“I’m an idea man, Chuck”

-Michael Keaton as Bill Blazejowski in Night Shift

Hey, I have ideas too. Good ones sometimes. And just like every other sports fan, I have unanswered questions.

In the wake of Mark McGwire’s steroid confession, the impact of which will soon fade, I thought of a pay-per-view opportunity that would make the Pacquiao-Mayweather fight (that’s not going to happen) pale in comparison.

Those of us who watched Big Mac’s confession yawned through the ordeal. I took steroids during the home run chase… bla bla bla. Tell us something we don’t know, Mark. The most interesting development to emerge from his confession was the subsequent banter between McGwire and former Oakland Bash Brother Jose Canseco.

Now THAT was good stuff. There hasn’t been a breakup this nasty since, well… since Tiger and Elin. Canseco sat there all red-eyed, telling McGwire there’s no crying in baseball. Does Tom Hanks get royalties for that?

I hereby propose we don’t stop with just one confession. After all, we’re the ticket-holders, jersey-wearers and eight dollar beer-buyers. Power to the people, y’all. We need someone to prove that Canseco is not telling the truth.

If an American family spends hundreds of dollars to attend the average sporting event, how much would they pay to put the entire steroid scandal behind us? Not that anybody watches baseball anymore. That’s largely due to the Cryptkeeper’s gross mismanagement of the sport (Hey, my mom calls him that too). Cancelled World Series, All-Star Game ties, rampant drug use.

Starting right now, I propose we give the fans what they want. What a novel concept! Catering to the consumer.

Let’s get the biggest names who have yet to come clean and parade them on stage for all to see. Rafael Palmeiro, Roger Clemens, Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa… COME ON DOWN!!! You’re the next contestants on the Truth is Right! It’d be like a Hall of Fame reunion… except none of these guys are getting into the Hall of Fame.

Major League Baseball can grant them amnesty, then say… PSYCH!!!! Set them up with Oprah, Costas, Geraldo, James Carville, the talk show host of choice and have them answer question after embarrassing question until the last ounce of truth has been squeezed out of them. We can even take comments from audience members to ensure the questions aren’t candy-coated and the answers aren’t half-assed.

We can book Wonder Woman to corral athletes with her golden lasso – the ultimate lie detector – to ensure we get the truth, the whole truth and nothing but.

What would Jerry Jones pay to host such a spectacle in the new Cowboys Stadium? If he bid $25 million for Pacquaio-Mayweather, this should be worth twice that! It’d be the social event of the decade. Oliver Stone could direct the movie. Cutting edge cinematography. Just go easy on lighting Sammy Sosa’s face.

How much would you pay for piece of mind, for the truth… finally? Baseball’s steroid scandal is the ugly break-up that never ends; it just lingers on. Names pointlessly released every month, as most of us already assume everyone is guilty. But in this case, we’re not making an ass out of you and me. They are.

We’re mad as hell and we’re not gonna take it anymore!

I say get ‘em ALL on stage. Blindfold ‘em and give ‘em one last cigarette before the proverbial firing squad. We want details. Were there needles in the rear and what of the cream and clear? Who was pitching and who was catching? How frequently? Who distributed? What managers knew? What owners knew?

How great would it be to see them all up there? The greatest cheaters of all-time. Pete Rose could host the gala, happy to no longer be the only one labeled a cheat. “Confessions of the Rich and Lying” starring Barry Bonds’ engorged head, Roger Clemens’ engorged ego and Sammy Sosa’s newfound whiteness. Even Barnum and Bailey would be impressed by that circus.

While we’re at it, let’s get that sacred scroll of 104 players out in the open as well. We haven’t exposed that list, why? Attorney-client privilege, my ass. We paid to see something inauthentic and now we want our just due. Either that or give us all our money back.

I can see it now. A sealed envelope in the top drawer of Bud Selig’s desk, scotch-taped shut from numerous other efforts to sneak a peek, Selig just sitting there staring at it. He makes a move to open it again, then shakes his head as he walks out of the office. Enough is enough, Bud. WHO’S ON THE LIST?

Why close it off to just baseball? Let’s get Tiger out there. Sure, his private life is just that but hey, I need headliners. We have seats to fill. Let’s find out what really happened. How many women were there? Can we get our hands on some of those text messages? We could print t-shirts. Think of the marketing possibilities. What did he actually have at Perkins? What golf clubs were used?

Wouldn’t you pay $39.95 to have a detailed account of what really happened in all these cases? We’re talking pay-per-view records here. Any questions. Any athletes. No lies. It’s Golden Lasso time.

We can get the NBA referees out there and asked them if they’re shaving points. We can ask Pete Carroll what he knew about Reggie Bush’s SUV. We can ask John Calipari what he knew about Derrick Rose’s SATs. We can ask Lane Kiffin what he knows about anything? And let’s call LaDainian Tomlinson up there and find out what could possibly have possessed him to make this video. WHAT IT DO?

See? I have ideas too. Big ones. Money-making ones. Unfortunately, no one in professional sports is listening.