Break Out The Asterisks

Fans in San Diego's Petco Park greeted Barry Bonds on opening day with a sereis of white cardboard statements, none of them of the 'We Love You Barry' variety. Some of southern California's finest questioned Bonds' perilous chase at Aaron's home run record, others questioned his sexuality, the size of his head, and the length and width of that which resides in the front sling of his banana hammock. But like coconut on a German chocolate roundcake, the icing having a strong flavor that doesn't appeal to most, one fan took it up a notch by throwing a plastic syringe at Barry's feet. Hours later Jesse Jackson lost his shit, attacking everyone from the tosser of said syringe to security inside the stadium. Now, does anyone really think Bonds wants Jesse Jackson on his side? Come to think of it, does anyone want Jesse Jackson on their side? His arrival on the scene, and not Game of Shadows, means things in BarryLand have gotten serious. All brought on, one way or another, by one single syringe.

I can hear my mom now, "Oh, that poor man." And if I were an outsider, with no emotional attachement to the game, I would agree with her. But as a lifelong baseball fan, one who has lived and died with every White Sox pitch over the past 29 years, I say the behavior of that syringe tosser was spot-on. As Peter Gammons said, "(the syringe) did not present any danger to Bonds or to any othe player," so we can throw out the Jackson diatribe, which was focused solely on the safety of the juiced beast, and instead explore the intentions of that infamous needle-thrower. Let's face it, the guy was pissed at Bonds - either that or he wanted to show the guys in San Francisco's front office what an arm he has. Assuming the former is correct, I believe he had every right to hurl that needle-less missile.

If Barry Bonds felt he had the right to turn himself into an early twenties Hulk Hogan just because he was pissed that McGuire and Sosa were getting the attention he deserved, and in doing so breaking one of the most respected records in all of sports, one synonymous with the greatness of a drunk named Ruth and the drive of a man known to his mom as Henry, then Mr. Needle Thrower had the right to land that plastic syringe at the tip of Barry's left toe (an egregiously large left toe, if it fits with the rest of his freakish frame). The fact is he cheated. He cheated the game, the fans, the record books, the players, and, most of all, himself. Yes, Barry cheated Barry. How? Look at the hoopla surrounding him now. We'll all look back at this season and say to our kids "Boy, you should have seen the disgusting mess that was Bonds' exit from the game." He's tarnished his legacy with a thick soot that no amount of Oxyclean could rub off. And for what? Fame and glory? Where's the fame and glory now? We're talking about asterisks on his record for pete's sake. Is that the way Bonds wanted to go out? Was 72 homeruns really worth it?

And when Barry breaks Ruth's record, and I cringe at the thought, what do you think will come flying from the stands then? There will probably be a bunch of hotdog wrappers, a few bottles, and if anyone can sneak one in, a bowling ball. And even if, to the horror of Jesse Jackson, that bowling ball hits Bonds point blank in the head, IT WON'T HURT HIM. His head is now bigger than that ball by a long shot, a shot longer than one of his swats into McCovey Cove, and even a sixteen pound ball couldn't split that inflated - in more than one way - melon. I can see the marble ball dribbling down his shoulder, a spiderweb crack in its curved side, and a fully conscious Barry looking down at it wondering, "How did it all come to this?" Then he'll see the anger and disgust on the faces of those he tried so hard to impress and in that moment maybe, just maybe, he might regret what he's done.