North Star Writers Group

It will not be as great as Hank Aaron’s 755 home runs, due to juiced balls, juiced players, lousy pitching, smaller ballparks or any other more or less legitimate reasons/excuses we can muster. But nonetheless, it will be the most significant broken record many of us will ever see.

There is an unmistakable air of tragedy about it. But oddly enough, I still get excited every time he hits a home run and adds to his ghastly total. I always figured I didn’t want him to break the record, and I’m still pretty sure I don’t. But the truth is that I would be incredibly disappointed if he didn’t. The letdown would be terrible. The breaking of the record will be like a horrific car crash that you can’t help but secretly admire for its brutality.

The media is probably to blame, as we have blown this story up about as forcefully as its resilient seams could bear. But we’ve all been sucked in and there is no chance of going back on this mind-numbing fever pitch. It speaks volumes about the human obsession with drama. It’s a captivating tragedy that we can’t help but devour.

I love Hemingway novels. He is unquestionably a master storyteller, but what draws me in so tightly is the tragedy that consistently looms. There is always the feeling that the relationship will break, the war will destroy, the bull will defeat the matador and Hemingway would not be the wonderful author he is if this looming tragedy did not eventually triumph. The movement of the story must persist.

The story of Barry Bonds has undeniable movement, and we all know how it will conclude. He will break the record, and shortly thereafter he’ll divorce the game forever. This is how the story must end.

But Hemingway is greater than a masterful portrayer of tragedy. Mingling amidst the powerful sadness is beauty, warmth, love and heroism. Though the story ends in pain, and the mind cannot immediately hearken back to these wonderful themes, it eventually remembers. And this is the real reason I love Hemingway. He finds beauty in the middle of tragedy, and the tragedy, though real and truly devastating, is never, ever the point.

As such, baseball is more than a record book. It is bigger than the number 756, or whatever total Bonds eventually realizes. It is a beautiful game of patience and details, and it is the responsibility of the spectator to decide to commemorate the numbers or the players, the records or the game.

Roger Federer has just completed his fifth straight Wimbledon title, equaling the record five straight Wimbledon titles set by Bjorn Borg 27 years ago. For those of us who lived through this astounding achievement, we must ask ourselves, how will we remember Federer when he goes down as the greatest tennis player of all time? Will we remember him for winning 20 Grand Slam titles?

No, this is how our children and grandchildren will know him. I will remember him for being the most humble champion I ever saw, fierce in competition and quiet in victory. I’ll remember the tears he shed after winning the 2007 Australian Open as the former great, Rod Laver, presented him the trophy. This is what tennis is all about. This is what sports are all about, and this is the story I’ll tell.

It’s not worth obsessing over records. These do not constitute stories. Stories are told through memories. And while the story of Barry Bonds and his horrific rise to infamy may go down as one of baseball’s most pronounced tragedies, it is only one story among many, many beautiful stories of heroism and love for this great American game.

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