I believe that Chris Colabello did take, unknowingly, a performance-enhancing drug (PED). I believe many players have, and I believe that many players will again.

I believe this because I know baseball players. I know they're not lab experts. I know they don't study the sheets of banned drugs given to them by Major League Baseball and then cross-check their current supplement selections. I know they don't think to themselves, "I should get this new supplement tested before I ingest it." I know most of them won't send a sample of their latest, explosive, shredding, igniting, fuelling, ripping, results-touting powder off to MLB's labs.

And, oh yes, MLB does test supplements for the athletes to help them avoid the scenario you've all become very familiar with: "I didn't know I did it."

MLB works hard to prevent those scenarios. Why wouldn't it? What does the league gain when its star revenue generators get taken off the field and out of the show?

Of course MLB cares about Colabello and other athletes like him who say they've been falsely damned. It's MLB's business to care, because without a system that works beyond reproach, reputations are destroyed, fans are crushed and the many-headed behemoth that is the Major League Baseball Players Association is stirred to anger. Bottom line: MLB cares because not caring is too expensive.

It's a sad thing when a guy like Colabello gets popped for PEDs. When the Cinderella man gets knocked out, not by the opposing team but by his own carelessness. Yet, while a chorus of violins can't capture the sorrow of an underdog hero turned suspected cheater, it also can't capture what's about to happen to Colabello's teammates should he come back to instant playing time.

Want to talk about what's fair for a second? How about guys who've toiled in the minors for a chance at a big break, just like the one Colabello got a year ago? If Colabello comes back and takes their spot, it will, through no fault of their own, be a very sad day in Mudville as they are demoted, released, or robbed of playing time.

For the record, that's when protocol and happenstance, science and fairness go out the window. That's when it all gets reduced to the cruel capitalism of baseball. Cheaters are the worst until they're better than your present options; then they're an important part of the team again. As much as you want to see Colabello come back on fire to help the Jays, someone gets screwed out of a job if he does.

Ironically, though it's mocked for being slow to change, baseball has changed. A lot. When I started playing in 2003, getting popped for steroids was like getting slapped on the wrist. A 10-game suspension? Big deal. I'll take two.

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Looking back, at those prices, we all should have been doing steroids. The upside was simply too good no to. Those of us who abstained weren't virtuous, we were stupid. The only thing that stayed our hand was the fear we'd be branded as cheaters by our peers and fans and their kids. We were role models, right? Right? Wait, is that a Melky Cabrera jersey you're wearing?

In fairness, that branding did happen, at least at first. But now look. Look honestly. What you'll notice is, we forget. If an athlete returns from a cheater's sabbatical, people forget they did wrong. Alex Rodriguez, the most notorious of all cheats in the modern game of baseball, was taking curtain calls at Yankee Stadium last season. He was also part of postseason baseball coverage on TBS next to another all-time scoundrel, Pete Rose. Ryan Braun is a hot trade commodity. Barry Bonds is now a hitting coach and Mark McGwire has been one for years. Cheating clearly ain't what it used to be, but it still pays. Sure, maybe cheating won't net you the fat margins it used to, but it's enough that players will still do it.

Baseball's very public crackdown on cheating has done another thing: It showed us all just how little people care about cheaters who aren't superstars. So the long man in a bullpen of a non-competitive, small-market, out-of-the-race team cheated? Whatever. Someone is always cheating in baseball. Next story.

So Colabello cheated. Had he not been part of the Jays' playoff run last season that ended a 20-year postseason drought, it would have been the same response: Whatever, someone is always cheating in baseball. Next story. For baseball fans outside the reach of Toronto's market, it was exactly that.

Given all this, I don't know what the bigger joke here is: that the beloved underdog Colabello got popped for PEDs, or that anyone thinks people will really care long enough to remember in a year.

We'll forget. Indeed, for nearly 80 days we all forgot. We forgot the name of a player we thought we'd never forget. Our attention spans are short, our tastes are fickle and there is always someone else to put on a pedestal, then knock off.

The only party this return will burn a memory into is the group directly connected to what Colabello does on the field from here out, the group Colabello was once a part of. In baseball, one man's failure is another man's opportunity. Blame the testing, blame the science, blame the man. It doesn't matter. When Colabello comes back he'll bump someone out of their roster spot, be it on a Triple-A or big-league roster. Then we'll start the band up all over again. What is fair? What is cheating? What is deserved in this sport?

Colabello got his suspension because the science is accurate and he broke the rules. He served his suspension. He will now get a chance to redeem himself. That's the modern PED narrative arc playing itself out. And, because the game giveth and the game taketh, he will have to fight Darwin Barney, Junior Lake and Justin Smoak for a chance to be relevant. Consider it an occupational hazard.

Smoak's recent contract extension may have been the biggest blow to Colabello's return to the field. Colabello is owed very little this year: the league minimum versus Smoak's newly renegotiated multi-year deal. Colabello is not going to play right field over Jose Bautista, once Bautista is healthy and back in service. So, basically, Colabello is not going to play much outside platoon options, if at all. Not as it stands.

If Colabello did, for some inexplicable reason, see instant playing time upon his return, the guys competing with him for a playing spot would have every right to be smouldering. I'd hate him and the game. The details of Colabello's positive test would mean nothing and I would hope no investigating bodies found any conspiracy or evidence to corroborate his sob story.

No sir, if you cheated, came back and took my job, I'd be mad as hell. I'd be mad that you took food off my family's plate, robbed me of my dream and cut my legend short. May you fail quickly and horrifically. And I'd feel all this even when you walked into the locker room to a boisterous welcome.

"Good to see you," I'd say. "Welcome back. We're better with you here." It would be hugs, high fives, and butt-slaps all around. After all, this is a team sport.

And then, I'd hope you fail.