There is no joy in Mudville...

I can remember the night that Mario Lemieux came back from his retirement and Michael Jordan's famous "I'm Back" press release... initial excitement and disbelief, followed by hesitation and nervousness about icons not living up to their past selves. But the nervousness would subside, as soon as the first game rolled around; seeing that familiar face in a familiar place brought back all of the initial enthusiasm. I have the same feelings about Lance Armstrong, who has only been gone for a little over a month now... I can't wait to see him ride again (yeah, its gonna happen).

So, tonight's the night. But it doesn't feel the same. A supposed icon of our time, has stepped to the plate, and returned to the stage from which he should captivate the hearts and minds of fans everywhere. But does anyone care? The feeling is not one of elation or intrigue, rather it resembles the courtesy smile that you might give an old friend at a party; an old friend whom you hoped you would never see again. A friend who did something that you can never forgive, but you only found out while they were away. A friend who doesn't quite understand why no one is happy to see them. Oh. Its you. Great.

I could be listening to the Giants game tonight; the magic of streaming audio could bring a digital San Francisco night into my bedroom. But I'm not. I could care less that if the NL West pennant race was re-enacted with horses, they'd all be sent to the glue factory (a sub .500 team will likely make the playoffs); there is always a certain feeling with games on the west coast, ( while your neighbour's are sleeping, they are still playing baseball.. somewhere) that allows me to enjoy any matchup as I fall asleep. You'd think that the return of perhaps the greatest hitter of all time would make a dent in my universe... but your thoughts would be wrong. The hard truth, is that I just have no desire to watch an admitted cheater break a record that doesn't deserve to be broken. And, in this respect, I don't think I'm alone.

Maybe the feeling isn't the same because Barry never retired... never officially gone. Where was he anyways? Hiding? I read scientific journals regularly, in search of the link between fear of steroid suspensions and swollen knees in left fielders. But I find no evidence. Funny thing, how evidence can seem so obvious, yet be so elusive when tests are administered. Maybe the feeling isn't the same because Barry should have retired...should have just disappeared. Should have recognized that the scam was over, and the secret was out, and called it a career. Instead, the career will probably live on as a technicality, sealed testimony protecting his admission of guilt as if it never happened.

The perfect comeback wouldn't be complete without a heroic introduction. And so, Barry stepped up to the plate, looking just as fans would remember him (with his protective football equipment strapped to his elbow) and in his first at-bat, launched a ball deep into the San Francisco night. Ironically, that first hit was not a home run. Instead, the story twisted...the first hit was a a ground rule double; without a doubt the most unnatural statistic in the sport. Awarded second base..on a technicality. My perfect version of the comeback, of course, would have been characterized by strikeouts and slumps uncurable by the greatest of biblical miracles. However, the lack of enthusiasm and the wealth of skepticism makes my perfect comeback complete... there is no joy in Mudville, for in the hearts of fans, Mighty Barry has already struck out.