At the bottom, soaked in a shame and scorn that was international, the best athlete in South Florida's history said something that might have gotten lost in all the noise. Maybe America was too busy laughing and yelling and ridiculing to absorb it between the dramatic pauses and apologies, questioning his sincerity even during the most revealing cheating confessional in the long history of our most historic game. But Alex Rodriguez draped his story in foreshadowing this spring when he promised, in words as old and eternal as the Bible, that ``the truth shall set you free.''

Truth is, he always has cared too much. About being liked. About being accepted. About us, and what we think of him. That's why he asked Cal Ripken Jr. the proper way to shake hands. That's why, over poker and cigars, he peppered Michael Jordan with a million questions about image. And that's why he mimicked the Armani style of Pat Riley, whose books he carried around in a briefcase. He was so consumed with presentation that he would answer his hotel-room door after midnight in a $3,200 suit and tie. The more you try to control what others think, the more what they think controls you.

Truth is, he cared too much about being great, too, which can be a blessing and curse. Caring is why, when he became the first infielder ever to reach the 40-40 club, he wept as he rounded the bases. Caring is why he squeezed the bat to pencil shavings with all his want in bad postseason after bad postseason, desire not helping you much with a swing that needs to flow easy as streams and songs. And caring, like it or not, is why he cheated with steroids.

Rodriguez's search for outward validation always has been pretty transparent. A child rejected by his father pouring himself into Miami's Boys and Girls Clubs. A kid who never went to college but craved being perceived as intelligent, paying to put his name in big letters on the local university's baseball stadium, even though he never played there. Dating Madonna. Choosing New York. Needing a contract exactly twice as large as the biggest one ever signed by $126 million Kevin Garnett -- not $250 million but exactly $252 million.

His bank account was full but the rest of him evidently wasn't. Applause dies, and magazine covers fade, and, no matter where and how you search, ``self-esteem'' still starts with ``self.'' So maybe, in that ridiculed photo shoot in which he kissed a mirror this offseason, A-Rod was trying to tell us something.

PAINFUL AND HEALING

His spring confessional had to be painful and healing at once. There he was, totally exposed. I've driven with him across the state, and been to his house for holiday parties, and had dinner with him, and that's more real than I've ever seen him in any setting. He always has gotten hit with ``phony'' and ``fraud'' because he was rehearsed and political, trying to be like Ripken and Jordan and Riley and the beloved icons before him, trying to be whatever we wanted and loved. So having this kind of flaw dissected so publicly had to be horrific to someone practicing handshakes and tie knots, not unlike an obsessive-compulsive cleaning and recleaning and recleaning the shiny sink faucet, and then looking up to notice that his home has been ravaged by a tsunami.

His lie was now our truth, the superhero undone by his humanity, his beloved image in shreds. And so, broken in front of us, that's when he began his hobbled climb back in a twist all the most uplifting stories have. He has played hurt all year in a way that was obvious to the eye. He hit 30 home runs while limping around the bases. And now, one swing at a time, he is taking a bat to his reputation as a playoff choker, forcing America's toughest city again and again to rise to its feet and applaud him.

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