Jason Giambi and the Steroid Era’s best chance for a Hall of Famer

Jason Giambi, under oath while testifying for a federal grand jury, described how he took testosterone to help him play baseball better:

“You’d put it in your ass.”

There are other, better ways to remember Giambi -- as a prodigious slugger and talented baseball player, for example. That quote will do in a pinch if you’re looking for a shorthand description of his career, though. That was a) Giambi becoming the highest-profile player to admit using performance-enhancing drugs. Everyone cared because b) he was so skilled in the art of demolishing baseballs. When he admitted it, he c) said the word “ass” when he probably didn’t have to. Was he nervous, thoughtfully searching for the right answer and coming up with “You’d put it in your ass,” or did he say it with a smirk, the varsity player willing to risk an extra hour of detention for a few giggles? Either way is perfect.

For $120 million over seven years, I’d put a lot of things in my ass, so I’m not here to judge. I’m here to ask about the possibility of Giambi becoming the player to break the glass steroid ceiling at the entrance of the Hall of Fame.

A funny thing happened to Giambi, who used to wear a shirt reading “Rake Like an All-Star/Party Like a Rock Star/Hammer Like a Porn Star” around the clubhouse: He became an elder statesman. He became a player teams would keep around, even after it was clear he couldn’t hit, run, or field, because they wanted him to spread his veteran dust around the clubhouse. He was lauded for his ability to communicate and his willingness to mentor. He was a finalist for the Rockies’ managerial opening before the 2013 season, and he’s almost certainly going to have several offers for different jobs around baseball now.

Matt Williams was the first confirmed PED user to get a manager’s gig, but Giambi is going to be the first pillar of the Steroid Era to be remembered as something different in the word-association game. Before you get to the fourth syllable in Roger Clemens’s name, the connotations are already there. Before you even get to the Bonds in Barry Bonds, the connotations are already there. Giambi was right there with them both, an award-winning superstar with a high-profile contract for a highest-profile team, yet the years were far, far kinder to his reputation.

Why? Maybe Giambi was just low-profile enough compared to Clemens and Bonds, an All-Star instead of an inner-circle Hall of Famer. Maybe it has to do with the admission, with “You’d put it in your ass” trumping “I plead the fifth” in the court of public perception (and the actual court). Maybe it’s because, other than the PED transgressions, he has always enjoyed a positive reputation among his teammates and the media. Maybe it’s a combination of the above.

Regardless, we have the first Hall of Fame candidate of the Steroid Era who might sway enough of the current voters over the next 15 years. If you don’t count Andy Pettitte’s “I must have picked up second-hand steroid smoke at a concert” vibe, which voters probably won’t fall for, Giambi is the first serious candidate among the busted. His overall numbers compare to those of Fred McGriff or Carlos Delgado, players who won’t get voted into the Hall, but Giambi has them both beat in aura. He was an MVP and the slugging star for seven different playoff teams. He was always around, always pummeling pitchers and getting on base, always showing up with a quip in the clubhouse after.

In another generation, the numbers combined with the aura would have put him in more of a Willie Stargell class. He would have been, I’d guess, the kind of player who could get in without any of the obvious statistical milestones. Just short of 500 homers? Not really close to 3,000 hits? No matter, come on in, famous player.

If he were to come up for a vote tomorrow, though, he might not crack 25 percent. About 25 percent of the electorate are hardliners, another 25 percent might consider a user if his pre-PED career or post-PED numbers were gaudy enough to blow away his peers, and of the 50 percent left over, there would be more than a few who would put him in the Delgado/McGriff class of great, but not great enough.

Over the next 15 years, there’s likely to going to be a change in that electorate. It’s not going to be instant amnesty for all, but there’s likely going to be a younger group of Hall of Fame voters, more used to the Steroid Era and more willing to consider players rather than exclude an entire generation. This is where Giambi’s unlikely transformation into clubhouse asset and 43-year-old pinch-motivator will help him. Bonds and Clemens have seven more years before they’re off the ballot, too soon to expect some sort of voting sea change to wash over the electorate. Giambi has 15 years left. Even if he can’t compare with the career accomplishments of those two, his timing is far superior.

Giambi is the most recognizable player caught up in the Steroid Era whose face isn’t carved into Mt. Steroid with Bonds, Clemens, Sammy Sosa, and Mark McGwire, so he has a chance. Even in 15 years, though, it’s probably not going to be much of a chance. This is the Steroid Era’s last chance to get a tainted player in the Hall through a BBWAA vote, and it’s probably not going to happen. It’s the right player in spirit -- a popular player of clubhouse legend -- but the stats just aren’t strong enough. If Giambi could swap his stats with Manny Ramirez, maybe. Just maybe.

As is, this is the last chance of an era, and it’s going to come up just short. As a first baseman, Giambi doesn’t transcend the gravity of the position with his stats alone, but he was a star. He had a chance based on that. Even in 15 years, though, the stink of the Steroid Era isn’t going to be enough to catapult him into the Hall, leaving him at the mercy of the Golden Era Committee or whatever it’s transformed into by that time. By the time he gets there, there will be other, worthier causes to riot for. Bonds and Clemens, for two, and until they get in, there probably isn’t much point carrying the Giambi banner.

Still, he could hit baseballs. He could hit them far. And for that weird, dinger-saturated era, he was one of the very best. Maybe I’ll have a Remember Baseball in the ‘90s-themed restaurant. I’d appreciate your business. We’ll talk about baseball in the ‘90s and remember how it was pretty swell, considering. Giambi would be on my ballot. He’s not going to be on enough of the actual ballots to make a difference, though.

Here is the best chance for the Steroid Era. Here is yet another player from then who won’t get in, even if he is rather famous in a baseball capacity for baseball-related things. It’s either a shame or just desserts, depending on which side of the fence you’re on. Either way, it just is. Appreciating Giambi’s outstanding, unlikely career and sudden ascension to elder statesman will have to be done without the codification of a voting body. The good news is that we’re getting used to that.