BECK N ME: Raging at the roids

Ratchet Arnold was humming a tune that echoed throughout the barn.  At first it was hard to make out.  Then it came clear.  He was humming “Take Me Out to the Ball Park…”
“Baseball season isn’t here yet,” said Beck, my ole Missouri mule.  “We’ve got snow falling and you’re humming a summer song.”
“He must be trying to rush up the warm weather,” said Old Blue Rosenbloom.  “I’m ready for spring, too.”
“You’re wrong,” said Ratchet.  “You look so downcast I was trying to cheer you up.  Figured somebody would want to go to the ballpark for a steroid shot.  From what I read, there’s nothing like steroids to give you a boost.”
“That’s one thing you can’t get at my store,” said Greg Sayers.  “They’ve messed up sports so badly you can’t tell who’s on first and what’s on second.  And it’s just not baseball.”
Coy McRoberts said, “Let’s not recognize any of the new records.  Far as I’m concerned, Babe Ruth is still the homerun king.  No way will I call Barry Bonds the champ, although he may be innocent.”
“It’s cost some friendships,” said Rusty Dusty Hale.  “Yankee pitchers Andy Pettitte and Roger Clemons aren’t speaking because of it.  Andy gave a sworn statement, which implicated Clemons in the use of human growth hormones.  Clemons says it ain’t so.”
“Being a winner nowadays is a top priority at all costs,” the mule said.  “For years they’ve doped horses and sneaked extra kick into race car gasoline.  No telling what they’ll find if they ever investigate boxing.”
“Kinda like shooting craps with loaded dice,” Everett Woback said.  “Everybody wants an edge.”
Buster Blossom said, “Maybelle, my wife, liked baseball in the good old days.  The worst they said was that Gaylord Perry threw spitballs.”
“She’s a big woman,” mumbled No Fenders McGee.
A retired lawman and journalist, and published novelist, Jack Crosswell lives in Cripple Creek.