I got a call from my buddy Josh up in MA today, and the poor guy sounded like he'd just been to a funeral. This was around noon, a good two hours away from the release of "The Mitchell Report", a nearly 2 year witch hunt that Uncle Bud commissioned to find out the "truth" about steroids and baseball.
Josh told me that WEEI was reporting that among the names on Mitchell's list was Jason Varitek, Julian Tavarez, and Trot Nixon: His sadness wasn't for Tek, or Tavarez, or Trot (Incidentally, NONE of the three were mentioned in the report: some dink just dragged their names through the mud for nothing), it was for me. I'm paraphrasing here, but "I just feel bad for you and your boy."
Spoken like a fellow Munchkin: Thanks, man.
What I told him in response was basically this: If Trot Nixon HAD showed up on that list, it wouldn't have changed the fact he is one of my all time favorite players or caused me to regret I named my son after him. Nixon just happened to come along during the most controversial period in baseball since Shoeless Joe Jackson fixed the World Series: for any player in the same boat, it's gonna be guilt by association. And that's too bad: because of no tests for certain drugs such as HGH, we'll NEVER know exactly how many guys skirted the system.
Besides, with every passing day I'm more convinced that choosing the name Trot for our 3rd child was perfect. Consider today:
My Mom kept him for a few hours today, and at one point, she found him furiously running in place.
She had to change his socks, shoes, and pants: WHY is this child fascinated with the commode?
Later on, I took Ciera to the book fair at her school: when we left, the boy was fine. When we returned 45 minutes later, he had ran into an open cabinet door and richoched off the wall, ending up with a Gorbachev-esque mark on his forehead and a wicked bruise on his nose:
Now, if THAT isn't a Dirt Dog, I don't know what is.