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Patrick Hruby

What I've Learned: Testosterone

An exclusive interview with the granddaddy of performance-enhancing drugs

Sports on Earth

Steroid hormone, age indeterminate, bottom of a locker room wastebasket

It’s true: I can’t help you hit a baseball. But I sure as heck can help you hit a baseball farther.

I saw “60 Minutes.” Absolutely. I was stunned. Alex Rodriguez still has a BlackBerry?

Everyone focuses on the tests you flunked. But what about the millions more that you passed?

I guess it’s like being a paratrooper. One minute, you’re resting comfortably in a safe, quiet tube; the next, you’re sucked out the door in a rush. And then you land in Jose Canseco’s butt.

But sure, A-Rod is the one who’s afraid of needles.

Always, always, always pay the clubbies in cash. Always.

If an athlete wants to work harder, I don’t judge. Except when Roger Clemens was slam-dunking footballs with his personal trainer. That was a little weird.

A lot of people say my best Hollywood work was in “Pumping Iron.” Or maybe “Rocky Balboa.” Personally, I don’t think it gets any better than the Dutch-Dillon handshake in “Predator.”

Are Ryan Braun and Lance Armstrong total jerks? Absolutely. But that’s what makes them great.

Well, that and me.

It’s corny, but every time I’m in a pharmacia I find myself humming the theme song from “Cheers.”

The best excuse? That’s easy. Sprinter Dennis Mitchell once blamed having too much of me in his system on having sex four times the night before his drug test. Still cracks me up.

Dude! If it worked that way, then JFK would hold the world record in the 100 meters.

Great question, but I honestly have no idea what athletes do with their old, suddenly too-big suits after they retire. Maybe you could ask Michael Strahan?

I hear Mark Cuban wants to study HGH, and I’m like, hello? Over here!

I don’t hold it against Rafael Palmiero. Or Marion Jones. They’ll always deny you. Comes with the territory. I let go of ego in relationships a long time ago. Happiness begins where selfishness ends.

It helps that I’m shy. Remember when Sports Illustrated selected the Boston Red Sox as their 2004 Sportsmen of the Year? I was so relieved it wasn’t me. You have no idea.

On the other hand: you put in the hours, put up with the scorn, sit through Congressional hearings — and then flaxseed oil takes the credit? I don’t like the term ‘roid rage, but sometimes it’s appropriate.

Critics call this a golden age of television. Maybe so, but I miss “American Gladiators.”

Jamaica is a beautiful island. Who wouldn’t spend their offseasons there?

The National Football League has the toughest drug testing program in — hold on. Stop the recorder. Give me a minute. I’m dying.

Chicks dig the long ball. But bacne, shrunken testicles and b—h t–s? Not so much.

I’m comfortable. Not rich. Years ago, I negotiated a 15 percent cut on sales of He-Man action figures. Best deal I ever made.

I was too stupid to do the same thing with pro wrestling.

Mascots have been getting bigger and buffer for years, and nobody says a word. I don’t get it.

The Yankees were long overdue. And the new stadium is beautiful. You should see the locker room toilet stalls.

You want my honest opinion? Every guy over 40 has Low T. Of course, I’m working with the drug companies now, so what else am I going to say?

Look, I’m good at what I do. I’m not a miracle worker. Sorry, Alex Sanchez.

Of course I have regrets. The East German Olympic program. Teenagers who use me. The character design in the “Gears of War” video game series.

We might be able to talk about that Tiger Woods Vanity Fair photo shoot, but first I need to call my lawyer.

I come in lozenges now? Holy s–t.

Jeff Novitzky spent all that time chasing a handful of jocks, and meanwhile I’m making millions of new fans in police departments and the military. Nice work, Columbo.

“Parasite” my a–, Jason Giambi.

Read the original article at Sports on Earth