I always liked Mark McGwire. I can’t claim to know him well but I did interview him and talk to him on a number of occasions during the 1990s, beginning in 1992 when I wrote, “Play Ball.” He was still in Oakland then and while he would never be described as outgoing he was smart, thoughtful and—unlike his then-teammate Jose Canseco—when he said he was going to talk to you at 3:30 on Tuesday he showed up at 3:30 on Tuesday.

(Not that no-showing for a scheduled interview, even on multiple occasions, made Canseco unique by any means. The all-timer was Kevin Mitchell who told me to meet him in the clubhouse at 2 o’clock one afternoon. I asked him if he really planned to get there that early for a 7:30 game. Absolutely, he said, 2 o’clock. I was there at 2 o’clock and had to sit outside the clubhouse in a drafty hallway because there was no one inside at that hour. Mitchell showed up at 5 o’clock—ten minutes before he had to be on the field to stretch before batting practice. No apology, no explanation. “I can give you five minutes,” he said. I told him not to bother).

I wrote about McGwire—with no discussion of steroids because it really hadn’t become an issue at that time—in ‘Play Ball.’ In 1995, after the players strike ended, I walked into the A’s clubhouse in Baltimore one afternoon and heard McGwire calling my name across the room. I went over to say hello and, as we shook hands, he said, “Why are you just about the only guy who understood what the strike was about?”

Needless to say I REALLY liked him at that point. We talked at length about the strike and about my testimony before Congress when I had more or less gone head-to-head with Bud Selig, testifying at the same time he did.

Three years later when McGwire and Sammy Sosa lit up the summer with their home run duel I was as enthralled as anybody else. By then though there were whispers—about BOTH of them, more Sosa than McGwire to be honest because McGwire had always been a big guy and had hit 49 home runs as a rookie in Oakland. Sosa had gone from flat out skinny to flat out muscular. McGwire was huge. I remember thinking one day when I was in the Cardinals clubhouse, that his arms were about as big as any I’d seen on anyone who wasn’t a bodybuilder.

Still, like a lot of others, I didn’t get it. Maybe I didn’t want to get it. As time went by and more and more evidence came out there wasn’t much doubt that a lot of guys had been using steroids.

Then came Canseco’s book—which has thus far proven to be almost completely accurate—and the embarrassing Congressional hearing when McGwire took the fifth; Rafael Palmeiro lied and Sosa forgot how to speak English. There was never much doubt after that about what steroids were doing to baseball.

When I wrote, “Living on the Black,” in 2007 I talked at length with both Tom Glavine and Mike Mussina about steroid use. Their educated guesses were that at least 25 percent of Major Leaguers had used on a regular basis before steroid testing finally came into play in 2003 and that at least 50 percent had at least experimented at some time. On the day the Mitchell report came out I was wrapping up the research on the book and called them both. The most telling comment came from Glavine: “I’m more surprised by the names NOT in the report than by the names that are in it.”

No one was surprised on Monday when McGwire finally admitted he had used steroids. Most people I know reacted with the famous line from Inspector Renaud in ‘Casablanca,’: “I’m shocked, SHOCKED that McGwire used steroids.’ Once McGwire signed on with the St. Louis Cardinals to be their hitting coach everyone knew he was going to have to address the issue because if he didn’t spring training would become a circus and Tony LaRussa didn’t want that.

So, McGwire made his confession in a day carefully orchestrated by former Bush (2) White House press secretary Ari Fleisher, who is making a very good living these days based on his reputation for defending indefensible positions. (He’s also on the BCS payroll).

I don’t think there was anything fake about McGwire’s emotions in his interviews with Bob Costas and others. What’s more, I think he truly believes that the steroids he took weren’t a factor in the 70 home runs he hit in 1998 or the remarkable numbers he put up during the last eight years of his career. Athletes often rationalize their actions to the point where they actually believe they didn’t do anything wrong if only because that’s how they live with the deed. I think McGwire is a good enough guy that knowing, deep down, what he did, really bothers him now. I’m sure the phone call he made to Pat Maris (Roger’s widow) to confess was probably the toughest thing in this whole process.

That said, he’d be a lot better off if he said simply, “I have no idea how much my steroid use affected my power,”—because he doesn’t know. None of us do. Most of us believe it did have an affect and it certainly gave him an advantage over home run hitters of past eras even if you totally believe McGwire’s version of events because it allowed his body to recover from both injuries AND fatigue much faster. There’s also a chicken-and-egg thing going on here: steroids often make players susceptible to injuries. So, how much did McGwire’s early steroid use break his body down and “force,” him (at least in his mind) to continue taking them? Again, we’ll never know.

What we do know is this: he cheated. Steroids, remember WERE banned by Fay Vincent in 1991 when they were declared illegal by the government. There was just no testing because the union stonewalled and the owners liked all the home runs being hit. He also lied in spite of LaRussa’s claim that by not answering questions to Congress he didn’t lie. It’s what’s called a lie of omission, whether talking to Congress or hiding out for most of the last eight years. LaRussa should also stop acting as if McGwire is Mother Theresa: loyalty is an admirable trait but it can go too far. Just say, ‘yeah, Mark screwed up and I’m glad he finally admitted it so he can move on,’ and leave it at that.

Finally, there is the omnipresent Hall of Fame question. I don’t think there’s any doubt that confessing—even though it wasn’t a full confession—will make McGwire’s case much stronger for the Hall in future years. A number of baseball writers, including smart guys like The Washington Post’s Dave Sheinin and ESPN’s Buster Olney have said that they think voters should go ahead and vote for ALL the steroid-era players because no doubt there are some who cheated who simply haven’t been caught or have flown under the radar enough to not be accused.

Personally, I think that’s a cop out. The damage all these guys have done to baseball is incalculable. This isn’t a court of law where one is innocent until proven guilty. This is the court of public opinion. Did anyone think before Monday that McGwire was clean? Does anyone think Barry Bonds is clean? Roger Clemens? Sosa? I don’t think anyone should vote for them.

Olney also raised the very legitimate question this morning about whether writers should be deciding who goes into the Hall of Fame—in any sport. I’m not sure he’s wrong about that and, in fact, The Post doesn’t let any of us vote for any Hall of Fame. That said, the most corrupt and worst Hall of Fame process is The Basketball Hall of Fame, which doesn’t even allow the public to know WHO the voters are which makes the process far more political than others Halls of Fame.

For now, let’s give McGwire credit for finally making an admission—I’m not going to go so far as to say he came clean—and let him move on with his life. No doubt he will be embraced in St. Louis and that’s fine. But if I still had a vote for the Hall of Fame, even though I like the guy, I couldn’t vote for him.

I’m not sure what the best part of the BCS bowl lineup announcement on Sunday night—which had all the suspense of the electoral college vote for President—was: the shocking news that Texas, even though it was more-than-fortunate to beat Nebraska on Saturday night will play Alabama for the national championship or the equally stunning news that Boise State will play TCU in The Fiesta Bowl.

On the face of it, the BCS boys allowing two non-BCS schools into their little club is good news. But let’s take a closer look at what they did and why they did it: To begin with, they simply ran out of options. TCU had to be invited because it was the highest-ranked non-BCS school and it was in the top six in the rankings. The question all along had been Boise State, which beat Oregon early in the season and dominated league opponents at the end of the season. (Those of you who are BCS-league fans and want to get on your high horse about the WAC not being a strong league, I would point out that most of your teams would never, ever consider scheduling a game against Boise State).

Up until a week ago, The Fiesta Bowl was trying to make a case to take a two-loss Oklahoma State team whose most impressive win was over a five-loss Georgia team. That scenario got blown up when the Cowboys were embarrassed by Oklahoma, another five loss team. There was really nowhere for the BCS to turn. By rule it couldn’t take three teams out of The Big Ten—which had exactly zero impressive non-conference wins this season. You can bet if the rule didn’t exist, Penn State would be in The Fiesta Bowl, no doubt on the strength of its impressive non-conference schedule.

USC had four losses after losing at home to Arizona on Saturday so that wouldn’t work. As well as Nebraska played (more on that later) against Texas on Saturday it had four losses and no wins of consequence. The ACC? No way. The Big East? Well, if Pittsburgh had beaten Cincinnati you MIGHT have seen some stirring to give the Bearcats The Fiesta bid but that didn’t happen either. The SEC’s two bids were used up by Alabama and Florida. Notre Dame? No, not exactly although Charlie Weis might be signed up as the halftime entertainment somewhere. (Seriously folks, he’s giving Dan Snyder a run for his money as WGIS—Worst Guy In Sports—and that’s saying a lot).

So there was no choice in the end but to take Boise State. If the BCS boys had to take two minorities into the club for a year they weren’t going to take any chances. It was bad enough when Boise beat Oklahoma a couple years back and worse when Utah dominated Alabama a year ago. It still bothers me that my colleagues who vote in the AP poll didn’t have the guts to vote for Utah No. 1 over Florida last January, partly on principle but just as much on the theory that if Utah wasn’t going to get a shot at the title game the ONLY way to measure them against Florida was by common opponent: Florida had to rally in the fourth quarter to beat Alabama; Utah controlled the Crimson Tide for 60 minutes. Utah should have been an easy choice but there are a lot of gutless guys voting in the AP poll—and too many guys with ties to the BCS for that matter, including the ESPN apologists.

Given past history when non-BCS meets BCS: three wins for the little guys, one for the bullies, the BCS wasn’t going to take any chances this year. No way was TCU going to get a shot at Cincinnati or Florida or even Georgia Tech. The same went for Boise State. You guys just go play one another and leave us alone was the message. We’ll suck it up and send you both the big check but don’t bother us anymore. Here’s a memo to my AP brethren again: You’ve been given a second chance: vote the Fiesta Bowl winner as the national champion even if Alabama beats up on Texas—which it very well might. Just show some guts and say, ‘I’m sick and tired of it and I’m not going to take it anymore.’

Of course most of them won’t do it. I have a friend who has continued to vote five ACC teams in the top 25 every week even though I honestly don’t think the ACC could win a “challenge,” with the CAA if it ever had the guts to play one, even with 22 extra scholarships per team.

Think about this for a minute: who eliminated Cincinnati and TCU from national title consideration? Not any of their opponents, that’s for sure. It was, in fact, the replay official in the Texas-Nebraska game who put one second back on the clock after it had hit zero and gave Texas the chance to kick a game-winning field goal to win 13-12 on the game’s final play. If the replay official decided the call on the field was correct or that it was too close to reverse (which is supposed to be the rule) then TCU or Cincinnati is in the championship game. Texas ought to take that guy on the trip to Pasadena. I’m not saying the call was wrong but it was certainly close enough that it could have been left in place. In fact, I’m enough of a believer in those who theorize that conference officials know which team winning benefits the conference most to think that if the situation had been reversed and Nebraska had needed the extra second it might not have happened.

But it did. Isn’t it amazing how the undefeated team—regardless of BCS conference—always seems to get the key call that it absolutely must have?

As most people know the BCS recently hired ex-White House press secretary Ari Fleischer to be its official spinner, the theory now being that defending the BCS is a better idea than simply getting rid of it. Fleischer proved during his years working for George W. Bush that he can spin with the best.

Here then is my suggestion for his first assignment in his new job: Fly to TCU, Cincinnati and Boise State. Walk into each of those three locker rooms, look those players in the eye and explain how each of them went undefeated this season and don’t get to play for a championship. Then list for them all the other sports in which such a thing can take place. Then tell them that the bowl system must be preserved so that all those 6-6 teams can tell their fans that they made a bowl game. (He can also add, I suppose, that the fact that the bowl system would be completely unharmed by a playoff is irrelevant).

Maybe, given his past experience, Fleischer can look those kids in the eye and say to them: “Mission Accomplished.”

If you are the BCS your mission is always accomplished as long you say it is. The whole thing really is sickening. Spin THAT Mr. Fleischer.