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Behind closed doors, his case was heard by an arbitration panel. The Players Association produced results of another test, three weeks after the initial sample, that came back negative (along with tests in 2003 and 2004 that were negative), and the result of a polygraph test they claimed proved his innocence. Major League Baseball’s lead counsel Francis Coonelly called Palmeiro “arrogant” and “desperate” and his denial “far-fetched.” And MLB couldn’t find a single instance of a B-12 vitamin vial tainted with stanozolol. The panel found Palmeiro’s protestations “compelling,” but without any evidence debunking the positive test his grievance was denied on Aug. 1.

With no other options before his suspension was announced, Palmeiro scrolled through his Rolodex -- he was close with the two most powerful baseball men in the country. His first play was to call then-Commissioner Bud Selig. After Palmeiro’s 3,000th hit, Selig had taken out a full-page ad in USA Today: “Congratulations Raffy, you never cease to amaze us,” the ad said. Selig, of course, was intimately familiar with Palmeiro’s situation and knew well the effects that revealing a positive steroid test would have on the public’s faith in the game.

“I called Selig and begged for my life,” Palmeiro says. But Selig, Palmeiro remembers, was dismissive. “He shite on me. ‘You know, man, I can’t do anything for you. After your suspension -- I’ll be here for you, anything you need,’ he told me.”

Palmeiro hung up the phone and, hoping for a stay at the 11th hour, called an old friend from his days with the Texas Rangers. George W. Bush was a minority owner during Palmeiro’s first stint with the team, and they’d talked about two weeks earlier, after Palmeiro’s 3,000th hit. He dialed the former President’s personal number.

“You and me go back a long ways,” Palmeiro remembers saying, then stating his case. “Baseball is going to suspend me on Monday, and I want you to know so you don’t look at me any differently.

The President responded, as Palmeiro recalls, “Be strong. Whatever happens, you’ll be able to survive.” When Palmeiro put the phone down, he knew he was a dead man walking.

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As the days melted into months, Palmeiro’s anger began to show. In the car, or alone in his room, he’d rage against the permanence of his reality. Then at a youth summer league game, he exploded. His sons were now local stars. Patrick was a hard-hitting third baseman at Heritage High School, while Preston was a left-handed first baseman in local youth leagues with the same sweet swing as his dad. Palmeiro’s only real connection to the outside world was through their games. He’d perch near the dugout, wearing wraparound sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low.

During a summer tournament, Preston had been struggling through a slump, before doubling off the fence. Then, in the next at-bat, he belted the ball clean over the fence and over the trees directly behind center field. As he was trotting around the bases, one of the opposing moms muttered, “He’s probably on steroids like his dad.”

Palmeiro, who was near the dugout when someone told him what the parent said, turned and bounded up the steps to confront the woman, leaning over her. “That’s bull,” he screamed. “If you got something to say about my son, you say it to my face.” Lynne stood up next to her man and her own repressed anger burst out. Frustrated at her husband, at baseball, at her own crumbling family, she too screamed at the parent.

The crowd was silent, the game stopped. Palmeiro looked around, then slunk back down to the dugout.

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Throughout everything, Palmeiro always had one hope of redemption. He’d always wanted to be in the Hall of Fame. It wasn’t just a whimsical dream. The statistical goals that he wrote down before each season were yearly projections he needed to be enshrined amongst the greats.

“Based on my credentials, what I did on the field equals first-ballot Hall of Famer, end of story,” he says.

The first year he was eligible, in 2011, he watched the results from his couch. Reporters were calling asking what he thought his chances were and how much the steroids would affect the Hall of Fame voting. But really they just wanted to know if he was a steroid user and unrepentant cheater, or a naive sap, or maybe an innocent man. He was polite and, if asked, he’d repeat that his positive test was a result of a tainted B-12 vial. Needing 75 percent of eligible baseball writers to vote him in, his heart sunk as he watched his name scroll across the bottom of his TV screen with just 11 percent of the vote, less than even admitted long-term steroid abuser Mark McGwire.

“That was like a knife in the back,” he says. “I knew I wasn’t going in the first year because of what happened, but I’m thinking 50 or 60 percent. They’ll punish me, then the second year I’ll get in.” The following year it increased slightly to 12.6 percent, but in 2013 he dipped down to 8.8 percent. “The writers said, ‘What happened to you at the end, nullifies everything you did.’” He put on a brave face, but he was devastated.

When the Hall of Fame vote came up again in 2014, his worst fears were realized. He received only 4.4 percent of the vote and fell off the ballot completely, ineligible for another 12 years, his fate in the hands of the Veterans Committee. Reporters stopped calling. For so long, he repeated his defense of the positive test. Now there was no one left to plead with. Whether he took steroids or not no longer seemed to matter. Because the only thing worse than people not believing you is apathy -- it’s people not even caring.

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