No juice to this probe

Let's say George Mitchell finds out what we all want to know.

What then?

I mean, what exactly is the end game here? If Major League Baseball finds itself with a list of X players who have been proven -- I said proven -- to have used performance-enhancing substances at some time during the past, say, 15 years, what happens then?

Line them up and shoot them?

Make them walk around for a month with signboards reading, "I Did Steroids The Year I Hit 57 Homers/Struck Out 287 Guys"?

Have them perform 60 hours of community service?

Purchase a guillotine?

I'm serious. Yes, all of us who care about baseball are dying of curiosity to know who did what and when, but where do we go beyond that?

Is the idea simply to punish the evildoers? Is it to address the record book? What? What? What?

If it's the latter, we need to get a grip. The idea that the baseball record book is a seamless repository of untainted statistics that testifies to the glorious continuum of our oldest team game is ludicrous. In the broadest general terms, 19th or early 20th century baseball would be a recognizable activity to any of us. But to suggest that Old Hoss Radbourn, King Kelly, Cap Anson, Dan Brouthers, and Sliding Billy Hamilton were playing under the same day-to-day circumstances as Dizzy Dean, Mickey Cochrane, Lou Gehrig, Hank Greenberg, and Joe Medwick, let alone Curt Schilling, Pudge Rodriguez, Todd Helton, David Ortiz, and Jose Reyes, is preposterous. Baseball is clearly a game of eras. Hey, what game isn't? It's a little difficult to compare George Mikan and Shaq.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. To me, Babe Ruth was the home run champion of the Booze and Broads Era, Hank Aaron was the champion of the Greenie Era, and Barry Bonds is about to be the champion of the Pharmaceutical Era.

Does this mean I'm accusing Hank Aaron of using greenies? No. I don't know what Hank did. But he did perform at a time when the use of amphetamines was rampant in baseball. He may have resisted the temptation, which certainly should elevate him in all our eyes, because we know that many of his (big-name) contemporaries did pop a greenie or two or 14.

This business of records is important, however, if only to evaluate players properly in Hall of Fame terms. Many of us had hoped that, given recent revelations about the changing, shall we say, culture of baseball, voters would have reexamined the work of Jim Rice, whose 382 homers, 1,451 runs batted in, and .502 slugging percentage were achieved in an era in which offense was suppressed compared with its status in the current era for a variety of reasons. The same can be said for Dale Murphy, Dave Parker, and a few others.

If ever anyone was "pure," it was Jim Rice. He was the ultimate no-nonsense, no-frills player. I would be gob smacked to learn he had ever popped a greenie, and we know he didn't even lift a weight. He was naturally strong. He worked at hitting. He achieved. He played hurt. He asked for nothing. How did I get on this?

Oh, that's right. The records. And, of course, the Big One -- i.e., Bonds's pursuit of Aaron's home run record.

But first, don't you feel a little sorry for George Mitchell? Don't you think he must be asking himself, "How did I get mixed up with this?"

Here is this distinguished American, the former Senate majority leader, schlepping around the country, trying to extract information from an intransigent union and players who are either arrogant or terrified. He lacks subpoena power. He might as well be going door to door selling Girl Scout cookies.

Breakthroughs, such as they are, are external. When a onetime Mets clubhouse attendant named Kirk Radomski gets implicated in drug selling, we are told Mitchell will pick up crumbs left over from the government. (After someone is done talking to the Feds, perhaps he'll talk to Mr. Mitchell.) And the latest revelation may or may not be fruitful. We have learned, courtesy of the New York Daily News (waaaay out in front among American newspapers on the baseball drug issue), that a compromise has been reached with the baseball union that will allow a player to make known his medical records to the Mitchell investigation -- if he wishes to. I would say this falls somewhat short of actually splitting the steroid atom, if you will.

It sounded so nice and high-minded when commissioner Bud Selig appointed Mitchell to head up this investigation, and never mind the fact that Mitchell is listed on the Red Sox team masthead in the sixth spot in the batting order. The title is "Director," and the only names ahead of him are John Henry, Tom Werner, David Ginsberg, Phillip Morse, and Larry Lucchino. But since George Mitchell's name is synonymous with such words as integrity and competence, everyone was apparently willing to overlook the potential conflict of interest.

That's why it's been so uncomfortable watching a man such as George Mitchell stumble around so helplessly for so long. He's George Mitchell, for goodness' sake.

Anyway, let's assume that someday we get the list of perps. If we find a long list of players who won home run titles, batting titles, MVPs, Cy Youngs, or Pulitzers (Hey, with Curt, you never know), and/or contributed heavily to World Series triumphs, what happens then?

No, I don't know. I'm just asking.

You can't erase the records. But you can, I suppose, issue a disclaimer. You can say that for a certain period, baseball was riddled with drug cheaters, batters and pitchers alike, and that every fan is free to draw whatever conclusions he or she wishes about it all. You can say that Major League Baseball is working very hard to prevent this from happening again, but that our knowledge of both science and human nature tells us that the urge to gain an edge is a primal one, and that the cheaters have traditionally been able to stay a step ahead of the law.

You can try the perps in the Court of Public Opinion, which has already convened in the matter of America v. Bonds. Aside from that, what?

Again, I'm just asking.

Bob Ryan is a Globe columnist. His e-mail address is ryan@globe.com.