Lord knows we needed a distraction. Between the Caylee Anthony memorial and the Boss Man jetting around the country telling us that if we weren't all going straight to economic Hell, we were at least going to make a pretty close pass, it was practically throat-slitting time.

Along comes A-Rod to take our minds off our problems. Why the fascination with his juicing up? Why care? I'm guessing it's like looking at candid paparazzi photos of superstars wearing bikinis, and finding out they have thigh saddlebags just like you do.

Feet of clay. "Yeah, I could hit as good as him if I'd taken 'roids, too. Anybody could." It says something about us that we make heroes out of people who can connect with a leather ball, then knock 'em down. Adulation translates into money, which is why grabbing an edge where you can is hard to resist.

If you want to put sports figures up on a pedestal, why not make role models out of the folks who do such a good job, time after time, of getting those foul ball lines perfectly straight with the lime cart? Or how about that guy who proudly mows the outfield just so, leaving a Scottish tartan pattern behind? We appreciate the majesty of their work, it's far more consistent than that of a star hitter, and they probably don't need drugs to do it.