Baseball's End Times

The sharp *snap* of bubble gum punctuates the Iron Maiden song blasting over Yankee Stadium's PA system. The player jaws it back into his mouth, head bowed as he hefts a bat onto his shoulder and makes his way to the plate, morphing from bystander to batter, from ignored to booed. This is the life of Alex Rodriguez in 2015, playing for a team, a fanbase, and a league that seem largely just to want him to go away.

One issue of contention, of course, is the set of milestones (and bonus payouts, let's not forget) he could reach this year despite his declining performance, the pall of steroid suspicions, and overall disdain lofted in his general direction. He's fast approaching 3000 hits, and 660 home runs, among other marks.

I've crunched the numbers using his age-36 season's 18 homers in 122 games as a baseline, trying to factor in his age and the year off, the usual gradual decline in power we see for players his age, playing time limited by a few minor injuries and the Yankees messing with him, and his association with the Devil. My projection system expects a season total of 12 home runs, not because he doesn't retain decent power or because it sees him missing major time for injury, but because with 12 dingers hell [sic] reach 666 for his career, a total that will initiate the Apocalypse.

There were signs. A-Rod was good at 19, a Revelation at age 20, and quickly became one of the best--if not the beast--players in the game. He set records, won awards, made Scott Boras richer, dated Madonna. But here's the secret: his true performance enhancer was not a drug, not stanozolol or HGH or nandrolone. You see, Alex Rodriguez is really a centaur, half man and half horse, half amazing and half ass. His decline has been precipitous in part because, yes, he's unhealthy and his hips are arthritic, but moreover, he's got four of them. What once created hip rotation that gave his swing unparalleled power now haunts him. Japanese World War II propaganda knew it, and the Puritans at Salem knew it, even if we've since forgotten: humans consorting with or indistinguishable from beasts are really demons, Satan's minions in our world. They're preparing the way.

Also, I know I'm on to something because my Starbucks receipt this morning shows a total of $6.66, for a grande latte and a mediocre cheese danish. So it's coming; put on the damn helmet. Don't say you haven't been warned.