I wonder what Roger Maris would think of Jose Canseco and his new book, Juiced: Wild Times, Rampant 'Roids, Smash Hits and How Baseball Got Big.

I wonder what Maris, who died 20 years ago, would have thought watching Canseco on "60 Minutes'' on Sunday night, saying to Mike Wallace: "The national pastime is juiced. Yeah, it is.''

Maris broke Babe Ruth's single-season home-run record in 1961 by hitting 61 homers, and he long was known as a simple, prickly, undeserving interloper in the history-worshipping baseball hall of mythology.

But Maris didn't live to see his seemingly unapproachable record toyed with and then demolished by Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa and Barry Bonds.

He couldn't have envisioned that names like Canseco and BALCO's Victor Conte and the Yankees' Jason Giambi would be more relevant in the current, drug-tainted baseball world than Mickey Mantle's or even the Babe's.

And even though Canseco's claim that he personally injected McGwire and other players with performance-enhancing drugs makes Maris seem more like a scorned and unappreciated saint, who knows if ol' Rog would have liked Canseco's tell-all.

Indeed, Maris most assuredly did not like the tell-all, behind-the-scenes baseball book of his generation -- Ball Four, by his onetime Yankees teammate Jim Bouton.

In that seminal whistle-blowing, gossip-fueled diary, Bouton didn't have much good to say about the Yanks' left-handed hitting right fielder.

Calling Maris "one of the greatest non-hustlers of all time,'' a guy who wouldn't run out pop-ups even after manager Ralph Houk called team meetings about the matter, Bouton also demeaned Maris as being petty and immature.

For his part, Maris despised the knuckleballer-turned-author.

"I never had anything to do with Bouton,'' Maris told me a decade after he had retired from baseball in 1968. "He was just one of those guys I didn't care for. I didn't like him.''

What was the problem? I asked.

"His head was more his problem. He had ability, too, but he didn't use it properly. If somebody made an error behind him, he wouldn't just pitch harder, he'd come up with, 'It's all your fault, not mine.'

"He couldn't get on me, he didn't know me, I didn't want him around. 'Biggest loafer' is what he called me. That's a compliment compared to what he wrote about other guys. Sour grapes is all it is.''

He could keep quiet

Funny how much that sounds like what critics are saying about the not-well-liked Canseco and his book.

If Canseco and other whistle-blowers are correct about the prevalence of performance-enhancing drugs in the big baseball power surge of the 1990s into today, then Maris' legacy would seem the one most ready to benefit.

Of course, career home-run leader Hank Aaron also would benefit, since Barry Bonds' march to 755 becomes tainted and sordid.

But it's ironic that Maris might not even have liked the book that could save him.

"I have no interest in doing a book,'' he said when I asked Maris in 1977 if he wanted to set the record straight. "I don't think anybody's interested in what I have to say. Nobody's interested unless you're knocking people.''

That made him think of his old teammate, Joe Pepitone, a clowning party animal who had just written a tell-all, sex-laden, wasted-career biography titled, Joe, You Coulda Made Us Proud.

"Did you see that book?'' Maris asked in shock.

Rog let out a deep breath.

"Pepitone wasn't that bad. He had talent, and he didn't use it as well as he could have. I mean, his children have to read that someday. He could have made the book more comical, less smut. Joe is a funny guy. When we were at a bar, he'd sing on stage. I thought he was good. He could dance, too.''

Maris thought for a moment. "You can go to confession without the whole United States knowing it,'' he concluded.

Making noise

But that's not really how it works these days. Canseco wants the whole world to know. He's out for fame (infamy?), money, excitement, vindication, sensationalism, cheap-shotting, score-settling.

He also is out for -- no doubt about it -- the establishment of fact and myth-busting.

It's amusing to me that some early critics, such as former Texas Rangers general manager Tom Grieve, have attacked Canseco for, among other things, bringing former Rangers co-owner George W. Bush's name into the fray.

Hey, President Bush brought his own name in by owning a partially juiced team in the 1990s and bringing up steroids in his 2004 State of the Union address.

But Maris is a puzzler.

Maybe he'd be thrilled with Jose's book.

Or maybe, I suspect, he'd just be sad.

This story was written by Rick Telander of the Chicago-Sun-Times.

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