By Bill Simmons
Page 2 columnist

Once upon a time, we actually believed our heroes could put on 25 pounds of muscle over a winter. It made perfect sense for singles hitters to suddenly belt 40 homers in a season, or for power hitters to peak in their late 30s. We didn't mind when star sluggers spent so much time on the disabled list that they seemed more like war veterans.

But after reports that some baseball stars are using performance-enhancing drugs, we've seen the light. The cat is out of the bag ... and he's knocking hypodermic needles everywhere.

I'm sure the recent revelations disturbed some of you -- that whole "steroids have destroyed the integrity of the game and tossed a black cloud over the record book, and, by the way, are one more reason for a strike" thing. Not me. I love it. "Who's on the Juice?" is my favorite baseball subplot since "Who's the Gay Ballplayer?"

I watch games like I'm Gil Grissom from CSI. They say human-growth hormone affects facial-bone structure and head size, so I'm constantly checking noggins, trolling for jawbones that are a little too prominent and helmets that teeter precariously. Not too long ago, I'd just assume a slugger had inadvertently grabbed one of those soft-serve ice cream helmets or purchased an extra chin on eBay. It seemed perfectly natural that a former player would need a new hip before he turned 35. But there's no fooling me anymore.

I search for yellow eyeballs and man-breasts, track marks and neck zits, male-pattern baldness and temper tantrums. My sights are set on players stalking around the dugout with their eyes bugging out or doing 360s with their head. When somebody gets boinked by a pitch, I eagerly await the Dr. Bruce Banner transformation. When someone gets slapped on the butt after going yard, I look for the tell-tale wince. When a bench-clearing brawl breaks out, I try to spot the guy who flips out like Matt Dillon at the end of "The Outsiders."

That's not all. I waste hours surfing the Net, deconstructing career records, marking statistical aberrations. I'm part Elias Sports Bureau, part Salem Witch Hunt. I've never followed any of these guys home. But numbers alone can tell you what's what. Bret Boone averages 14 HRs and 60 RBIs in his first nine years, then explodes for 37 and 141 in Year 10. RED FLAG! Luis Gonzalez hits 59 HRs in his first five full seasons, 105 in his next five -- and 57 in his next one? RED FLAG! Barry Bonds turns 37 the same year he hits 24 more HRs than he'd ever hit before? RED FLAG!

This stuff never gets old. I even look at guys from the old days, like my boyhood idol Freddie Lynn, who averaged 18 HRs in his first four full seasons, hit 39 in 1979, then never topped 25 again. RED FLAG!

It will change my life when someone calculates a time-saving formula, something like:

Days on DL + pounds gained + increased OPS ÷ pi.

I keep thinking of that classic "Saturday Night Live" skit, the All-Drug Olympics, where Phil Hartman was a Soviet weightlifter who'd taken a potent cocktail of steroids, novocaine, NyQuil, Darvon and some sort of fish tranquilizer. When he attempted a world-record lift of 1,500 pounds, his arms ripped away at the armpits and blood spurted from the stumps. The announcer screamed, "You hate to see something like this happen!"

The skit ran almost 15 years ago. Today, it doesn't seem so farfetched. In fact, if you ask me, it seems like a pretty good idea. Instead of pressuring the players union for mandatory testing, baseball owners should call an audible and legalize all performance-enhancing drugs. You want to take steroids? hGH? Andro? Fine. We not only condone it, we encourage it. Knock yourselves out.

Take it one step further. Let the fans know which players are using which drugs, when they're cycling, where they inject, which Tijuana pharmacy they frequent. Before long, these stats will roll off our tongues like ERA and RBIs. C'mon, people, can't we make this happen? And if a juiced-up hitter misses a pitch and his arms fly off in the process ... well, "You hate to see something like this happen!"

In the meantime, I've got "Who's on the Juice?" And if you'll excuse me, I'm off to break down old game tapes of the 1988 A's. I think those guys might have been up to something.

Bill Simmons is a columnist for Page 2 and ESPN The Magazine. This column also appears in the July 8 issue of ESPN The Magazine.