A star, his foibles, and his flaws

The Many Lives of Alex Rodriguez

Harper. 272 pp. $26.99

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Reviewed by Bill Lyon

In the soft, gathering Maryland dusk, on the eighth of May of this year, a Baltimore Orioles pitcher named Jeremy Guthrie unfurled a 98-m.p.h. fastball that came in hard and mean and angrier than a rattlesnake poked with a stick.

The hitter, Alexander Emmanuel Rodriguez of the New York Yankees - a.k.a. A-Rod, or A-God to his supporters, or A-Fraud to his detractors, a self-absorbed narcissist who had been prevented from playing the opening five weeks of the season because of hip surgery - was looking at the first live ammunition he had faced in seven months.

With a fly caster's wrist-snap and a precision swing that a Swiss watchmaker would envy, he drove the ball into the left-field bleachers. Two teammates scored ahead of him.

Even the opponents gaped in disbelief. First pitch of a first at-bat in his first game and it's a three-run home run? Even for a man who greedily, unabashedly craves the spotlight and the theatrical, this was over the top.

In the words of CC Sabathia, the Yankees' starter who was the beneficiary of Rodriguez's largesse: "It was unbelievable, but it wasn't surprising. He's the best player in the game."

And so he is.

The question is, how did he get that way?

It's a question we seem to be asking every other day these days as the steroid stain spreads. The kitchen light comes on and the dopers and juicers frantically scurry into hiding. (The day of A-Rod's dramatic return, another superstar slugger who was caught having used banned chemicals, Manny Ramirez, had begun serving a 50-game suspension.)

The body count of marquee names lengthens. More leaks are sure to follow. And a cottage industry is developing in the publishing world. The parade of books about big-name players who have sought the magic elixir tumble from the shelves in a tiring, tiresome line.

A-Rod, by Sports Illustrated writer Selena Roberts, tells us that all Alex Rodriguez has ever ached to be is the best and the richest baseball player ever. That's all. No self-induced pressure there, right, A-Rod?

He is, by all accounts, extravagantly talented, his workouts maniacal, and his diet meticulously measured. He is portrayed as a hedonist obsessed with image, having carved a body of cut glass, going for and achieving a lean and tawny look, rather than the swollen physiques of those anabolic abusers who are roughly the size of Rhode Island.

Baseball people are pretty much in agreement that A-Rod is a victim of his own yearning and ambition. The consensus: He was already great and destined to be even greater; he didn't need to cheat, didn't need to cut corners.

A-Rod's defense: He felt the pressure of great expectations and gave in to them.

The story of A-Rod and his foibles is pretty well raked over in this biography, which is most definitely unauthorized and whose theme is relentlessly pursued. The author has worked for newspapers, and her detailed reportorial depth is evident.

Portions of the book were leaked several days before the scheduled release date. How convenient. Suspicious minds might question whether this was a transparent ploy to jump-start sales, to create a buzz where there wasn't any.

The thesis is this: He saw a way to enhance his natural talents and he took it.

During the years 2001, 2002, and 2003, while in the employ of the Texas Rangers, from whom he had extracted a 10-year contract for an incomprehensible $252 million, A-Rod was, as they say in the weight room, on the juice.

At first he denied it, then he confessed, and then he set about being remorseful. It is the trifecta of choice these days: Lie, lie, lie. Deny, deny, deny. Spin, spin, spin.

At the moment, he is 33 years old with nine years left on a contract under which the Yankees are paying him $275 million. When, not if, he becomes the leading home-run hitter of all time, he will make an additional $25 million. This contract partly explains the price of a prime seat in the Yankees' new stadium - $2,500. That's per game.

On the 14th of May, in the new Yankees' palace, Alex Rodriguez cranked a two-run, 11th-inning, game-winning walk-off homer. That same night, at a banquet, Cal Ripken Jr., whom A-Rod has idolized, called A-Rod to account.

Ripken said: "I want to know why [he used a banned substance]. I'm going to make it my business to find out."

A-Rod's response: "I'm not going there."

Conclusion: This isn't going to expire any time soon.

But of all that is in A-Rod the book, the most chilling is this, the allegation that he was tipping pitches, letting opposing batters know what was coming:

"Former Rangers say he would also use his insider's information against his team in what they describe as a stunning display of devious behavior. In games that were lopsided - and with the Rangers there were plenty - Alex would occasionally violate a sacred clubhouse code: From his shortstop vantage point, he would tip pitches to the supposed opposition at the plate in a quid pro quo. It would always be a middle infielder who could reciprocate.

" 'It was a friend of his . . . a buddy who had maybe gone 0 for 3 and needed a hit,' says one former player. 'Alex would see the catcher's signs. He'd signal the pitch to the hitter, do a favor for him. And down the line Alex would expect the same in return.' "

There follows a detailed explanation of how the alleged pitch-tipping worked. If true, then in many ways that's more reprehensible than juicing because you have betrayed your own teammates and dishonored the game.

Slowly, excruciatingly, inch by duplicitous inch, drip by enervating drip, the game seems to be losing its innocence.

Or maybe it's us.