Nick poses a good question in the comments section of yesterday's post: Why would I be upset if Papi were fingered by the Mitchell Report?
I don't have a great answer; or, better said, I don't have a terribly cogent answer. Maybe it's because Papi's infectious good humor transcends the business of the game and reminds me that it was once and maybe still can be fun. Maybe it's because the out-of-my-seat thrill provided when his lumpy body uncoils on a fastball middle-in and vaporizes it over the bullpens in Fenway tops my list of sports-induced joyful moments. Maybe it's because he seems deeply in touch with his inner goofball. Maybe it's because, of all the players in the major leagues, Papi's the one who makes me look at the game through child's eyes, and if he gets tarnished by the PED scandal, I'd lose the dwindling but still surviving sense of wonderment and pure joy I still have for sports.
Really, Nick, I think it's because I don't want to grow up. And seeing Papi, of all players, implicated this afternoon will mean in some small but meaningful way that I have to do that.