A-Rod = A-Fraud
Maybe it’s his cousin’s sister’s friend, or something. Maybe his wife, Cynthia, knows all about it. Maybe it’s harmless, innocent. Or just maybe -- like some of us have long been saying -- Alex Rodriguez is far from the Boy Scout he tries to portray himself as.
This morning’s New York Post features a cover photo of the New York Yankees third baseman gallivanting around Toronto with a blond bombshell under the headline “Stray-Rod.” The two had dinner at a restaurant, went to a strip club and eventually retired to the former Texas Rangers’ hotel room. A-Rod, somehow still on the Rangers’ payroll for three more years, had “no comment” when asked about his night on the town without his wife or 2½-year-old daughter, Natasha.
Me, I'd explain the relationship/situation. That is, if there’s nothing to hide. Because “no comment” only opens up more doors to more dimly lit rooms.
Whether he’s lying about playing poker in illegal clubs, trying to bitch-slap the ball out of a first baseman’s glove, blaming his dying uncle on another crappy post-season or saying his superfluous night life has nothing to do with him going to counseling, A-Rod always comes off disingenuous.
In the July 15, 2004, issue of American Way magazine, A-Rod responded to a Q about his hometown Miami night life with this A: “I’m not a nightclub guy, so I’m the wrong person to ask.” He also duped Sports Illustrated columnist and nine-time National Sportswriter of the Year Rick Reilly when, in the July 5 issue of the magazine, he asked about A-Rod’s post-game routine.
“Actually, after a day game, I just like to come back to the apartment and watch the replay,” A-Rod told SI. And when you really want to get crazy? “Honestly?” A-Rod responded. “What I love to do is go to the Metropolitan Museum and see the Impressionists. I could do that for hours.”
What he calls “Impressionists,” the rest of us refer to as “trouble.” Still, I wonder how big a deal this latest story would be if A-Rod’s Yankees weren’t a whopping 14 ½ games behind the hated Red Sawx? --Richie Whitt