John Rocker owes me a ton. He’s just too dumb to know it.

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In case you missed this, I celebrated my 100th episode of Two Writers Slinging Yang by devoting the milestone edition to looking back 20 years at my John Rocker story in Sports Illustrated. You can listen here.

Anyhow, over the course of two decades, Rocker has repeatedly blamed me for his lot in life. I was a Jew with an agenda. I was a member of the media elite. I misled. I lied. I fabricated. On and on and on—a consistent stream of lying about what happened on the day he and I drove around Atlanta together.

But here’s the thing: John Rocker owes me. Or, really, owes Sports Illustrated.

According to Baseball Reference, Rocker’s career most resembles these other pitchers …

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At the risk of asking the obvious, anyone around here talk to Brad Boxberger lately? How about Ray Searage and Tim Collins? Ernesto Frieri anybody? Felipe Vazquez?

Truth be told, without the article Rocker isn’t a footnote in baseball history—he’s a pimple on the ass of an ass pimple on baseball history. Rocker makes regular Cooperstown appearances—because of that story. He peddles goods on his website—because of that story. He wrote a book—because of that story. He had a columnist job—because of that story. He appeared on Survivor—because of that story. He’s asked to play in celebrity golf tournaments and pretend he’s not a racist pile of pig shit—because of that story.

So, really, save me any more “Whoa is me” crying over John Rocker’s fate.

It could be worse.

He could be Tom Wilhelmsen …

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