Soured on Athletes, but Still a Sucker

It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m hiking up a fire road in Elysian Park.

What a view.

You can see all 16 million Southern Californians from up there, and when I get to the top of the hill, looking down on Dodger Stadium, I’m going to shout for everyone to hear:

Tickets for sale!

Get ‘em while they last.

Dodger tickets for sale!

I knew I shouldn’t have bought them. No sooner had I written the check than news broke of the latest steroid scandal, reminding me why I always regret taking out another mortgage to buy tickets, beer and peanuts. If I want to pay good money to watch unscrupulous people lie, scheme and play dirty, I could just write a campaign check.

So why did I buy Dodger tickets?

Because I’m a sucker, that’s why. I went to St. Peter Martyr Catholic School, where one of the nuns -- probably the one who whacked me in the head with my grammar workbook -- said you should always turn the other cheek, and that’s what I did. Plus, there’s some nostalgia involved.

My dad used to take me to see the San Francisco Giants of Mays, McCovey and Marichal, and later I spent many a night watching the Oakland A’s of Reggie, Vida and Catfish. Back then, cheating consisted of an occasional spitball.

But Nixon was in the White House by then and it was only a matter of time before the lying, cheating and greed found their way into every nook and cranny of American culture and commerce, including baseball. First came the Pete Rose betting scandal, then the strike -- billionaire owners at war with millionaire players, canceling the World Series -- and then corked bats and balls.

And, finally, corked ballplayers.

Scrawny little rascals who could barely hit the ball out of the infield suddenly began perfecting their home-run trots. The bigger sluggers, meanwhile, took on strange mutations almost overnight, growing heads the size of cruise ships. And the game’s home run and attendance records were shredded while team owners smiled like thieves and high school kids began reaching for their own supplements, some of them life-threatening.

Do you want to know when America hit absolute rock bottom? It was the day the first juiced Major Leaguer hit a ball that drew attention from the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, then pointed to the heavens and thanked God upon hitting home plate, and 50,000 knuckleheads stood and cheered like true believers at a revival.

But I was still trying to hang in there, dope that I am.

Now comes a book by San Francisco Chronicle reporters Lance Williams and Mark Fainaru-Wada saying the Giants’ Barry Bonds became a steroid addict several years ago. The man was already on his way to the Hall of Fame and making a bazillion dollars a minute, but that wasn’t enough. He was jealous about other cheaters muscling in on his game, and he wanted to ride the rocket too.

These allegations are coming as a great shock to baseball’s rulers, coaches, players and fans. We’d all tried to ignore the obvious: that Bonds’ upper body quadrupled in size roughly every two weeks. Bonds himself has casually dismissed the book, saying he has no need to look at it.

And I bought tickets to the show?

I know, I know. Bonds doesn’t play for the Dodgers. If he did, that sorry lot might actually have a shot this year. But I’d bet there’s a Dodger or two who’s got more than beef and beans in his tank, and Major League Baseball is as big a culprit as the players. The game is so corrupt, they ought to get Ken Lay to throw out the first pitch somewhere.

As I climb the hill on a morning workout, the chest pains are from more than the incline. First person I see, I’m going to unload these miserable tickets.

Half price, anyone?

Here I am at the top of the hill now and I can see the hallowed stadium, the red dirt of the infield, grass the color of money.

Tickets for sale!

Wait a minute. Is that my section there behind third base?

Great seats.

I might hold onto a couple of the tickets, after all, just to hoist a beer or two under the stars on a sultry summer night. You never know when you might catch Vin Scully on someone’s transistor. Besides, one of the retreads in the new lineup could come to life -- miracle of miracles -- and the scabby Dodgers might scratch out a win here and there.

Spring flowers are in bloom up there on the hill, you know. I mean, anything’s possible, even though this interloping owner from Boston doesn’t seem competent to manage a T-ball club, the carpetbagging capitalist.

Am I a fool and a sucker? No doubt about it.

But no graduate of St. Peter Martyr could ever forget the teachings of angry nuns. That’s what I bought the tickets for, anyway, to bear witness to the death of decency, humility and fair play.

Are the players and owners rich enough? Perhaps not. Let’s keep those $9 beers coming, let’s offer the younger fans steroid how-to kits at the souvenir stand, and I hope the Dodgers beat the snot out of those lying, cheating, juiced up Giants.

If I’m on steroids when I give Bonds the business, will my boos travel farther?

Reach the columnist at steve.lopez@latimes.com and read previous columns at www.latimes.com/lopez.