Candy-Ass. Back in high school (Long Island, New York c. 1962) that’s what we used to call anyone who behaved like a wimp, and Andy Pettitte’s response to being caught ingesting human growth hormone fits the definition to a tee. I mean, if there’s any reasonable excuse for taking a drug, he had it–he used the stuff to try to heal an injury for his Astros debut. The way he’s talking, you’dda thunk he killed someone.
“I am sorry,” Pettitte said at a news conference yesterday. “I know in my heart why I did things. I know that God knows that. I know that I’m going to have to stand before him one day…”
If character is revealed in a crisis, Andy’s been shown to be the most conventional sort of person: he’s bought lock, stock and barrel every received opinion of the lowest common denominator out in the American heartland. All drugs are bad at all times, period. Using drugs makes you a sinner. God, of course, exists, gives a shit what baseball players do, and is judging him harshly.
Interestingly, Andy seems to be suffering no qualms or ambivalence about telling the world what the guy who’s “like my brother” told him in complete confidence. I haven’t dissed Andy for ratting out Roger because I know he was in a tough spot, but his grovelling has gotten so irritating I’m ready to condemn him for that too. Barry Bonds’s trainer, for godssakes, spent almost a year in jail rather then rat!
I just wish one of these guys would develop an analysis of what’s happening here, and would come out and tell Congress to fuck off. These hearings are chillingly McCarthyesque, and if just one ball player would plead the Fifth the way a lot of screenwriters, actors and other movie people did in the 50s, eventually this would be seen for the witchhunt it is. Ah, but we live in very different times now, don’t we? These days people like Andy Pettitte and Jason Giambi respect their persecutors, agree with dominant cultural values, and bow their heads in abject shame.
They should be ashamed: Buncha Candy-Asses!