For all the reverence that baseball's record book receives, the sport has never been inclined to penalize the convicted or admitted cheats within it.
Consider Gaylord Perry, who from 1962 to 1983 unabashedly threw pitches slathered with Vaseline while winning 314 games and earning entry to the Hall of Fame. Or Norm Cash, a slugger for the Detroit Tigers, who in 1961 admittedly corked his bat and hit an impressive .361 with 41 home runs and 132 runs batted in; in his next 13 seasons in the major leagues, his batting average never rose higher than .283.
Their numbers live forever in encyclopedias and on various lists as if they had been accomplished squarely within the rules.
But with the 10-day suspension last week of the Baltimore Orioles' Rafael Palmeiro, who tested positive for using steroids, the debate was joined once again over how to enter steroid-tainted achievements in the record books.
If any group would be most outraged by last week's disclosure, it is the records committee of the Society for American Baseball Research, a worldwide organization of nearly 7,000 intent on maintaining the integrity of baseball's historical record. The group held its annual meeting here last week.
The members of this committee are known for two things: caring deeply about home runs, batting averages and other statistical details, and, just as starkly, never agreeing on anything. After all, these are the people who argued for days about a double here and a putout there, and whether Ferdie Schupp of the New York Giants actually posted the National League's lowest earned run average back in 1916 -- a jaw-dropping 0.90.
The group of about 50 experts almost immediately reached a consensus on the steroids quandary. Perhaps more reflexively than most baseball fans stung by Palmeiro's suspension, most of these seasoned numbers buffs remained resignedly pragmatic when determining how steroids should be dealt with in the record book.
Sports statistics to these committee members remain unalterable facts, simple if not pure.
Moral of the story
"We're not moralists," said Lyle Spatz, the committee's chairman. "We count which players hit such-and-such home runs, not whether they quote-unquote deserved them."
David Vincent, who specializes in home run information, brought up Whitey Ford, who admitted to throwing doctored baseballs late in his career: "Where's the moral indignation there?"
When talk turned to how baseball's playing conditions have constantly evolved, from night games and integration to artificial turf and tiny strike zones, one sarcastically suggested that all 20th century hitters be thrown out because fielders now wear gloves.
All sports have learned that trying to unring the bell for any reason, cheating or otherwise, has always been a rather clunky exercise -- one that not only rings hollow but is often rescinded decades later.
Baseball can lay claim to the most awkward instance of all, the handling of Roger Maris' 61 home runs in 1961. That year, the season had been extended to 162 games, eight game more than when Babe Ruth had set the mark with 60 in 1927. Baseball officials, wanting to protect Ruth's majesty, decided to list both Yankees as record-holders. (Contrary to legend, an asterisk by Maris' name was never used.)
But soon after baseball got used to the 162-game schedule, fans and officials alike realized the distinction was long obsolete, and so in 1991, Fay Vincent, the commissioner of Major League Baseball, officially removed Ruth's name and left Maris alone -- confirming that in sports, even mental asterisks have half-lives.
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