It's hard to grow old gracefully in professional sports, making a living pushing your body as far as it will go even as it breaks down, worrying always about the next new kid waiting to take your place, working for people who care only about winning and money, and doing it all under the scrutiny of millions. It's the kind of pressure, I think that is the saddest part of the doping and steroid scandals that have become part of the sports scene. It's not always about winning; often it's just about fighting time.

I was thinking about the subject in light of the wretched display concerning steroids in baseball, which came to a head this Wednesday. That was when former star pitcher Roger Clemens and his former trainer Brian McNamee testified, under oath, about the pitcher's alleged use of steroids to prolong his career. One of the men is lying, and could face perjury charges that could lead to prison.

The allegations came in the wake of the "Mitchell Report," a commission study released in December that looked into accusations that professional baseball was rife with performance-enhancing drugs. It came after years of allegations and rumors, and has acted much like turning on the kitchen light and watching the cockroaches scatter.

Clemens has always been known for his temper, and his propensity for throwing hard at hitters that edged too close into his space. His campaign of denials has been fervent, angry, and unconvincing. It hasn't helped that his accuser, McNamee, is hardly a role model.

In hindsight, it makes sense. Clemens appeared washed up in 1997 when the Boston Red Sox declined to offer him a big new contract, fearing that his best days were done. He proceeded, over the next several seasons with the Toronto Blue Jays and the New York Yankees to have a historic comeback. Now it appears it may have been a bit of cheating.

There is a large element of hypocrisy surrounding performance-enhancing drugs in pro sports. It has long been the subject of jokes - all those cracks about East German women's swim teams indistinguishable from the men's team. And sports columnists piously tsk-tsk when concrete allegations appear. We see what we want to see.

But look past the finger-pointing and there is a sad human story behind all this. But the thing that struck me about the other 89 names in the Mitchell Report was that most were either less-than-stellar players who clearly felt they needed a leg up to compete, or aging players who were desperate to extend a few more years onto their careers. Reading over the half-remembered names, it seemed to me these weren't egomaniacs like Barry Bonds trying to pad their stats, but just desperate people trying to protect what little they had.

Indeed, it is hard to grow old gracefully under the spotlight. It seems everything is against it. Think about Shaquille O'Neal, one of the most acclaimed superstar NBA players of recent memory, whose trade last week from the Miami Heat to the Phoenix Suns has been met with near universal derision. Most of it is aimed at Suns management for making a deal for an oft-injured, over-the-hill former superstar. I'm hoping the trade works out - the Suns are a fun to watch team that has been badly in need of a big man, and even if he is a few steps slower, maybe he has a few more good months in him.

Granted, I don't really feel bad for Shaq. He clearly has a thick skin and is known for his grace in handling the intense spotlight. And he is certainly one of those guys who has a career ahead of him after he leaves the game. But in following all the talk about the deal, the one question that kept coming to me was just when the heck did Shaq get so damn old? I remember when he was the young phenom from Louisiana State University, all the hype, the commercials, those two times in his rookie season that he dunked so hard the backboards shattered. All that was before half his nicknames popped up, before his soap opera with Kobe, before the rap album and that movie where he played a genie or something. He first arrived in the NBA in 1992, 16 years ago.

I also remember the very first player of a team I followed who was younger than me: Kyle McLaren, who was an 18-year old defenseman when he joined the Boston Bruins in 1995.

I imagine this feeling keeps growing as you get older. I've gotten married, had a kid, but you really notice how time has flown when you step back and look at something you've been following for years. I'll probably notice it again when guys younger than me start retiring.

By Christopher Martcisz