A Letter to Albert Pujols

Dear Albert,

I'm sure you've heard the news about Alex Rodriquez admitting to using illegal substances to enhance his baseball performance. While I've never been much of an A-Rod fan, I am a fan of yours...but I confess I'm nervous.

I'm nervous, Albert, that you're a fraud as well - like Rodriquez...like Bonds...like McGwire. I'm nervous that your name is on a soon-to-be-released list of drug-doers, and if and when the evidence gets too overwhelming to refute, you're finally going to come out and say how sorry you are - not for what you did, but for the fact that you got caught.

And that's going to break my heart, Albert, along with millions of others who look to you as at least one - just one - player who happens to be great because he is rather than because of the drugs he does.

Which player are you, Albert? Can you say - before God and everybody - that you're honestly and truthfully the real deal? I need to know, because right now I have very little reason to care about baseball anymore. I'm sick of the business of it and of the players who will do anything for an edge.

I just want you to do your best, Albert, because your best is enough...or at least I think it has been. Has it been your best, Albert, or the drugs' best? I'm sorry I'm asking, but baseball has left me no choice.

I don't pretend to know the pressure you're under, and I don't mean to come off sounding ultimatum-ish, but if you fall, I'm done with baseball. I love the game (or the idea of what it used to be) and have always thought of you as an old-school player in a 21st-century uniform, but if you're no different from the overpaid junkies who can't hit a baseball unless they're on something, it's over, Albert. I'll never watch a game again.

Help me, El Hombre. You're my only hope.

Nervously,

Craig