A sorry pitch from Astros' cheaters

A public apology is a sorry spectacle.

Case in point: The Houston Astros.

The team's sign-stealing scandal — players used a centerfield camera and video monitor near the dugout to steal a catcher's signs to his pitcher, then banged on trash cans to tell their batters what pitch was coming — has roiled Major League Baseball and eroded the game's integrity.

Last week, the Astros apologized. Lamely.

Shortstop Carlos Correa said everyone was remorseful, adding, "I don't even want to think about what happened back then." Like it was something that happened to them.

Third baseman Alex Bregman said they had learned a lot from the affair. But he couldn't say what they'd learned.

Outfielder Josh Reddick said the World Series the team won in 2017 while operation "Codebreaker" was fully functional was not tainted, and that the title "is here in Houston to stay." By whatever means necessary.

More telling was what they didn't say. They knew what they were doing was wrong. They knew it going in. And they used it, won with it, profited from it, covered it up, and proceeded with life.

They're sorry now? Sure, they are. Sorry that they were caught.

And now they sound like all those parents who cheated to get their kids into choice colleges, knowing it was wrong, sorry that they were caught.

And all those thieving politicians who cheated to fatten their bank and campaign accounts, knowing it was wrong, sorry that they were caught.

And all those business people who cheated their companies, clients and stockholders for money-money-money, knowing it was wrong, sorry that they were caught.

And all those athletes who used performance-enhancing drugs to win when they otherwise might have lost, knowing it was wrong, sorry that they were caught.

People cheat. On their taxes, on parking places, on expense accounts, on spouses. And it's not like there has never been cheating in baseball. Credible stories from the 1890s describe Baltimore Orioles players giving accomplices in the stands mirrors to reflect the sun into the eyes of the opposing team's hitters. Pitchers have larded baseballs with spit and petroleum jelly and scuffed them with emery boards and sandpaper to make them break more sharply. Hitters have altered bats.

By the 2019 World Series, that the Astros were in some way cheating was an open secret. Joe Torre, MLB's chief baseball officer and disciplinarian, gave the Astros and Washington Nationals a pre-series "no shenanigans" warning. That's the same Hall of Famer and former sainted Yankees manager who said in 1990, "I have no problem with cheating. Whatever you can get away with. I mean, we're not going and robbing stores or anything. And anyway, what about football?"

So much for the Sophoclean wisdom that failing with honor is better than winning by cheating.

Bregman said the Astros are "totally focused on moving forward …" Of course, they are. Like criminal defendants across the years whose attorneys have told the court, "Your honor, my client is ready to put this matter behind him and move on."

How about we all decide when you get to move on? After all, the Astros' players suffered no consequences. No titles forfeited. No rings returned. No World Series shares or bonuses revoked. No suspensions. No nothing. The Astros didn't get off on a technicality. They just got off. What's to dissuade the next would-be cheaters? Nothing.

But how does it feel? Really feel? When it's just you and your thoughts, when you play back the victories and how they were won, do you revel in the glory or convulse with the shame? In the end, you're cheating, and you're just plain sorry.

Michael Dobie is a member of Newsday's editorial board.

By Michael Dobie

michael.dobie1@newsday.commwdobie

Michael Dobie is a retired member of the Newsday editorial board.