recoiling, or if it was the mere fact that Tiger Woods possessed a sexual identity which led to the quick disassociation.
And while it wasn't nearly as much of a fall from grace as the above examples, tongues were also set wagging last year when Michael Jordan ascended the stage to accept his no-brainer acceptance into the Basketball Hall of Fame. Even the most distanced observer of Jordan's career had to note that the greatest basketball player of all time was nearly (stay with me here) Warren Buffet-like in his mastery of skill and unwavering devotion to success twinned with a seeming inability to enjoy the results of said success. Any doubts as to Jordan's joylessness and petty nature were cleared up during his graceless, catty, accusatory and bitter score-settling farce of an acceptance speech last September. Sneering at a high school teammate by name who had been chosen for the varsity team over Jordan himself, swiping at college roommates, taking potshots at old coaches, and griping about that perennial villain The Media, he could have been described as the epitome of a poor loser, except that he hadn't lost a thing. Rather than acting like a figurehead, he came across as little more than some small-town high school quarterback who sprained his knee during Freshman year and spent the rest of his days gaining weight, brooding and taking out his anger on Pop Warner youth. Except he wasn't any of those things. He was Michael Jordan. Apologists and "I Wanna Be Like Mike"adherents insist it was all in fun, a locker room sparring session brought into the black tie arena by a driven competitor. I say, the ego has landed.
I won't even discuss the ignoble return to the professional stage of Michael Vick, whose actions were boneheadedly defended by some clueless fans who view any and all forms of criticism as "hating," while also attacked by others as a villain on the scale of Hitler and Pol Pot. Given the media hysterics and protests at play, one might have suspected Vick had flayed young orphans and impaled their bodies on stakes in his front yard in the Atlanta suburbs. No denying Vick's dog-fighting operation was loathsome. Yet I really must wonder at the universal condemnation when many of these same scandalized individuals raise nary an eyebrow when some other professional football player beats his wife or girlfriend to a pulp.
Why waste breath and ink on such a rogue's gallery? My interest is less in rehashing the sordid details or passing judgment on behavior (although that can be fun) and more in questioning why there is so much dithering and disappointment - even shock - when professional athletes behave badly? Why would anybody expect moral guidance and philosophical insight from bulked-up individuals who are paid millions of dollars to physically compete with other millionaires in front of millions of strangers? Without getting too relativist about it, morality has absolutely nothing to do with the cultivation of physical and athletic skill. It would be nice if it did, but it doesn't. Touchdowns and home runs are executed by individuals who have remained committed to a punishing and wearying routine of physical endurance, who have devoted hours towards practice and discipline, and have attempted to approach realization of their body's full potential. These are admirable goals. They are not moral choices. One need not examine one's soul or question how one's behavior may be impacting others to excel at competition. In fact, one might even argue that kind of stuff simply gets in the way.
My interest in sports has never been very strong, and what little existed has faded ever since I left central Wisconsin, where an addiction to football so permeated the air that even non-enthusiasts had to take part or at least have an opinion on the matter. I often wonder why I can't be bothered to care about something that so many millions of my fellow citizens care deeply about. I suspect it has something to do with the transitory and fleeting nature of professional sports, a disdain for macho behavior, my disbelief at the inarticulateness of post-game interviews and an avoidance of cheap beer. There's enough of a Green Bay Packer fan left in me, however, to understand how and why enthusiasts place great hope in a favorite player or a loved team. I need only think of the sagging shoulders of my family when such exemplars of the athletic code as Mark Chmura and Eugene Robinson met their sexual come-uppance to recall how easily one can feel real betrayal when a player lets you down. But it has been quite some time since an athlete wielded enough influence in my life to let me down, and at this cynical stage of the game, I wonder why anybody would place their moral and behavioral hopes in a famous athlete. And while McGwire's admission certainly stings because it negates his previous accomplishments (he cheated, no question), the same can't be said of Tiger Woods' latest adventure. His accomplishments stand no matter how many times he lies dazed on the pavement in front of his driveway. To be utterly crude about it, when it comes to ability and skill, a golf ball is the only item belonging to Tiger that we should care about going into a hole.
Kids need role models, sure. I wish they had better ones. We shouldn't be surprised that in a nation nearly driven to apoplexy when the president hinted at making an address to schoolchildren, people would strain to locate less controversial figures for inspiration. Why people think professional athletes fill this supposed moral vacuum is beyond me. I can't help but think of a crack Bill Maher once made when a guest grew hot and bothered about the infamous "wardrobe malfunction" that supposedly scarred the nation by revealing Janet Jackson's nipple shield, unforgivably televised. "It was the Super Bowl," the guest insisted. "Oh, right," Maher sneered. "Church".
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