I have been waiting to finish this column since October 7, 2001.
The day Barry Bonds’ 73rd home run sailed into the cool Northern California evening left no doubt in my mind that he would be the one to challenge or break Hank Aaron’s venerated home run record.
It was also the day I began preparing for this moment, when I would have the not-so-unique opportunity to lay bare my soul regarding this enigmatic behemoth as he prepared to set a new precedent for long-ball prowess.
I’m one of many, and I speak with the rest, so let me begin by stating this: I have never liked Barry Bonds. I do not like Barry Bonds, and I will never like Barry Bonds.
This goes deeper than the usual Northeastern U.S. fan code of incessant booing or yelling profanities at a player who is so good at his craft and at single-handedly defeating your hometown club that you have to be vocal with each at-bat.
When the time comes 40 years from now and I have the chance to play “remember when” with my baseball-loving grandkids, I will not even pay him the slightest in backhanded compliments by retelling any part of his story.
I know this, because Barry knows this. But I also know that he couldn’t care one damn bit about his legacy, unlike thousands of us who will spend time in the great debate over that same issue in the grand scheme of baseball and history.
There are so many things that strike me as wrong about the whole situation surrounding the chase for 756 ending Tuesday night in San Francisco. Things that make me shake my head, make my stomach churn, and make me wonder if sports is such a prevalent part of the culture that it turns otherwise reasonable people into simpering idiots who rely on sports to dictate how to behave, regardless of consequences.
First of all, while I respect his place in baseball history, his hitting prowess and his elder statesman status within the game, I have a problem with Hank Aaron’s actions. Originally, I gave a huge thumbs-up earlier in the season when he did a brave and very telling thing by brushing aside any suggestion or speculation on how he would even acknowledge the feat.
The cascade of boos, the torrent of hostility, and the reluctance in baseball itself to celebrate the impending milestone pales in comparison to what Aaron had to endure. His childhood in Mobile, Alabama, to the racism he endured through the minors, to the unease he had playing in Atlanta, through the year of torment leading up to his breaking Babe Ruth’s record, it all plays out like four sad acts in America’s struggle to come to terms with civil rights.
On the other hand, Barry has had no qualms whining about mistreatment, complaining about a lack of respect, and comparing his “plight” to O.J. and to other revered African-American pioneers. He has been spoon-fed all his life, being the son of a former major-leaguer and the godson of the Giants legend.
He was born with all the God-given talents of a baseball player plus he’s enjoyed the benefits of a system that actually courted his talent regardless of color, and the attention of the entire country’s media to complain that baseball is simply a job and nothing more. In addition, he’s gotten away with extra-legal maneuvers to sustain and improve his playing career which was already ticketed for fame without the twin influences of the cream and the clear.
It’s certain all of this empowers him, allows him to feel a sense of invulnerability which goes far beyond the ordinary mentality of a professional athlete. And it makes me seethe with unbridled hatred for the man.
This is why I think Hank Aaron was wrong to reverse his earlier position and send a video message congratulating Bonds. It may be that Aaron, now 73 years old, sees no point in petty grudges. However, this is one instance where he might have garnered even more respect by sticking to his guns and ignoring the fact, because Bonds has consistently spit in the face of everything Aaron, Mays and others had done to make it safer for Bonds to be who he is. Sorry Mr. Aaron, you should have said nothing. You’ve lost a lot of points in my book for your reversal.
Ditto for the other grand old men of baseball, choosing to hide behind their own uncertainty on the issue and the binding brotherhood of the former player, which prevents them from being more vocal and definitive in their stance.
I’m also deeply disappointed in Giants fans in The City and throughout the Western side of the Peninsula. San Francisco has always carved out a niche as being the bastion of liberalism, the birthplace of progressive thinking in all facets of existence. So, I’m incredulous that the epicenter of radical behavior chose to be so non-conformist in such a conformist manner by cheering for Bonds while a good bit of the rest of the country reviles him.
Like the Catholic Missionaries, the Irish, the Asians, the hippies, the yuppies, and those who seek same-sex unions which came before, San Francisco accepts all. They are welcomed with open arms, and embraced into as diverse a family as anywhere on the continent.
I guess that’s why it caused more of a stir in the rest of the country when a six-foot-plus, 200-pound-plus African-American male decided to don a bright orange wig, a dress, and heels to go in front of a couple hundred flashbulbs like Bonds did a couple years ago. Since that sort of free expression is embraced in San Francisco, I can see how that publicity stunt could have endeared him to the natives.
But it seems so simplistic and un-genuine to want to like somebody as intensely as everybody else dislikes him, simply because you pride yourself on bucking the system.
Bonds has never been caught using steroids, and has not been convicted for receiving, using, or supplying any illegal performance-enhancing drugs.
Yet, he has seen virtually the whole operation around him go down in flames, from Victor Conte to the two local writers threatened with imprisonment for not revealing their sources, to threats of a congressional assault on the game itself. Can anybody looking at this realistically believe Bonds has never taken something illegal even though everyone surrounding him has felt the sting of prosecution?
If you do, I suspect you also believe in one or more of the following: that thunder is nothing more than Angels bowling in Heaven, that lead can be turned into gold with a few magic Latin words, and that the USA didn’t need foreign aid to fix problems caused by Hurricane Katrina because the indomitable faith and spirit of Americans was enough to get by.
That’s why I don’t fall on the side of “innocent until proven guilty.” It’s too simplistic, too idealistic for this situation. You have to read between the lines, and that’s why Bonds is a disgusting fraud, because steroids, among other questionable “health aids,” are responsible for his setting the record at such a pace and at a time when virtually all other athletes at his age suffer diminishing returns.
He has disgraced the game with his surly demeanor, his lack of respect for himself, for baseball, and for history. He deserves no equivocation, no concessions, no grudging acknowledgements, even without a guilty verdict in the courts.
The coup-de-grace on this pile of muck were the actions of the fans when the ball landed in the right-center-field seats. I understand the sentimental and financial significance of being the one person to come away with precious Number 756, but the scene which unfolded was deeply disturbing.
OK, so the business of baseball memorabilia is very lucrative, and I can’t fault anyone for putting themselves in the best position to gain the upper hand on the prospect of monetary gain. But, are things so bad in this country, are we so locked into getting one up on our neighbor and writing our own ticket to financial freedom, that there has to be a vicious dog pile for the enticing treat?
What I saw was a mass of undulating humanity without concern for his fellow man, like hundreds of cobras with venom at the ready, all diving in for that one last rat. Who knows what disgusting things the masses did underneath the scrum, and don’t tell me anyone was trying to clear a path for young Mr. Murphy to escape. Frankly, I’m surprised he didn’t have to fend off his friends to keep alive and leave the park with such a great get.
To think that a phalanx of stadium security and city police had to be at the ready to prevent an expected riot in the area where the ball landed is beyond comprehension to me. So, an extra thank you, Barry, for attaching such a meaning to one little piece of horsehide with raised stitches that it sends people into a bacchanalian frenzy of consumerism and incivility not seen since the Cabbage Patch Kids Christmas riots of 1983.
The best we can hope for now that the chase is over, is that people go back to doing something else. Aside from the 24-hour news cycle and the 48-hour visceral reaction cycle, there need not be any more attention paid to Number 25 in left field.
Maybe that’s the worst thing Bonds himself can imagine. And that’s a selfish disgrace.
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