Tim Raines’ Hall of Fame career is remembered for blazing speed, top-of-the-order excellence, and a vital role on the Montreal Expos’ best teams. But just as important is how openly he later discussed his cocaine use in the early 1980s—honesty that now feels like a precursor to the way Major League Baseball is rethinking drugs, including cannabis.
During the mid-1980s Pittsburgh drug trials, Raines testified that he kept a vial of cocaine in his back pocket during games and slid into bases headfirst so he wouldn’t break it. He has since spoken repeatedly about that period, describing a serious addiction that damaged his performance and nearly derailed his career before he entered rehab after the 1982 season and got clean.
Raines’ story emerged at a time when cocaine use was widespread in baseball. The Pittsburgh trials exposed a clubhouse culture where dealers had easy access to players, and Commissioner Peter Ueberroth responded with suspended penalties conditioned on treatment, community service, and testing rather than permanent banishment. That era established a template: public scandal followed by a policy shift that mixed punishment with rehabilitation.
Fast-forward to the present, and MLB is again in the middle of a policy evolution—this time around cannabis. In December 2019, MLB and the players’ union agreed to remove “natural cannabinoids (e.g., THC, CBD and marijuana)” from the league’s official list of Drugs of Abuse. Marijuana use is now treated similarly to alcohol under MLB’s joint treatment program, with an emphasis on evaluation and voluntary treatment when use is linked to problematic behavior rather than automatic suspensions.
At the same time, the league expanded testing for opioids and cocaine in the wake of high-profile overdose deaths, explicitly prioritizing life-threatening substances over cannabis. A 2020 fact sheet summarizing MLB’s program notes that there is no longer random or “reasonable cause” testing for plant-based cannabinoids for major-league players or most non-playing personnel; synthetic cannabinoids and other drugs of abuse remain prohibited.
Viewed through this lens, Raines’ openness matters in at least three ways.
First, it humanizes substance use. Raines was not a fringe player but one of the best leadoff hitters in history. His candid admissions—about using cocaine during games, about rehab, and about the stigma that lingered for decades—make it harder to reduce drug issues to “bad apples.” That framing is increasingly reflected in MLB’s cannabis stance, which leans on health, treatment, and education rather than simple morality.
Second, his case underscores the difference between performance-warping hard drugs and today’s discussions about cannabis. Cocaine was associated with erratic play, sleep disruption, and serious health risks. By contrast, current debates around cannabis in MLB focus on pain management, recovery, anxiety, and off-field use in a landscape where many states have legalized it. The league’s decision to de-prioritize marijuana and instead target opioids and cocaine suggests a more nuanced understanding of relative harms—something Raines’ era never had.
Finally, Raines’ experience highlights the importance of trust and transparency between players and the league. When a star can later discuss his addiction, treatment, and long path back to stability, it reinforces the idea that athletes are more likely to seek help if they are not afraid of automatic career-ending sanctions. MLB’s updated cannabis policies, with their focus on evaluation, voluntary treatment, and behavioral standards rather than simple positive-test suspensions, echo that lesson.
Tim Raines’ legacy will always begin with stolen bases and a plaque in Cooperstown. But his willingness to talk publicly about substance use also helped nudge baseball toward a more realistic, health-centered approach—one that now shapes how MLB treats cannabis in a rapidly changing legal and cultural environment.