Houston Astros represent last straw in cheating history of MLB

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Sunrise, January 2008. I report to Diamondbacks Fantasy Camp in Tucson, soul soaring with poetry and romance. First participant in the building. Uniform hanging in my locker, surname stitched on the back. Like I’ve walked inside a dream. And you want to know real dedication?

Chip Hale, future manager of the D-backs, is buzzing about in semi-darkness, arriving shortly after 4 a.m. to make sure wannabe players feel like they’re really in the Show.

Two days later, and my quadriceps are screaming. Ankles numb from foul balls and bad bounces. Torn up from the invisible grind. Sore enough to shower in the hot tub. Near the end of my grand adventure, I hobbled to the lobby bar for liquid relief, where I was struck by an awful epiphany.

If I had a forbidden magic pill, would I take it to feel better?


To recover faster? To get up in the morning eager and…

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