After Alex Rodriguez’s moisty ESPN interview acknowledging what sure smells like a small portion of his actual drug use, baseball’s almost ready to put the dirty dealings of its Dead Balls Era in the rear-view mirror.

Almost. There’s still one holdup: Cal Ripken hasn’t been nailed yet.

Every other boy of summer that any kid of the 1990s and beyond ever looked up to has already been ruined during the federal government’s bizarre ‘roid raids.

Cal’s the last man standing.

Ripken always said he cared deeply about the game of baseball. If you meant it, Cal, please come forward now and confess.

Make something up if you have to. Just say you watched your pal Brady Anderson grow overnight from a base-stealing, punch-and-judy hitter into a mini-McGwire, and when Anderson nailed 50 homers in 1996, you started putting things in your body.

Who wouldn’t believe that? You don’t even have to say what it was you took, Cal. Nobody does anymore!

Then we can all move on.

Until we exhume Babe Ruth’s body. That dude HAD to be juiced.