DRUG POLICIES CAN BE PARADOXICAL

If you believe the reports from his agent, Darrell Russell's biggest
mistake was not being a Canadian snowboarder. Leigh Steinberg has suggested
that the Raiders' lineman was suspended for four NFL games largely because
he once tested positive for a substance that could be explained away as
secondhand marijuana smoke.

We could debate forever the veracity of that defense, but for now, let's
consider what Steinberg is trying to accomplish. He knows that many
Californians, at least the ones living to the far left, hugging the coast
if not the trees, look upon reefer madness with more nostalgia than
disapproval. Proximity to such madness, without participation, makes an
individual seem more than just innocent. It makes him look like a teetotaler.

When Ross Rebagliati nearly lost his snowboarding gold medal because of a
positive marijuana test in 1998, the International Olympic Committee had to
back down. Rebagliati was saved mostly by bureaucratic snarls that made
stripping him of the gold impossible, but while he awaited a verdict, the
indifference to his transgression was as conspicuous as an Olympic sponsor.

Kids showed up at the slopes bearing signs in support of the ostensibly
scandalized Rebagliati. His colleagues, coming perilously close to
admitting that they had taken a puff or two of weed, stood by him.

After Russell's suspension came down last week, the reaction was roughly
the same. A lot of sports fans are tired of worrying about what a player
does on Saturday night when all they really want is for him to perform on
Sunday afternoon. They ask, and rightly so, whether a player's recreational
ingestibles, whether the affable reefer or more pernicious substances,
should matter to a league office.

The question always has been difficult, but its complexities became more
apparent during the past few weeks. If the NFL is responsible for the
health and well-being of its players, if it is to be held accountable when
a Korey Stringer dies after practice, then maybe it does have a right to
police what goes into an athlete's body.

In the case of a drug such as cocaine, which has stimulating qualities that
might help a player briefly outperform a non-user, the league has a
responsibility to keep tabs. In situations involving steroids, the
responsibility is even clearer.

But what about illegal recreational drugs, most of which pro sports have
banned out of fear of appearing too psychedelic for the average
ticket-buying family of four? Isn't this mostly a way of keeping players
off police blotters? The league plays sheriff so local government doesn't
have to.

The arrangement should make anyone uncomfortable. At some point, though,
the unions in the major sports all relented on this point. Perhaps the
surrender was purely venal, a chip traded for bigger salaries, better benefits.

But union leaders must also have realized what their younger members were
facing: unsavory leeches attracted to huge salaries, overwhelming pressure
to succeed in front of thousands, and constant nagging injuries begging for
sedatives of any kind.

When the league offices agreed that treatment would come first, before
censure, the unions couldn't really refuse. Too many athletes from the past
left their sports broken-down, then kept breaking down further. Today, the
temptations and means of purchasing drugs are far greater. In the NFL, with
the staggering pain endured every weekend, the likelihood of addictions is
particularly high (see Brett Favre 1996).

None of this completely justifies the invasiveness of drug-testing, and
legislation often leads to as many problems as it solves. The NCAA, for
example, enacted rules to limit the time spent in full-scale practices. As
a result, Northwestern coach Randy Walker wasn't on the field when safety
Rashidi Wheeler collapsed from a fatal asthma attack. The team was in an
informal conditioning session, and the coach wasn't allowed to be there.

Since then, excessive workouts have been scrutinized. The number and
expertise of medical aides have been questioned. After a young man dies on
the field, everything seems extreme -- too much of this, too little of that.

Drug testing, too, seems extreme, and its administration often turns
ridiculous. Steinberg contends that Russell was ultimately suspended for
not returning a tester's call within the prescribed 24 hours. If so, he was
relatively lucky. According to NFL rules, he had to test positive once
before he was required to be under such close watch.

In certain Olympic sports, there are no warning shots. Random testing
requires all athletes, no matter how clean their records, to be available
at the testers' command. Early on, the process led to snafus galore, and
athletes faced trouble simply for going out of town and not checking the
answering machine.

The whole system might have fallen apart if clean athletes weren't fully
aware that tight controls were necessary. Dopers, after all, had gone to
far greater extremes to avoid detection, including using catheters to
deliver someone else's urine as a specimen.

Nonetheless, Russell's punishment might seem ridiculous, the result of a
bureaucratic iron fist reaching outside the realm of football. But it seems
less absurd than it would have a month ago, when Stringer and Wheeler
looked years away from their autopsies.