The game I love is irreparably harmed.

With 13 names added to the lists of cheaters and liars, the specter of PEDs looms larger than ever. The carnage is not just the worth of the guilty, or their isolated reputations.

Remember that sense of wonderment when, say, Cecil Fielder hit 51 in 1991? Go further back to George Foster hitting 52 in 1977.

We’ll never have it cleanly again. That’s unquestionably the greatest casualty in all of this.

Growing up, one of my favorite baseball trivia questions was this: Who are the only five men to hit 50 or more homers in a season twice. Until the late 1990s, the answer was Ruth, Mays, Mantle, Jimmy Foxx and the oft-overlooked Ralph Kiner.

Now, that list is nine. Sammy Sosa hit more than 60 three different times. There were 16 seasons of 50 or more homers between 1900 and 1995. There have been 26 in the 18 years since.

Now, in conversation or watching a game, praise a power hitter. See how fast the “juicing” rejoinder comes.

It comes from a friend, from a fan, or in your own mind. In my case it comes from a Twitter follower, a texter to the radio show, a co-host, a producer.

I can’t fight them on it. Truly.

Cynicism has been rewarded, time and time again. And I hate it.

I once argued passionately to credit Jose Bautista for the work he did with hitting coach Dwayne Murphy in Toronto. This lifelong power prospect and (to that point) bust started to swing earlier and pull absolutely everything.

He worked, trusted and rebuilt his approach. You can read all about it if you want.

But no one wants to hear it. Most would much rather scream “roids” and end the discussion.

Chris Davis, a lifelong power prospect and bust, has become more patient (though his plate discipline stats of late have come back to earth), and he says he has matured in Baltimore. You can read all about if you want.

Most aren’t interested.

One friend posted on social media that he “can’t wait until Chris Davis gets exposed.”

This is the emotional damage baseball has wrought upon itself.

The innocent are no doubt being victimized by this, daily. And we don’t know who they are.

I was mad about steroids for years, with a righteous anger to find the wicked, demonize them and safely return to praising the clean.

The rage is gone. Resignation has set in. This is not a good prism by which to view something you love.

So by what method could you rediscover that sense of wonder?

•Shut down every interaction with the “roids!” screamers and bury your head in the sand? We can’t do that; so many shamefully did it in 1998 and beyond.

•Abandon the appreciation of the home run? I greatly appreciate pitching, diving catches, triples, opposite-field singles and perfect cutoff throws. The problem is, the longball is pleasing.

•Accept that everyone is conceivably cheating and therefore still credit those who are clearly better than the rest? I’m not quite ready for that last option, though it seems in some ways the safest.

Joy might be rekindled with pure unabashed skepticism.

What we have to do is this: Know the stories of the athletes we watch. Understand the genuine talent, efforts and improvement that are sometimes evident.

A light bulb that went on is not always some fabricated myth. A healthier mindset is not always some fraudulent cover.

Are there drugs involved? How can anyone really argue against the possibilities?

All I can argue for is the full picture.

I hope the testing catches up with the users in a way that allows trust to bloom again.

I hope improvement gets acknowledged, even amid the doubts.

And I hope our relationship with the game gets easier.

Baseball is a family thing with the Spiegels.

I love it and relate to it based on early interactions with the archetypal baseball fan, my Pops.

My brother’s high school team was good, and they were gods to a fourth-grader like me. After constant pestering, I was made official bat boy. I beamed when their team bus would pick me up at elementary school for away games.

In daily driveway games of what he called “Tenni-Ball,” a round tabletop with a strike zone painted on it was an effective catcher. I was allowed to play outfield across the street.

I was the youngest fan our brood had, for decades.

My nephew is a very good 17-year-old pitcher on an even better high school team. I’ve written about him here before, when Pops and I watched him strike out 7 of 9 hitters as a 14-year-old.

A few weeks ago I sat behind his mother and watched a ballgame over both of their shoulders.

My nephew was in the dugout of a Frontier League ballfield in Joliet. He stood on the top step the entire game, rooting on his teammates as they battled for an IHSA championship. For him, it was as big an atmosphere as he has ever played in.

They believe they are men, and by many rights they are. But they are still kids in our eyes as we watch. They remind us of our distant youth, and of time’s incessant march. My sister birthed that lefty pitcher with the mutton chops. Now he’s as old as she was when she was an all-state soccer player. I went to her games and watched then, too.

It was truly great to be there; a heart-pumping atmosphere on a June night with a comforting chill that reminiscent of October.

Baseball is a very good game, demanding unique focus and skills from the people who play it.

The ace fought his way through 5 shutout innings. His opposition did the same.

Our heroes hit fastballs hard, and it felt like a breakthrough was imminent. But a runner was caught stealing in their only rally, and some good contact went unrewarded.

In the sixth, the other guys got a hit, a well-executed bunt, and then a double to the gap to plate the game’s only run. And that would be that, 1-0.

I watch the pros every night, looking for windows into who they are as people. It’s how I’m wired.

Players this young can’t hide their humanity. Our ace was rattled; there was a balk and some wildness, which he impressively survived without further damage. The batters trying to tie it up for the final six outs understandably felt the pressure at the end. Eagerly trying to deliver, they didn’t go as deep into counts as they had so often before.

Patience is demanded. Calmness is rewarded. Anxiety is often punished. The game helps us grow.

What a tremendous season for the young men of my nephew’s high school. What a great time in his life, with the promise of another chance with more involvement a year from now.

What a fun experience for this writer to have a team to root for with fervor. My sister was so nervous she couldn’t talk, and I respected that as we just watched.

We watched a game I’m glad my family has chosen to love.

You get to Wrigley Field at 8:15 a.m. The neighborhood is already buzzing, and the ballpark bar is filled with workers prepping for the masses.

You’re part of a radio show speaking directly to the hopes, fears, joy and criticism of a rabid Cubs fan base that still can’t quite believe this is happening. Your interactions are alternately filled with calm, titillation, analysis, nervous laughter and genuine romance.

The president of baseball operations sits down with you at 11:30 a.m. and thinks back to his first few months on the job in late 2011. He tells you about the 125 members of the scouting and development team, all together in a hotel ballroom in Mesa, painstakingly mapping out a manual on how the Cubs were going to teach the game. There was one day for hitting, one for pitching, one for defense, a fourth to consolidate. A blueprint emerged. He tells you how this week those same 125 people were flown in, with their families, to walk the warning track and sit in the bleachers for the first home playoff game of the era the day before.

Symmetry. Deserved rewards.

The manager tells you at 12:40 p.m. that he couldn’t be more proud of his team, for approaching these moments the way they have. He doesn’t say it, and he doesn’t need to, but you know he has been the driving force for their confidence and calm. He’s a master of both strategy and atmosphere. He told you at the beginning how trusting relationships would be built and how brutal honesty would get the best from his players.

It’s worked.

The show ends, the neighborhood fills and you wait for your friend to meet you for the game. He’s a lifelong Cubs fan, approaching 50, ready to attend his first ever October game. You’re in the upper deck on the first-base side. You get sky and sunset views. The orange and red foliage on neighborhood trees behind the bleachers reminds you all evening that this is fall baseball, and your gratitude multiplies.

You stand with two strikes, for every batter on either team. You question the best manager you’ve ever seen when his starter gets hit hard, because that’s your right. You’ve invested the hours watching and learning the game so you can feel you ought to be in charge. The fans are glad you aren’t.

You high-five strangers when the Cubs get out of a jam. You jump and cackle when the pitcher gets an RBI single. You watch the hot-headed Cardinals pitcher lose his cool and hope he crumbles.

You watch the last remaining rookie slugger join the power barrage, guessing fastball against a frustrated pitcher and destroying a three-run homer into the right-field bleachers. You watch him sprint around the bases, jump into the dugout and bounce from teammate to teammate as the crowd roars, knowing of his traumatic season and arduous work to get through it.

Deserved rewards.

As the “middle closer” is striking out the side to get out of a fourth-inning scare, you hear a swell of cheers moving behind you and turn around. There’s the owner, walking the aisle between the 400 and 500 levels, high-fiving every fan in his path. He knows how patient they’ve been. He’s also drinking in their appreciation, accepting the praise for how he’s allowed the architect to build the foundation.

Deserved rewards.

It’s 4-3, Cubs. The scrap-heap starter turned reliever is trying to survive a threat. A single to right field ties the game but doesn’t give up the lead. Instead you watch the right fielder, who will soon be subbed out for a better defender, deliver an absolutely perfect throw. He’s the best athlete on the field, and he’s playing the best baseball of his professional life at the most important of his times. You plan to watch the throw again and again when you get home.

Like your mom used to say, a beautifully executed play looks like ballet.

You watch the 26-year-old “veteran” leader take the lefty reliever deep for the second game in a row. You doubt one run is enough. Later, the 22-year-old slugger hits a blast you think must have hit one of those now-empty rooftops behind the giant right-field videoboard. The slugger gets a curtain call, which you miss because you’re still talking to strangers about the majesty of the bomb.

You cringe when the reliever you don’t trust, against St. Louis, comes in, and then you smile when he dominates. You watch the closer bring the shrine tantalizingly close to bliss, needed outs dwindling down to one. The best Cardinal singles, bringing the tying run to the plate. It’s not going to feel easy.

Good. This isn’t easy. Rebuilding an organization isn’t easy. Finding future stars in the draft, in trade and in international signings isn’t easy. Coming together as a mix of players and accepting whatever role the boss asks of you isn’t easy. Hell, trusting the plan while watching three years of noncompetitive baseball from your couch isn’t easy.

And winning a playoff series against the top rival and organizational model isn’t easy. It’s stressful for the viewers. But the stress makes the success that much sweeter. This is why you always embrace the stress.

They win. You look to the sky. You think of Cubs fans you loved who aren’t here, and you hope they’re watching. You thank the stars for your presence. You hug your friend. You sing along to a song you hate. You let yourself say nothing, drinking in as much as your senses will allow. You sing some more. You text your father. You don’t leave.

You watch men in uniforms and then suits pile on to each other with that special mix of relief and elation. You watch the media scurrying to capture their words. You look to the brand new videoboard to see the disco-ball champagne celebration going on inside the clubhouse. You see the shortstop-turned-second baseman who took so much criticism this year in ski goggles spraying champagne onto the ceiling, and you wonder how on earth we all got here.

Deserved rewards.

You want to see that twice more.