Barry...oh what might have been

Somewhere in a parallel universe, which diverged from our own in 1998, the following column was written.

In 2001, when Barry Bonds retired as a 37 year old, he was the paramour of baseball. As the Major Leagues first 500/500 man, a feat largely due to his increased focus on the steal during 1999 and 2000, his accomplishments were due obvious respect.

Yet he retired with at least something left in the tank. Perhaps he loved the game, but didn’t feel he’d ever get respect. Perhaps he should now.

During his career, Bonds persona appeared nearly bi-polar. He was abrasive to the press, a distant teammate, and downright ignorant of his actions effects on fans. At the same time, his charismatic smile and sometimes beaming personality could have made him a natural on Madison Avenue.

That Bonds knew he could have been the latter, and couldn’t control the former, always seem to fuel the frustration of both Bonds and sportswriter alike. He always delivered on the field, but failed miserably off it. He desperately craved the respect he thought was his due, along with the due of Willie Mays and Bobby Bonds.

He was never elevated to that “hero” status some ballplayers receive, but fewer deserve. We didn’t need to elevate him. Was he great? Sure. But he wasn’t sexy. It’s not like he ever hit over 50 home runs in a season.

Five years ago, many of us self-righteously vowed we wouldn’t vote for Bonds on his first ballot for the Hall of Fame. Voting him in with those that never disrespected the game would fail to honor the legacy of Cal Ripken, Jr. and Tony Gwynn, Sr.

And there was one other who retired in 2001. Mark McGwire. Bonds definitely didn’t deserve to sit with our beloved Mac, who saved baseball in 1998.

McGwire, who hit 500 foot home runs from batting practice through inning nine was a wonder. Only, he was a wonder who cheated. And we knew it. At least those of us who weren’t blind knew.

Bonds had to notice. He had to notice us ignoring the flaws of McGwire, Sosa and others while lauding their gaudy homer numbers. He had to wonder if that sort of respect, the one missing piece not only to his career but to his fathers, was merely a syringe away.

It’s what you do when no one is looking that reveals your true character. In 1998, it was possible to do steroids in private. You knew you wouldn’t be tested. You knew all you desired was a few private cycles away.

We knew what many ballplayers were doing privately, and we kept it private; at the same time, we ignored Barry’s on-field prowess in favor of the cheaters.

It all changed one day during the spring of 2005. Bonds, who never appeared to weigh more than Ernie Banks, sat next to a physically and emotionally shrunken McGwire during the now famous steroid hearings in front of Congress.

Bonds aged as a human should have, playing worse during his final few years, but still showing flashes of brilliance. No one could have suspected him. No one ever has.

“I thought of taking them in 1998, after the chase. I wanted what McGwire and Sosa had.” Bonds said to Congress. He was quoting a publicist, sure, but who could blame him for being careful with his words. Would you have trusted us to report them?

“Mays told me I might do amazing things with steroids. He also told me none of them would impress him.”

Bonds was convinced he could have extended his career and swelled his homer numbers with the juice. Indeed, his career HR/AB numbers are very similar to McGwire’s pre-1994 numbers, the year in which McGwire dropped his HR/AB total from one every 15 AB to one every 7. Bonds had the natural power. Bonds hit over 40 home runs three times in Candlestick Park. Ask Mays how hard that is.

Steroids could have allowed Barry to play into his 40’s. Give Barry an extra few years, some increased pop as he entered AT&T Park, and he could have threatened 700 homers. Perhaps even approached the greatest record left.

The cardinal sin of sportswriting is writing the easy story. McGwire and Sosa were saving baseball; that was easy. McGwire juiced, and we didn’t care. Bonds treated us poorly, and we took notes. McGwire the great; Bonds the louse. Simple.

And while Barry played a pure game, we reported the brooding, and ignored the cheating. Now we are left to brood over the cheating. Isn’t it ironic?

The fact is, while Barry was rightly taken to task during the late 1990’s for his active disdain for the fans of baseball, he respected the integrity of the game. It seems now as if he was the only one who did. He resisted the temptation of the “chicks dig the long-ball” era and played beautiful baseball. The baseball of his father, the baseball of Mays.

It’s time to admit that Barry doesn’t belong on the same stage as McGwire, or even in the same era. It’s time for those who wish steroids had never infected this game to recognize the one person who, when presented with opportunity to cheat privately, privately did the right thing. It’s time to respect Barry.

I look forward to the ceremony in Cooperstown.

Reality Bites. But there is a certain sweetness in the irony of it.