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By Jason Keidel
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It feels like eons ago, but there was a time when A-Rod was actually liked. He was the kid with a man’s frame and a pro’s game. A freak, in the stellar sense of the word. And his gaffes were garden variety, the baptism of manhood, and mostly the province of Paparazzi.
Sunning in Central Park isn’t a felony. Neither is kissing your reflection in a major magazine spread. Neither is playing poker with Spider Man and Leonardo DiCaprio. Neither is telling Esquire that your BFF at the time, Derek Jeter, is essentially overrated.
We could forgive his frat-boy proclivities. He was the one who would bring clean veins to the game, inject fresh blood into the record books synthesized by Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa. Justice would prevail.
Then A-Rod got serious about his malfeasance. And now, while we wait for the corporate guillotine…
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