North Star Writers Group

It is hard to imagine the glee I would have felt if Barry Bonds had never made it to 714. I never watched Babe Ruth play, aside from a few video clips. I’ve heard stories, and he seems like a jolly, roly-poly, nice-enough guy, but quite frankly, 715 could belong to anyone and I’d still hope to high heaven that Bonds never reaches it.

We have no reason to doubt his own, personal accounts regarding his rocky relationship with his father. But while explanations teach us, they don’t pardon impudence.

Granted, it is an unfair situation. We sit at home watching individuals on TV who few of us ever actually meet. We get to know them through a filter that inevitably spins situations in whatever fashion will induce the most profit without jeopardizing the appearance of integrity. Slanted coverage often results in the public condemnation of a person none of us know personally. I have had several moments of genuine pity for Barry Bonds. He has become the whipping-boy for the entire steroid era.

But taking away all the superfluous jibber-jabber, the endless hullabaloo, and just considering the raw skeleton of the situation, it is not hard to explain why most of us would be thrilled if Bonds never again swung a bat in the majors. He recently broke the single-season home run record – one of the most heralded records in baseball – and in the past few seasons, has been marching toward this even more-heralded career record at a jaw-dropping clip. Sports fans have no choice but to compare his name with some of the most mythologized in the game. Combine this with the rampantly-held sentiment that he has been cheating for almost half his career, and it is no mystery why people are more than slightly uncomfortable with watching Bonds’ name storm the record-books.

Now consider his interviews; the way he treats people like gum stuck in his cleats; the “I grow weary of proving my greatness to you,” expression he wears after every blast of his bat; the way he throws himself pity parties, telling the media, “You finally got to me. Happy now?” the way he guards his autograph like a home phone number; the way he wouldn’t let All-Star Baseball 2005 – a game which has every big name in baseball – use his name; the way he has said virtually nothing to discourage the ridiculous amount of media attention he has stolen from his team (he could at least feign interest in a team that has managed to stay 2½ games out of first place in the NL West); the way he proves “smug,” – a term I thought was restricted to political analysts – can be just as relevant to professional athletes.

Who knows? Maybe kicking back a six-pack with ol’ Bondsy would prove he’s just another guy with a good heart and some skeletons in his closet, although it’s hard to imagine him drinking with anyone but an agent, or maybe some bodyguards who probably aren’t allowed to talk to him anyway.

I am just hoping for one of two scenarios.

Plan A: It may be a dachshund’s chance in China that Bonds never hits another blast, but I’m pulling for the dachshund, and if the only way to keep the bloated superstar perched at 714 is for pitchers to follow the lead of the head-hunting Russ Springer’s, then by golly, it’s worth it. Hit Bonds with pitches until 2023 for all I care.

I was thinking that, since you could order and finish a Happy Meal between the time Bonds actually makes contact and rounds first base, maybe the league could institute some sort of home run, base-running time limit.

Umpire to Barry: If you’re not back here in three minutes, you’re outta here.

Plan B: If/when that fateful blast does come, it better not be in San Francisco. I want the loudest, angriest chorus of boos anyone has ever heard. If God cares about baseball, as He must, every video replay of 715 will unmistakably attest to the ugliest great record in MLB history.

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