Any sports fan who lived through the late eighties and early nineties remembers the unworldly talent fielded by the Oakland A’s.  They seemed to be the favorite every year, but, regardless of reputation, the team managed to let their fans down all but once.  Perhaps no individual symbolized the team’s mix of flair and underachievement better than their Right Fielder, Jose Canseco.  He was a showy combination of size, speed, and strength, and possessed the looks of a muscle-headed matinee idol, but, as a player, he was often the butt of jokes.  He was nicknamed “Jose Can-strikeout,” and the image of an outfield fly bouncing off his head before leaving the ball park is not something that most of us will ever forget.
 
They’ll be no Hall of Fame for Jose Canseco, as his career peaked at age 24 with his winning the American League’s MVP Award.  This year, perhaps in the hopes of keeping his name alive, he released Juiced: Wild Times, Rampant 'Roids, Smash Hits, and How Baseball Got Big.  The book is combination of autobiography, baseball analysis, advocacy paper for the widespread use of steroids (seriously), and a dedicated attempt by one individual to blame every negative life event on racist America -- a racist America that made him unbelievably rich.

The reason that most people buy a book like this is to troll through celebrity dirt.  Well, certainly, there is some of that here.  Canseco documents personally administering and injecting steroids to Mark McGwire, Rafael Palmeiro, Juan Gonzalez, and Ivan Rodriguez.  Speculation is offered concerning the possible usage by Brady Anderson, Sammy Sosa, and Bret Boone.  Perhaps the only section of the book which will be of interest to the Entertainment Tonight types is his description of his relations with Madonna.  This is the only humorous tale told, and our laughter is mostly directed at him, such as here when he says of the pop icon,

A few more comments like that and Juiced will have to be moved from autobiography to humor down at your local Borders.

Yet, despite Madonna and a gaggle of MLB stars, this is no Page Six.  If you want really juicy details, you won’t find them here.  Bewitching us isn’t really his mission anyway. His goal is to get heavily into Jose and, disappointingly for the reader, he fulfills his own expectations.  The name dropping is strictly secondary.  This memoir will never be confused with North Dallas Forty.  We’re not hanging out with the players at any parties or romps.  Canseco mentions the wild life only in passing, but it’s mostly for the purposes of portraying Jason Giambi as a playboy. We’re never inside much else except Jose, and the view from within is both paranoid and adrenal.

At a macro level, the biggest problem here is that Canseco seems to be rather dim.  Intellectual deficiencies were something that one baseball source identified as being his “largest weakness as a player.”  The narrator doesn’t seem to understand baseball and speaks quite persuasively about steroids, despite his later acknowledgment that they raise blood pressure, harm the liver, and shrink genitalia.  After awhile, one suspects that he simply is not capable of making the theoretical connections necessary to analyze most subjects. 

That’s not to say that there are not some commendable aspects to the man.  Canseco’s admission of chronic childhood insecurity provides a valuable link to understanding his life, and such candor is appreciated.  He also goes to great lengths to avoid pretending that he was ever a natural at the game.  Indeed, he gives credit to steroids directly for making him a major leaguer.  His situational humility could have become endearing were it not for the fact that he seeks to blame everyone else for his troubles.

Nowhere is this more despicable than in his devotion to identity politics.  He states that it was “quiet racism” and “double standards” that made the media accuse him of steroid abuse.  The media’s allegations can be more appropriately labeled, “accuracy of perception.”  Jose did not seem like the type of guy who could keep his mouth shut, at least when it came to steroids, which were/are the great requited love of his life.  Jose may even refer to them when no one’s around as “my precious, my precious.” 

What is most annoying about this book is that Jose regards himself to be Joe Latino.  He sees himself as just another victim regardless of his opulence.  Time after time he states that he never thought he’d make it because America was too racist to accept Cubans as big league players, but then he belies his position by noting that Tony Perez and Luis Tiant played in the show well into their forties.  More likely, his apprehensions about being a pro can be attributed to his tremendous insecurities and feelings of inferiority.  His father publicly humiliated him from little league on by yelling at him in public whenever he made a mistake.

Our steroid enthusiast regards guys like Cal Ripken and Mark McGwire as being bullet proof because they are white.  Due to his Cuban background, everyone supposedly wanted him to fail in the bigs…except of course for the police who, after pulling him over going 202 mph in his Lamborghini Diablo, said, “Don’t worry, Mr. Canseco, we’re not going to arrest you.  We just wanted to see the inside of your car.”  Despite my light skin, if I were going 90 in my Kia, and resisted arrest, I sincerely doubt the troopers would be quite that understanding.  It’s rants and whines like these that make one suddenly long to put down the book.  How can you relate to a guy resentful about our nation after he tells us in the same chapter that he now lives simply by only owning a Bentley, a Porsche, and a Lamborghini?   

By the end, one cannot avoid the conclusion that the only real racist here is the narrator.  Everything is seen through the prism of his being a disadvantaged minority.  Unlike rich white folks like me who are lucky to take 100 bucks with them anywhere, Jose has been so wronged by the system that he could only afford to offer his second wife a seven-thousand dollar shopping spree at Calvin Klein their first night out.  Please cry for me Argentina.

When he is arrested for carrying a loaded gun, he blames this on his being Hispanic, but we all remember the arrest of Barry Switzer in a similar incident.  It may surprise Jose to discover that Switzer was a Caucasian.  When he makes comments about the “white media,” it makes one wonder if he hasn’t enrolled in a local university, which would be the only place he could acquire such delusional opinions.  His whining becomes caricature once we discover that a Hispanic umpire, Richie Garcia, was out to get him as well. 

The great irony here is that one never thought of Canseco as being a particularly ethnic player.  At least to this (former) baseball fan, our narrator was just another American.  He didn’t have an accent, and his features, aside from complexion, were not even remotely Native American in appearance.  Had his name been Rocco rather than Jose, we might have believed he was Sicilian. 

The real constant in this book is Canseco’s narcissism and inability to be grateful for the blessed lifestyle he has been given.  In the end, all the cars and the women are not enough for Jose.  It seems that the fans let him down.  He had only one simple demand and we did not meet it. The public failed to describe him with the words, “Jose Canseco, the All-American boy.  Jose, the national icon.” 

Really, now, don’t laugh.  I mean he has a valid point.  Just last week I had to complain to the manager at the local grocery store that a couple of his clerks failed to greet me on the way in with, “Hello, Mr. National Icon.”  Such behavior cannot be tolerated.  The next thing you know those produce guys are going to want the right to vote.  Just imagine what Canseco’s reaction would be if he found out that the local growth hormone dealer had been incarcerated. Then he’ll really unleash the conspiracy theories. 

Being Jose Canseco would make for some very easy running over the bases of life, but, after 285 pages with this guy, you’ll be grateful to be yourself.   
 
Juiced is available on Amazon.com.

Bernard Chapin is a writer living in Chicago.

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