Barry Lamar Bonds is a tremendous baseball player. He's the best player of the past twenty years and it's not even a debate. Nobody could possibly argue against that (except possibly Skip Bayless, but I'm fairly certain his hatred towards the world was forged at a young age when he was placed in a burlap sack and ritualistically beaten every time he produced audible laughter... so we'll give him a free pass). Bonds has a once-in-a-generation talent. His father was a three time All-Star. His godfather was the greatest centerfielder to ever pick up a bat and put on a glove. His life started in the dugout, surrounded by giants (quite literally), enveloped in a love affair with the game of baseball. And despite his prickly demeanor and his callow sense of entitlement, he excelled at a ledgendary clip. He played baseball without ever truly "playing ball" (in the social sense) and some would consider that admirable. At the age of 28, he landed back where it all began in San Francisco. He started stockpiling consecutive MVP's, continuing his already impressive collection of Gold Gloves and, eventually, augmenting his breathtaking skill with artificial growth hormones. Records were smashed. Books were written. People debated. The End. Sorta.
Here's the thing... I understand that we've been on steroid-talk overload for the past five years. I understand that we have been on Barry Bonds-talk overload for the past three years (when it became apparent that Ruth was inevitable and Aaron was entirely feasible). That being said, I don't think the overload overkill should be glanced over so cavalierly by my esteemed colleague. Justifiable disgust and the resultant antagonism, even after it has been cooled from a rolling boil to something stale and tepid, is still ever present and applicable. This upcoming 756th homerun is compromised. The very number itself doesn't really represent anything beyond that which is falsely tangible. To contend that the grace and simple beauty of Bond's swing is reason enough why we should bang pots-and-pans and stomp our feet when that baseball sails over the wall is somewhat vexing. His induction into the Hall of Fame will be the ultimate affirmation of his success on the diamond, not this particular moment. Ben was correct in stating that we can never get the numbers/eras/comparisons absolutely right, but what we can do is approach this milestone with appropriate perspective. I haven't decided to drink any Kool-Aid here, I've merely decided not to conveniently discard the context of the situation. I'll watch with rapt attention when Bonds wears the HOF jacket and addresses the crowd at Cooperstown. I'll tell my kids about the nastiness that was his approach at the plate and how pitchers FEARED him. However, I simply choose not to celebrate a (is it hallowed or hollowed?) homerun that's supposed to commemorate two decades of stellar play when the number itself isn't a true representation of the player (albeit a great one).
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