A-Rod and the Search for his Soul

Soul is one of those ugly catch-all terms that I don't really pay much credence to, but for this particular function, I think we're gonna stick with that word. Souls......(bad quiver). I think the concept is tacky and grossly finite. If it comes pre-installed I'm not sure how it's unique or how I can imprint it without soiling it, but somehow it dictates my humanity. And it's good....right? Unless I sell it, or besmirch it, or I'm an ice cold m-f'er, and then I don't have one? So it's dead or stays at the devil's house or.... I dunno, that's half-smart stoner fodder, so I'll get off it, but I'm using it as a placeholder for our essence. That intangible mixture of purpose and talent and identity that in so many ways seems to represent the "soul".

There is an episode of the Simpson's where Bart sells his soul. (A Simpson's reference on a snarky blog in the midst of some bullshit sports as metaphysics entry...how many more reasons will I give you to stop reading? Just f*cking try me!) Besides having the line "I'm familiar with the works of Pablo Neruda," this episode tells the story of Bart's severance from his soul. He sells his soul to Milhouse for five dollars and is soon removed from his inherent Bart-ness. He can't laugh at Homer's failures, he can't hug Marge right, he can't even open the automatic door at the Kwik-E-Mart (what?) but after a tremendous effort on his behalf and a B plot about Moe opening a family restaurant, Bart breaks down and begs for his soul back. Lisa has already recovered the item in question, and as Bart devours the piece of paper that bares the right to his being, Lisa muses that "Some philosophers believe that no one is born with a soul, you have to earn one through suffering." And in 2009, from the outset of the steroid allegations until the end of the World Series, Alexander Emmanuel Rodriguez earned his soul.

There is one undeniable truth about A-Rod. The guy can play some serious baseball. His regular season statistics read like some epic poem about a baseball man-god. But he is also the player that holds the one and two spot on the sport's largest contract list. And he's also the guy in this picture...

Yes, he is wiping his face with a $100 dollar bill, and yes, that beauty was taken in '08, or what actual people called the meaty black heart of the recession. But the nasty truth that always followed A-Rod around was that he couldn't get it done. From the 2004 ALCS to 2007 (and the Yanks didn't make the playoffs in '08) his post season batting averages are: .258, .133, .071, and .267. To put that in stark perspective, Rodriguez had come to bat with 38 runners on base over a span of 61 postseason at-bats, and stranded every one of them going 0-for-29. Oof. All losses, all bad performances, and above all else, affirmations of his inability to perform in the clutch. You can't place a loss in a team sport on one man, but .071? Try that at your job. Turn in that performance four consecutive years at audit time or whatever such soul-crushery goes on at your office. Oh...there is not an HR person passive aggressive enough. But none of that mattered. A-Rod was rich and handsome and a fixture on the most well branded team in baseball. But it is at those times when the universe, in all of its supreme benevolence, jabs you in the windpipe.

The story about A-Rod's steroid use broke in early February 2009. Football had just ended, so people we're likely to remember that baseball existed, and there was proof. Proof that contradicted an earlier interview with Katie Couric where our man vehemently denied any steroids use. The dog pile was epic. The golden boy was finally hate-able for all the right reasons. This over-paid shrinking violet is also a liar and a cheater! It was like schadenfreude Christmas. I remember pulling up SI.com at the office and loosing one of those extra pricky "HA!"s. The actual word "Ha" at the top of my register. (In the spirit of full disclosure I think baseball is lame so I was pretty emotionally removed from the whole affair. I once had a co-worker who wept when Manny got traded from the Red Sox, and all I could think was "I wonder if Troy Aikman is looking at his Superbowl rings right now?") But that is permeating A-Rodness, hate to love/love to hate, and when justification tumbled down the pike, it was less a surprise and more like a prophecy fulfilled.

The media echo chamber fired up and his entire legacy (a deeply flawed one) was castigated. Barack Obama called the news "depressing", and this was February '09 so that guy was still like 80% hope at the time. The stocks were readied and A-Rod ate his crow. You don't even need to watch the video. It's the fallen celeb rhetoric template, just plug in the pertinent names and dates. Was he sincere? I dunno. He seems a little too insistent on being sorry for my tastes, but he certainly knew the jig was up. A few voice quivers, some vague ownership of the accusations, and all told, A-Rod turned in the best kind of public confession. A forgettable one. But this wasn't the part of this story that captured my imagination. This is the sort of by rote exercise in humiliation that has grown tiresome. (Remember a time when you had to straight Fatty Arbuckle a broad in order to get elevated to celeb scandal? Oh Internet....you ruin everything.) A few weeks later, A-Rod removed himself from The World Baseball Classic because a cyst was found in his right hip. As the cyst was drained, a torn labrum was found in the same hip.

These events laid end to end lack a certain potency, but it belies the human at the center of the maelstrom. Underneath the millions and playboy exterior, I would wager that there is a human being that got a sour pinch in his stomach when he pressed on the alien mass in his hip. A person with his mistakes gnawing at his periphery and a heart like a millstone. An actual human who had actual fear that he might be severed from his purpose. This is all impossible to prove, but there is no question that real life howled around Alexander Rodriguez. He was injured. He had to watch the baseball world go on without him, as easily as it would if he didn't exist. He had to watch his team struggle. He had to exit the game under a cloud of soot. The effects of this on his person-dom are impossible to gauge, but it was a curious thing on May 8th, 2009 when A-Rod returned to baseball. On the first pitch of his first at-bat, A-Rod hit a three run home run. This is the sort of hollow victory that means very little, but it set the tone for the acts of this familiar hero's tale to follow. The crushing .378 post-season batting average is part of the story, and the 18 RBIs and 6 home runs over the playoffs are impressive, but it was when these hits came. There were bottom of the 11th game-tying home runs and 2 RBI singles with two outs. That's ice cold. That's clutch. That's a man who has earned his soul.

And of course, the Yankees won the 2009 World Series...but who knows? Maybe Girardi is that good of a coach (he really did turn those pansies into some grinders). Maybe Reggie Jackson finally got through to the guy. Or perhaps this person was finally wrung through some adversity. A man who had to sit inside an MRI machine and meditate on a life without the pinstripes and the adoration and the weight of a bat in his hands. A legacy left unsatisfied. Again, it's impossible to prove, but SI.com reporter Jon Heyman had these reflections from the game when A-Rod broke his infamous post-season slump:

"But this time, Rodriguez does appear looser. He hasn't been the center of attention all season, and he has seemed noticeably happier to those around him. Rodriguez deflects questions that are about him...he has been somewhat scarcer in a clubhouse full of hiding spots, and when he comes out to talk, he talks about the team now."

On first peal, it appears to be the filler of any sports-hero-make-good journalism, but in my staunch naivete, I'd like to believe it's the sign of a more complete man forged in the white-hot furnace of life. A deeper value of purpose, a grasp on the special thing they posses, a new fulfillment removed from wealth or vanity. The hard fought reward of suffering just enough to become human.