What-EVER.

So, indeed, Plotzer star Manny Ramirez has admitted he used a substance prohibited by major league baseball, a female hormone prescribed for men who do not produce enough testosterone. Not enough juice in the ol' oranges there, Manuelito?

So, no Manny until July 3, and BFD. Plotnik probably ought to be upset about it and he's pleased that he's not. Whether or not the Plotzers can win without him remains to be seen -- they're a great team with him but they're still a good team without him -- and yet Plottie finds he doesn't care all that much. He is either maturing or beginning his Brain Dead phase.

What-EVER.

Here's how Plotnik figures it works. If you're good enough to be a professional athlete now, you've been a superstar all your life. You like the perks that go along with it, but the one you love the most is your competitive advantage over the other players. You know you're better than the rest, always have been, still are. If you're Manny or Alex Rodriguez or Barry Bonds you are hooked in to all the latest developments in training.

So your agent or another player whispers to you that everybody's doing the latest designer drug. You're so good a player that you really don't need it, but if you don't do it you're allowing the masses, those other clods who have never been able to hit or throw or block or pass like you can, to catch up.

You cannot let this happen.

Like eating M&MS, once you open the bag it's hard to close it, because you're afraid you won't be able to perform like you used to if you stop. If you become only as good as everyone else, your 25 million a year won't keep up with your loss of esteem and, worst scenario of all, you might have to look at some other chiseled Dominican in a jockstrap standing on your old pedestal.

Plotnik just read this over and it rings true. Just like combat vets like to hang out with other combat vets, athletes' best friends are other athletes. They covet each other's respect and don't really carry all that much about what civilians think about them. Respect is defined by statistics. More homers, more championships, more respect. And nobody ever asks about your testosterone.

What-EVER. Shee, mon.