Enemy Perspective:

Six Days on the Juice

This article appeared in the July 11, 2007 issue of Barstool Sports.

Web site: Barstoolsports.com

Getting old is a reality every guy has to come to grips with. I'm 29, and I think this is the first year I've truly admitted to myself, you will never play professional baseball--even though I barely made my high school baseball team.

I look at some of the older guys that are playing ball these days, and I think: how do they do it? Barry Bonds is 42. Roger Clemens is 44. Even Derek Jeter will be 33 by the time you read this (June 24). And Bobby Abreu is... only 33, which was surprising. He looks a lot older than that. Maybe he's a bad example.

But he can still leg it out when he needs to. I watch these guys play a sport every day, and I can't even get out of my chair at work without being stiff.

Worst of all are the random injuries that come out of nowhere. I woke up the other day with shooting, horrible pains in my arm. Pain so severe that I couldn't even think straight. And it got worse when I moved my arm--I can honestly say that caused me some of the worst pain I've ever felt.

Granted, I've never been shot in the kneecap or whipped with a cat-o-nine-tails, so my idea of severe might not be as strong as yours. But I've been seriously injured enough to know what pain is.

(My friend Jim's brother broke his leg skiing once. He hit a jump and when he landed, the lower bone in his leg split the upper bone in two, like Robin Hood splitting an arrow in a bulls-eye. That, my friends, is pain.)

After three days and no sleep, I finally checked my ego and went to the hospital. Of course, they had no idea what was going on. "Painkillers" was all I could muster when they asked me what they could do to help.

A little advice: if you value your job, don't take painkillers in an office setting. I was dropping f-bombs and getting as unruly as Naomi Campbell in a room full of Latina maids. Lucky for me, my boss has a good sense of humor. The funniest part of all is that the painkillers didn't kill the pain. At all. I was wasted and in pain.

So I went back to the doctor and she suggesting something else: Cortisone. "Wait," I said, "you mean steroids?" I help my breath, and sure enough, she nodded. It was everything I could do to contain my excitement.

It hit me like a wave of greatness, like an ocean of truth. My life had finally come to fruition, my lifelong goals within reach.

I was going on the juice!

I can't begin to tell you how excited I was, for so many reasons. I was giddy when I dropped off my prescription--so much so that the young pharmacist-in-training probably thought I was going to hit her over the head with a bag of doorknobs and steal some oxycontin. "I'm going on the juice!" I exclaimed, with a big-ass smile on my face. She backed away slowly, but said I could pick it up tomorrow.

When I picked it up, my first disappointment was that it was in the pill form. I had been hoping for the Cream or the Clear. "What's this crap?" I asked the druggie counter girl.

"Cortisone tablets," she said, "do you have a question about your prescription?"

Dejectedly, I shook my head, and told her, "No. I just thought it would come in a tube and I could slowly rub it into my skin every day."

She backed away slowly again.

I wasn't about to let my time on the juice be dampened by a pill form. I was about to find out what the Barry Bondses, Jason Giambis, and Mark McGuires already knew--and best of all, it was legal! Take that Bud Selig! George Mitchell ain't got shit on me!

I had so many questions: would I be able to break Aaron's record? Could I leap tall buildings in a single bound? Throw a 98-mph fastball? Compete in a strongman competition? Would my pee-pee get smaller? Honestly I really didn't care if it did--I just wanted to know if it could happen.

The downside of my prescription was that it only lasted for six days. And because of my severe arm pain, I may not be able to test my athletic ability enough to decide if I am suddenly a Hall-of-Fame-caliber slugger. But at the very least, I figured I could now live that life-long dream of getting a tryout for a minor-league team, like maybe the Staten Island Yankees or the Lowell Spinners.

So to chronicle my six days on the juice, I decided to do a day-by-day diary. You know, for purely medical reasons.

Day 1:

I took the dose this morning and another this afternoon, and don't feel anything. Well, except my arm pain. Still feel that. I tried to lift a car with my good arm, but it didn't budge. Maybe she gave me the wrong stuff? Or maybe it just needs another day to kick in. Should have asked the druggie counter girl.

Day 2:

After the dose last night and the one this morning, I'm happy to report William Jr. works just fine. As for my super strength: some kids were playing wiffle ball in the park, and I told them I could hit like Barry Bonds--didn't want to poison young minds and tell them why--so they let me play. I struck out three times and made contact once, so my game was just like a typical Bonds game. Only problem is, the contact was a pop fly to the pitcher. Not sure what went wrong. Maybe the steroids didn't kick in because there wasn't a real home run fence--just a couple of bums passed out under a blanket where the kids pointed and said, "If you hit it that far, you have to go get it." Yes, that had to be why.

Oh, and my arm still hurts like the dickens. Actually, that wiffle ball bat was pretty damn heavy. Probably shouldn't have done that.

Day 3:

I don't feel so good this morning. Feel kind of nauseous. Must be my muscle cells duplicating at superhuman rates. Soon, I'll have 36-inch biceps like Mark McGuire had when he was on andro. That will be awesome. I'll have to buy some new shirts though.

My arm feels better, but not 100%. I'm starting to think that steroids aren't all they're cracked up to be. Maybe I should have asked for the cortisone shot. That's what the athletes get, right? Damn.

Day 4:

First thing I noticed is that my arm feels better today. I was excited getting out of bed because the lack of pain meant the steroids were kicking in. I was a little cautious though, because my body didn't look any different. My Yankees hat still fit, which was disappointing. I mean, I look at Barry's head and it's swollen to the size of a mutated pumpkin.

Also for the record: Willie Jr. was at attention this morning when I woke up, so alls well in that department.

Day 5:

Today, I woke up feeling kind of grumpy. One of my coworkers asked me a question and I just about took her head off. I ordered a medium-rare burger at lunch, and they brought me out a well-done one. I threw it on the floor and screamed at the waitress. I'm not even sure why I did that, I'm usually an easy-going guy.

To blow off this steam I apparently had, I played catch with my buddy after work. I thought we'd have to play long toss given that I was on the ‘roids, but I couldn't throw it any farther than Coco or Damon. I'm starting to think that steroids have nothing to do with playing baseball, and maybe we should give those guys more credit than we do.

Day 6:

My arm feels fine, so the steroids are good for something. I bought a ton of groceries and carried them home, and I was exhausted after that. This has been so disappointing. The way all these reporters talk about steroids and how they make the game so easy, I figured I'd be hitting .290 with 30 homers in the New York Penn League by now. Sure, maybe I would have gotten caught, but I could have swapped out my pee like the guy from "The Program." I had it all worked out.

Overall, I'd call my six days on the juice a bust. I'm not stronger, I'm not faster, and my ding-dong is just dandy. (Yeah, I didn't take the same stuff as those guys, I know.) The lesson we've learned here is that steroids don't make you a good baseball player. The positive part of the experiment is this: I can watch Barry Bonds break Hank's record and be impressed by it, because the guy is 42 and still playing ball, even if he did take something he shouldn't have--I can accept the fact that maybe he'd only have 650 or so if he didn't juice. Why? Because you don't see anyone else his age doing what he's doing, do you? That makes him special. I get sore carrying the groceries, and he's got 13 years on me.

I'm not saying I like the guy, or that I want him to break it; but I'm not about to put an asterisk next to his name either.

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