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Thursday, May 4, 2006
Bonds stuck as villain
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Mark Bradley
Remember how your Little League coach used to yell, “Right man, right spot” to every batter, no matter how scrawny or overmatched? Imagine how it must feel to be Barry Bonds, the greatest baseball player of the last 70 years, and to have always, always been the wrong man in the right spot.
He was one out from the 1992 World Series and, with a chance to send Game 7 to extra innings, couldn’t throw out the plowhorse Sid Bream. He was six outs from the 2002 world championship but made a key error in the Giants’ Game 6 unraveling against Anaheim. And now he’s about to overhaul the beloved Bambino and major league baseball can’t bring itself to speak his name.
Imagine how it must feel to have gotten so much right but seen it all go wrong. If the book “Game Of Shadows” is to be believed, Bonds began using steroids because he was jealous of the acclaim festooned on Mark McGwire for hitting 70 home runs in 1998. So Bonds, it is alleged, made himself bigger and better and shattered McGwire’s record in 2001 and garnered maybe one-tenth of the glory. Imagine how that felt.
In 1998 Sports Illustrated dressed McGwire and Sammy Sosa in togas and laurel wreaths as its co-Sportsmen of the Year. Wrote Gary Smith: “They went to such lengths to conduct the great home run race with dignity and sportsmanship.” Three years later, was Bonds the Sportsman of the Year? No. Two other baseball players were — Randy Johnson and Curt Schilling. Imagine that.
Barry Bonds could have been the Michael Jordan of his sport, a paragon of excellence and grace. Alas, he got it only half-right. He’s at worst the second-best player in the history of baseball — Ruth, who was also a pitcher, still holds the edge — but he nears the end of his career with the masses and MLB itself just wishing he’d wreck his knee and go away for good.
Bonds’ team played in Milwaukee on Wednesday and Thursday. Bud Selig lives and works in Milwaukee. With Bonds sitting on 712 homers, the commissioner didn’t deign to attend either game. Baseball has already said it will do nothing to commemorate the passing of Ruth — no fireworks for second place, MLB decreed — but surely if it were Ken Griffey Jr. hitting Nos. 714 and 715 the stance would be rather different.
The second-greatest player ever has become the poisonous tree. MLB doesn’t want to salute Bonds because it’s afraid it will have to sanction him depending on the findings of various investigations. This is the same MLB that fell all over itself to embrace McGwire and Sosa despite suspicions — remember Andro? — that not everything about that famous chase was aboveboard. But baseball didn’t want to find anything wrong with McGwire and Sosa, who were seen as nice guys.
Bonds, as we know, has never gone to any lengths to build political capital. The best description still belongs to my late colleague Jeff Denberg, who said, “He plays the game with a sneer.” How many people in any performer’s audience enjoy being sneered at?
Imagine how it must be, being Barry Bonds. Does he wish he’d been nicer to people back when? Is he thinking of retiring before he gets to Hank Aaron’s 755 and thereby sparing his sport and himself a megaton of aggravation? Going on the rampant assumption that he did use steroids, does he consider himself a cheat or just someone who seized a competitive advantage? (Like a pitcher who scuffs the ball, say.)
For those of us on the periphery, the easy course is to harrumph that cheaters never prosper and that Bonds is getting exactly what he deserves. But what about McGwire? Did he get what he deserved? What about Gaylord Perry? Does a spitballer belong in Cooperstown? Why is Bonds the subject of all our scorn?
Imagine how it must be to have done things that should have made him the idol of millions but have instead rendered him a villain. Yes, Barry Bonds brought much of it on himself, but as he approaches the hallowed number 714 surely somebody should utter a sympathetic word.
Somebody? Anybody?
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Derby just another day
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Mark Bradley
Tastes change. Time and distance have their inexorable effect. Things that used to hold — nay, command — my interest now leave me cold. I don’t know if this says something about those things or more about me.
Those things: The Kentucky Derby and the NBA playoffs. I used to love both. Now I care little for either.
The Derby is probably a function of location. I lived for 28 years in Kentucky, where everything stops for the big race. I remember my mom and dad attending Derby parties at the Maysville Country Club. I remember Mom cutting the names of that year’s entries into little strips so we could have our own Derby pool at home. I used to be able to name every Derby winner from 1963 on, but now I can’t tell you who won last year.
For me, the Derby ceased being a big deal when I stopped being a Kentuckian. My waning interest in the NBA playoffs knows no similar line of demarcation. Over time, I’ve simply and gradually stopped enjoying the sport. (And I used to enjoy it immensely, much to the chagrin of my college neighbors who couldn’t understand how someone could get so excited over basketball that wasn’t of the amateur strain.)
I don’t like the way the sport is presented — everything glorifies the individual, as opposed to the team — or played anymore. I haven’t watched a minute of this postseason, choosing to watch the Stanley Cup instead. There was a Sunday in May 1977 when I skipped my college graduation because the Sixers were playing the Rockets in the Eastern Conference finals on TV. I wouldn’t skip a root canal to watch the NBA on TV now.
As for the Derby: I still watch, but it doesn’t really resonate. It’s just another sporting event. I never thought I’d feel this way, but I do.
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