Sammy Sosa, it’s your turn at bat to come clean on steroids

Sammy Sosa did not need any artificial help to take one of his mighty swings and connect (Image via Wikipedia)

One down, two to go.

Mark McGwire took the better-late-than-never approach in admitting steroid use. But Barry Bonds is a lost cause — his ego and arrogance is as big as his melon head.

In the middle is Sammy Sosa. You’re up to the plate (without a corked bat) now to admit the truth. And as they always say, the truth will set you free.

You know how you frittered away the love of the city of Chicago, and much of the rest of the baseball world, when you claimed you couldn’t speak English during the same Congressional hearing in 2005, in which McGwire refused to “talk about the past.”

You know you spent the off-seasons flitting around from place to place, especially after the 1998 season, when you literally made a world tour ranging from Japan to the State of the Union address. You had no time to do an aggressive weight-lifting program. And before games at Wrigley Field, you spent all your spare time in the batting cage, not the weight room. After batting practice you hung by your locker eating a ham sandwich. So the bull linemen’s neck you sported when you reported to spring training with the Cubs in 1999 could not have been the result of weight training.

Why did your arm strength decline in one season, from 1998 to 1999, from a scout’s rating of “seven” for good to “four” for average or less. No one degenerates into a near-pus arm unless he’s injured or too muscle-bound in his upper body.

No one could have bulked up that much, that quickly, using conventional means. When you first came to the Cubs in 1992, your nickname was “The Panther.” You were strong but lithe. For awhile you aggravated teammates and some media with your obsession to be a “30-30″ guy — 30 homers, 30 stolen bases, and your gold jewelry was considered too gaudy, too self-centered for baseball propriety.

You naturally gained in strength and ability through 1996. That season, you were on a 52-homer pace when a pitch broke your wrist with five weeks to go. You were still a great athletic specimen. But being just nearly great wasn’t enough. Doing things naturally and letting it flow wasn’t enough.

Insecurity over your impoverished past in the Dominican Republic wasn’t good enough an explanation by now. You were successful and established, making megabucks and taking care of your family three times over. Why did you think you needed a whole lot more?

Why did you take the short-cuts, be it artificial enhancements that are so obvious, or the corked bats in 2003 when you were coming off an injury, refused a minor-league rehab assignment and had timing so out of whack you couldn’t hit a loud foul off the Astros’ hard throwers?

In June, 2002, I gave you a chance to shed light on the steroids issue. Rangers manager Jerry Narron said Chicago fans were smart enough to know which of their players were artificially enhanced, hinting you. Minutes later, I played you Narron’s tape and you listened. When I asked you for your reaction, you put me off: “I’m just here to play baseball.”

Commissioner Bud Selig really liked you. MLB disciplinarian Bob Watson told me in 2003 that you helped mitigate your penalty for the corked bat by calling Selig immediately to admit your guilt. If you do the same now about how and why your body inflated without the use of weight-training, you will show the class a lot of folks say you lacked when you walked out on the Cubs early in the final game of the 2004 season, with your teammates bashing your boom box in anger afterward.

Fans forgive. Michael Vick committed crimes far worse than injecting junk into his rear end by killing God’s creatures, and now he’s back as a productive backup NFL player. Just tell the truth and why you took short-cuts.

You once had a chance to be the new Mr. Cub, Sammy. That’s gone for good. But you have a good shot to get back in the good graces of baseball. They won’t wipe out your home-run totals just as they won’t erase Gaylord Perry’s 300-some victories for throwing a Vaseline ball.

Just watch the interview McGwire did with Bob Costas on the MLB Network. The tears and remorse were genuine. McGwire would have to be an Academy Award-winning actor to tear up in a phony manner.

You once hugged this man in the joy of the 1998 home-run chase. Now embrace the concept of the truth. The rest of your life will not be so burdensome.