by Ken Rosenthal

Comment

Those were my words. I am not proud of them. But there's a saying in journalism: "Write what you know." As a general sports columnist for The Sun, I wrote what I knew — and what I believed.

I wish I could say that my view of McGwire reflected a certain innocence about the Great Home Run Chase of 1998. The truth is that my view reflected a certain ignorance — an ignorance shared by many, an ignorance that led to a backlash that frames our perceptions of McGwire, Sammy Sosa and others to this day.

Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire yuk it up during the home run chase of 1998. It's not as funny now. (STEPHEN JAFFE/AFP / Getty Images)

The 10-year anniversary of McGwire's record-breaking 62nd home run was Monday. Few baseball writers and columnists marked the moment. No celebration occurred at the new Busch Stadium.

McGwire gave a rare interview to the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, but again refused to discuss allegations that he used steroids, just as he did at a Congressional hearing in 2005.

It's almost as if, out of embarrassment, we've stricken the summer of '98 from our collective memories. The daily rush. The live cut-ins on television. The first sustained excitement over baseball since the strike of '94 and '95.

Did Big Mac hit one today? Did Sammy? I'll never forget what Jack McKeon, then the Reds manager, told a bunch of us in a makeshift interview room under the right-field stands at the old Busch after McGwire hit No. 60: "We thought about walking him, but then I also thought about all the people that have been calling my voice mail wanting me to heal the country."

Everyone laughed, but the moment indeed was that big. In the years that followed, when the extent of the steroid problem became clearer and McGwire and Sosa fell from grace, fans were justified in asking reporters, "Where were you guys in '98? Why didn't you write steroids then?"

I can only speak for myself. I didn't grasp the depth of the problem. I didn't even grasp that there was a problem. A few years ago, I went back and read my column for the Sun from Aug. 22, 1998, thinking it had been prescient, thinking I had issued my readers a sufficient warning about baseball's dirty little secret.

I was horrified to see what I actually had written.

To be sure, Maris couldn't visit his local drug store for added juice in 1961. But McGwire argues that everything in his medicine cabinet is not only legal, but also natural. Should his accomplishment be diminished by his use of the best available science?

In the column, I referred only to McGwire's use of androstenedione, acknowledging that the substance already had been outlawed by the NFL, Olympics and NCAA. I did not mention — or even consider — that he perhaps was using illegal steroids as well.

Ten years later, none of us know for certain whether McGwire was an unabashed juicer. But his performance before Congress in 2005 only heightened suspicions about his achievements. Ditto for Sosa.

It's easy in hindsight to say that we all should have known better. Bob Nightengale, then with the Los Angeles Times, wrote about steroids in 1995, quoting Randy Smith, the Padres' general manager at the time, as saying, "We all know there's steroid use, and it's definitely becoming more prevalent." But Bob's story was largely ignored — by the media, and by baseball. If not for Jose Canseco's book, "Juiced," the issue might never have become as prominent as it did.

We should have asked more pointed questions in the summer of '98, even if few fans wanted to hear that their new heroes were not all they seemed. Remember the vilification of Steve Wilstein, the Associated Press reporter who discovered the bottle of "Andro" in McGwire's locker? Perhaps few had the courage to spoil the party. But even fewer had sufficient knowledge of steroids in baseball.

Baseball writers were not simply "along for the ride," basking in their sport's revival. Glimpses of the truth emerged over time, not just from government investigators, but also from great reporters. Commissioner Bud Selig often says — matter-of-fact, without complaint — that the media holds baseball to a higher standard than other sports. To this day, the coverage of performance-enhancing drugs in the NFL is far less than it is in baseball. And the problem almost certainly was — and is — as severe.

I'll admit this: I've adopted a won't-get-fooled-again approach on steroids, in part due to my own past failings, and in part due to the years of cover-ups from people inside the game, particularly the players' union. My fear is that I view McGwire, Sosa and even Barry Bonds too harshly when they might simply have been products of their time. If, for instance, it turns out that 70 percent of the players used steroids - and that McGwire, Sosa and Bonds were among them — then the debate will be different. The great sluggers would not be considered exceptions, but the rule.

Problem is, we will never know exactly who did what and to what extent, so people are left to make up their own minds. For me, the Summer of '98 is forever tainted, in part because of the guilt I feel for missing the bigger story. Yet, the deeper meaning of the moment should not be lost. It was a time when all of us reaffirmed our love for the game.

Then there is the Hall of Fame, which leaves me similarly ambivalent. The Hall instructs voters to consider not just playing ability, but also character, integrity and sportsmanship. I do not vote for McGwire because I am not convinced he meets those subjective standards. Yet I ask myself: Am I penalizing Big Mac because I was the fool?

It's a different world now, a world that invites cynicism, a world where information overflows, yet little as it seems. If McGwire isn't exactly pure, his record would be close enough. In the end, it's still baseball, still a hitter and a pitcher, still a bat and a ball.

If only it were that simple.

It wasn't in 1998. It isn't now.