By Bruce Jenkins
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In a sport tormented by the supernatural, and widespread evidence of its effects on history, Albert Pujols represents the natural He was supposed to happen. What a shame that people are too freaked out to believe it.
Do you subscribe to the "bigger, stronger, faster" theory of sports evolution? Well, here it is. Pujols is the 21st century, the ultimate striker of the baseball, the heir to Barry Bonds as the best damn hitter alive. He’s big, sort of a modern-day "Baby Bull" (Orlando Cepeda), but not alarmingly so. A Cooperstown presence from the instant he arrived, he has steadily improved each year. He is Hispanic, markedly representing the game’s most significant revolution in 50 years. He is Michael Jordan, Lawrence Taylor, Roger Federer — the next great thing, the closest step yet to perfection.
And by the way, where does he keep his stash of Human Growth Hormone?
This isn’t sports, healer of all souls, this is baseball’s version of the McCarthy era. Every home run brings just the slightest hint of doubt. If a pitcher loses a touch of velocity, he must be off the juice. Barry Bonds carries a massive frame, so he must still be doing something, except wait a minute, his body illustrates the classic post-steroid breakdown — so which is it?
There remains the possibility, of course, that Pujols is not completely natural. "Hey, I passed every test" means nothing in a testing system rendered illegitimate by loopholes. The suspicion just seems wrong, that’s all. It smacks of fear and paranoia. Pujols is about to show that a 65-to-70-homer season can be accomplished through honest means, but please, let’s talk about urine.