Monday, October 23, 2006
Oh, Barry: A Block of Writing in Four Acts
Originally posted February 23, 2006.
All the hand wringing for Barry Bonds to retire is a tad melodramatic for my taste. Personally, I hope his body holds out long enough for him to hit 800 homeruns...then, a la John Kruk, he could just pack his bags mid-game, leaving that perfect, monolithic number as the Holy Grail of unreachable records. And, if I get the script to him in time, here's what he'd say at his last post-game press conference:
Bonds:
That's right, you fucking vultures. 800 motherfucking homeruns.
[smug pause]
How's that feel?
Intrepid Reporter #1:
Good riddance.
Bonds:
That's right; no more Barry to kick around...but, wait. What's that ungodly number up there at the top of the all-time homerun records? 800? That's going to be there forever, isn't it? For all-time, just to remind all of you jackals that, hey, no matter how much you might loathe me, I'm fucking awesome.
Intrepid Reporter #2:
But what about the steroi...
Bonds:
[interrupting]
Dude.
[glaring]
800. Fucking. Home. Runs.
[more glaring]
800.
Intrepid Reporter #3:
Do...
Bonds:
Hey, how many Stolen Bases do I have? 500? Yeah, 500-something...how 'bout MVP's? SEVEN, you say? And those are the awards you dipshits vote for, right? Huh. Ted Williams couldn't win an MVP hitting .400 because he was "arrogant", and yet I'm the most arrogant, and greatest, ballplayer ever to have picked up a bat, and you turncoat jagoffs gave me 7 of them...8 Gold Gloves, 13 All-Star games, 2 Batting Titles, 73 homeruns in one year, and, wait...there was something else. Oh, yeah. 800 FUCKING HOMERUNS!
Intrepid Reporter #4:
What about...
Bonds:
Seriously. I own every significant single-season batting record out there.
[ticks them off on his fingers]
Slugging Percentage; On-Base Percentage; OPS; Walks; Intentional Walks; Intentional Walks with the bases loaded; homeruns...c'mon.
[looks at the faces of the assembled throng]
Shit, man...if anyone pitched to me in 2004, I would've hit .450 with an OB% of .800 and 150 homeruns, not to mention the 300 RBI. So, really.
[pause; shit-eating grin]
C'mon.
Intrepid Reporter #5:
Th...
Bonds:
I've effectively ruined the game of Baseball for you verminous, blood-sucking hack sportswriters, and there isn't one goddamn thing any of you inbred motherfuckers can do about it.
[pause for effect]
I guess you'll have to learn to love me.
[another smug smile; Intrepid Reporter #1 lunges at Bonds in a rage, but is restrained]
Ha HA! Fuck you, bitches. I'm OUT!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Originally posted on May 19, 2006.
The hand-wringing over Barry Bonds has abated a little, at least for the time being, so maybe it’s time to add my two-cents to the pile of pennies already left by Doomsday prognosticating Sportswriters. Here’s the great thing about this whole steroids issue as it relates to Mr. Bonds: There isn’t anything anyone can do about it. HA! I’m not going to sit here and condone anything about performance-enhancing supplements, but, while sitting here, I can laugh my ass off over the misguided belief that Bonds’ stats should be stricken from the record books. If you take away Barry you’ve still got Mark McGwire’s 70 in 1998 & Sammy Sosa’s 3 60+ HR seasons, which weren’t any cleaner than Bonds’ 73, on top of all the ill-gotten MVP Awards from Sosa, Jose Canseco, Ken Caminiti, Jason Giambi and possibly Ivan Rodriguez. And anyone who needed this "exhaustively researched" "tell-all" book to tell them that Barry was a juicer probably still believes that giving money to church improves anything but the priest‘s quality of life.
Sportswriters can’t write anything as to their nagging suspicions, of anything, for fear that they’ll be excommunicated from the clubhouses that they’re paid to cover…so, much like the movie reviewer who gets to unload on a terrible movie once in a while, every Sportswriter who has felt the wrath of Barry Bonds has been just lacing into him, propped up by this aforementioned "Game of Shadows" book. Even Skip Bayless, ESPN Sportswriter, apparently voiced his opinions after doing research to ascertain whether it was indeed possible for a man of Barry’s age to bulk up to the degree that he had in 2001, and got bombarded with the hateful email of the unenlightened, as well as the subsequent glare of Bonds during a clubhouse visit. (For the record, Bayless evidently found that it was scientifically impossible for a 35-year old man to put on that much muscle during an off-season without the help of steroids.) But Bonds, to this point, has never tested positive in any steroid test, so nobody can touch him. It’s all hearsay and will continue to be even if MLB decides to start testing for Human Growth Hormone…which is inexplicable and patently absurd that they haven‘t already, and the legacy of Bud Selig as the Worst Commissioner in Baseball History, putting him in some heady company. So, Barry Bonds will skate on any and all charges, unless something drastic happens, and Baseball’s hallowed All-Time HR Record will be broken, and the world will end. Until, of course, Alex Rodriguez smashes the record himself in a few years, and all the Sportswriters who are now shaking with rage will be able to take a deep breath and remember that it’s just fucking Baseball. Relax.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Originally posted May 8, 2006; edited to remove the relentless wrong-headed FJM ball-licking...or, most of it.
I will preface this by saying that I’m a huge fan of the guys over there on Fire Joe Morgan; I’m doing everything in my power to not "cut their grass", so to speak, but Joe Morgan is so indefatigably awful that it would be unfortunate, no, wrong, to not make mention of some ridiculousness solely because of their catchy moniker. So...
Over some umpteen-years of watching Sunday Night Baseball, I have found Morgan to be distasteful and arrogant in a way that I could never quite ascertain; luckily, with the help of Fire Joe Morgan, I realize that his voice is that of the pompous-ignoramus...a threatened former-"The Man" who doesn’t want his cushy post-playing job to have to involve any type of work other than recounting stories of the past that have little, if any, relevance to what questions he’s being asked as a paid expert. Tonight, Morgan went to great lengths to explain how Barry Bonds’ poor start is directly attributable to his sore ankle/foot/lead leg; how he’s flying open and allowing said leg to lift from the ground just before impact instead of after. Following a truly majestic shot by Bonds that hit off the upper-deck facing in Philadelphia, Morgan showed us how that leg managed to stay down for "the perfect swing-position" (possibly paraphrased), and nanner nanner nanner...what Morgan is failing to mention, of course, is that yes, though Bonds’ poor start might well be because of a physical ailment of some sort, his previous years of absolute and utter dominance were the result of FUCKING STEROIDS; Morgan even mentioned that this leg-thing is THE reason Bonds is not performing at the level he has over the last two, three years, and once he gets that corrected he’ll be fine...not the homerun home-plate posing on flyballs that fall ten-feet short of the wall, not the obvious look of terror in Bonds’ eye, not the fact that he’s been on FUCKING STEROIDS since 1999, no; it’s his goddamned foot. Well, to be honest, this has become a colossal bore, this Bonds Circus; anyone on air just refers to the copious booing during road games as "The Bonds Controversy" or variations thereof, and it’s become a cause for the likes of Joe Morgan to become a de facto apologist, inventing ways in which his "superior" baseball knowledge can explain away Bonds’ fall off in play this year. This isn’t just the proverbial "elephant in the room" that everyone’s ignoring; it’s another fucking planet crashing into ours without any acknowledgement, and it’s fucking ridiculous. So, as far as I’m concerned, Barry Bonds is dead, and I couldn’t care less what he does on his "quest" for 755. Don’t care, won’t care...and will only start to care again in fifteen years, when Albert Pujols will be finishing off his otherworldly career with that magic number dead-set in his sights.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Also posted on May 8.
An Historic Readjustment, or "Fairy Tale":
It’s November 28th, 1998, and I’m chucking a little good-natured ribbing at my brother over the fact that he’s just reached the big "two-oh", and as we’re enjoying some lightly-frosted vanilla-cake with a couple of Heinekens, the birthday celebrations come to a crashing halt as it’s announced that my favourite baseball player whilst growing up has been declared dead: Barry Bonds, after just reaching the zenith of his remarkable career by becoming the first man in Major League history to record 400 stolen bases and 400 homeruns, was involved in an horrific three-car pile up in San Francisco, a confirmed DOA due to the severity of the crash; he was 33. I immediately thought of that Sports Illustrated cover with the headline "I’m Barry Bonds and You’re Not," next to a picture of a typically-sour Bonds leaning on a bat from my early hero-worshipping years; I harkened back to the debates my dad and I had over whether Bonds was really good enough to be that arrogant; the thievery of what should have been his second out of four straight MVP Awards by Terry Pendleton in 1991; his first season in San Fran, where he had the finest season of his career after signing a long-term contract, not before; his amazing 40-40 season of but two years prior; of the no-doubt, first-ballot Hall of Fame numbers he left behind:
.290/.411/.556/.967
1917 H 1364 R
403 2B 63 3B
411 HR 1216 RBI
445/575 SB 1357 BB
And, in a final season that would indicate more greatness to come but for his age, this batting line:
.303/.438/.609/.1.047
167 H 120 R
44 2B 7 3B
37 HR 122 RBI
28/40 SB 130 BB
We sat around as I emphatically replayed various Bonds highlights in my head, trying to anecdotally capture this latter-day baseball legend‘s career for those who wondered why I seemed to be killing the party: the diving catches in leftfield; the beautiful choked-up swing that produced unbelievable power to all-fields; the homerun pimp-walk that was in a class of it’s own in terms of simultaneously showing up a pitcher and showing off his own audacity...a truly great player, comically prickish but supremely talented, a childhood hero of mine, had passed, but his legend would live on, tragically abbreviated but untainted: Barry Bonds is Dead. Long Live Barry Bonds.
End of original posts.
Enough, already. Never again will I write about Barry Bonds...though if something comes up, I will almost certainly change my mind.
Now THAT’S credibility.
¶ 10:04 AM
All the hand wringing for Barry Bonds to retire is a tad melodramatic for my taste. Personally, I hope his body holds out long enough for him to hit 800 homeruns...then, a la John Kruk, he could just pack his bags mid-game, leaving that perfect, monolithic number as the Holy Grail of unreachable records. And, if I get the script to him in time, here's what he'd say at his last post-game press conference:
Bonds:
That's right, you fucking vultures. 800 motherfucking homeruns.
[smug pause]
How's that feel?
Intrepid Reporter #1:
Good riddance.
Bonds:
That's right; no more Barry to kick around...but, wait. What's that ungodly number up there at the top of the all-time homerun records? 800? That's going to be there forever, isn't it? For all-time, just to remind all of you jackals that, hey, no matter how much you might loathe me, I'm fucking awesome.
Intrepid Reporter #2:
But what about the steroi...
Bonds:
[interrupting]
Dude.
[glaring]
800. Fucking. Home. Runs.
[more glaring]
800.
Intrepid Reporter #3:
Do...
Bonds:
Hey, how many Stolen Bases do I have? 500? Yeah, 500-something...how 'bout MVP's? SEVEN, you say? And those are the awards you dipshits vote for, right? Huh. Ted Williams couldn't win an MVP hitting .400 because he was "arrogant", and yet I'm the most arrogant, and greatest, ballplayer ever to have picked up a bat, and you turncoat jagoffs gave me 7 of them...8 Gold Gloves, 13 All-Star games, 2 Batting Titles, 73 homeruns in one year, and, wait...there was something else. Oh, yeah. 800 FUCKING HOMERUNS!
Intrepid Reporter #4:
What about...
Bonds:
Seriously. I own every significant single-season batting record out there.
[ticks them off on his fingers]
Slugging Percentage; On-Base Percentage; OPS; Walks; Intentional Walks; Intentional Walks with the bases loaded; homeruns...c'mon.
[looks at the faces of the assembled throng]
Shit, man...if anyone pitched to me in 2004, I would've hit .450 with an OB% of .800 and 150 homeruns, not to mention the 300 RBI. So, really.
[pause; shit-eating grin]
C'mon.
Intrepid Reporter #5:
Th...
Bonds:
I've effectively ruined the game of Baseball for you verminous, blood-sucking hack sportswriters, and there isn't one goddamn thing any of you inbred motherfuckers can do about it.
[pause for effect]
I guess you'll have to learn to love me.
[another smug smile; Intrepid Reporter #1 lunges at Bonds in a rage, but is restrained]
Ha HA! Fuck you, bitches. I'm OUT!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Originally posted on May 19, 2006.
The hand-wringing over Barry Bonds has abated a little, at least for the time being, so maybe it’s time to add my two-cents to the pile of pennies already left by Doomsday prognosticating Sportswriters. Here’s the great thing about this whole steroids issue as it relates to Mr. Bonds: There isn’t anything anyone can do about it. HA! I’m not going to sit here and condone anything about performance-enhancing supplements, but, while sitting here, I can laugh my ass off over the misguided belief that Bonds’ stats should be stricken from the record books. If you take away Barry you’ve still got Mark McGwire’s 70 in 1998 & Sammy Sosa’s 3 60+ HR seasons, which weren’t any cleaner than Bonds’ 73, on top of all the ill-gotten MVP Awards from Sosa, Jose Canseco, Ken Caminiti, Jason Giambi and possibly Ivan Rodriguez. And anyone who needed this "exhaustively researched" "tell-all" book to tell them that Barry was a juicer probably still believes that giving money to church improves anything but the priest‘s quality of life.
Sportswriters can’t write anything as to their nagging suspicions, of anything, for fear that they’ll be excommunicated from the clubhouses that they’re paid to cover…so, much like the movie reviewer who gets to unload on a terrible movie once in a while, every Sportswriter who has felt the wrath of Barry Bonds has been just lacing into him, propped up by this aforementioned "Game of Shadows" book. Even Skip Bayless, ESPN Sportswriter, apparently voiced his opinions after doing research to ascertain whether it was indeed possible for a man of Barry’s age to bulk up to the degree that he had in 2001, and got bombarded with the hateful email of the unenlightened, as well as the subsequent glare of Bonds during a clubhouse visit. (For the record, Bayless evidently found that it was scientifically impossible for a 35-year old man to put on that much muscle during an off-season without the help of steroids.) But Bonds, to this point, has never tested positive in any steroid test, so nobody can touch him. It’s all hearsay and will continue to be even if MLB decides to start testing for Human Growth Hormone…which is inexplicable and patently absurd that they haven‘t already, and the legacy of Bud Selig as the Worst Commissioner in Baseball History, putting him in some heady company. So, Barry Bonds will skate on any and all charges, unless something drastic happens, and Baseball’s hallowed All-Time HR Record will be broken, and the world will end. Until, of course, Alex Rodriguez smashes the record himself in a few years, and all the Sportswriters who are now shaking with rage will be able to take a deep breath and remember that it’s just fucking Baseball. Relax.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Originally posted May 8, 2006; edited to remove the relentless wrong-headed FJM ball-licking...or, most of it.
I will preface this by saying that I’m a huge fan of the guys over there on Fire Joe Morgan; I’m doing everything in my power to not "cut their grass", so to speak, but Joe Morgan is so indefatigably awful that it would be unfortunate, no, wrong, to not make mention of some ridiculousness solely because of their catchy moniker. So...
Over some umpteen-years of watching Sunday Night Baseball, I have found Morgan to be distasteful and arrogant in a way that I could never quite ascertain; luckily, with the help of Fire Joe Morgan, I realize that his voice is that of the pompous-ignoramus...a threatened former-"The Man" who doesn’t want his cushy post-playing job to have to involve any type of work other than recounting stories of the past that have little, if any, relevance to what questions he’s being asked as a paid expert. Tonight, Morgan went to great lengths to explain how Barry Bonds’ poor start is directly attributable to his sore ankle/foot/lead leg; how he’s flying open and allowing said leg to lift from the ground just before impact instead of after. Following a truly majestic shot by Bonds that hit off the upper-deck facing in Philadelphia, Morgan showed us how that leg managed to stay down for "the perfect swing-position" (possibly paraphrased), and nanner nanner nanner...what Morgan is failing to mention, of course, is that yes, though Bonds’ poor start might well be because of a physical ailment of some sort, his previous years of absolute and utter dominance were the result of FUCKING STEROIDS; Morgan even mentioned that this leg-thing is THE reason Bonds is not performing at the level he has over the last two, three years, and once he gets that corrected he’ll be fine...not the homerun home-plate posing on flyballs that fall ten-feet short of the wall, not the obvious look of terror in Bonds’ eye, not the fact that he’s been on FUCKING STEROIDS since 1999, no; it’s his goddamned foot. Well, to be honest, this has become a colossal bore, this Bonds Circus; anyone on air just refers to the copious booing during road games as "The Bonds Controversy" or variations thereof, and it’s become a cause for the likes of Joe Morgan to become a de facto apologist, inventing ways in which his "superior" baseball knowledge can explain away Bonds’ fall off in play this year. This isn’t just the proverbial "elephant in the room" that everyone’s ignoring; it’s another fucking planet crashing into ours without any acknowledgement, and it’s fucking ridiculous. So, as far as I’m concerned, Barry Bonds is dead, and I couldn’t care less what he does on his "quest" for 755. Don’t care, won’t care...and will only start to care again in fifteen years, when Albert Pujols will be finishing off his otherworldly career with that magic number dead-set in his sights.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Also posted on May 8.
An Historic Readjustment, or "Fairy Tale":
It’s November 28th, 1998, and I’m chucking a little good-natured ribbing at my brother over the fact that he’s just reached the big "two-oh", and as we’re enjoying some lightly-frosted vanilla-cake with a couple of Heinekens, the birthday celebrations come to a crashing halt as it’s announced that my favourite baseball player whilst growing up has been declared dead: Barry Bonds, after just reaching the zenith of his remarkable career by becoming the first man in Major League history to record 400 stolen bases and 400 homeruns, was involved in an horrific three-car pile up in San Francisco, a confirmed DOA due to the severity of the crash; he was 33. I immediately thought of that Sports Illustrated cover with the headline "I’m Barry Bonds and You’re Not," next to a picture of a typically-sour Bonds leaning on a bat from my early hero-worshipping years; I harkened back to the debates my dad and I had over whether Bonds was really good enough to be that arrogant; the thievery of what should have been his second out of four straight MVP Awards by Terry Pendleton in 1991; his first season in San Fran, where he had the finest season of his career after signing a long-term contract, not before; his amazing 40-40 season of but two years prior; of the no-doubt, first-ballot Hall of Fame numbers he left behind:
.290/.411/.556/.967
1917 H 1364 R
403 2B 63 3B
411 HR 1216 RBI
445/575 SB 1357 BB
And, in a final season that would indicate more greatness to come but for his age, this batting line:
.303/.438/.609/.1.047
167 H 120 R
44 2B 7 3B
37 HR 122 RBI
28/40 SB 130 BB
We sat around as I emphatically replayed various Bonds highlights in my head, trying to anecdotally capture this latter-day baseball legend‘s career for those who wondered why I seemed to be killing the party: the diving catches in leftfield; the beautiful choked-up swing that produced unbelievable power to all-fields; the homerun pimp-walk that was in a class of it’s own in terms of simultaneously showing up a pitcher and showing off his own audacity...a truly great player, comically prickish but supremely talented, a childhood hero of mine, had passed, but his legend would live on, tragically abbreviated but untainted: Barry Bonds is Dead. Long Live Barry Bonds.
End of original posts.
Enough, already. Never again will I write about Barry Bonds...though if something comes up, I will almost certainly change my mind.
Now THAT’S credibility.
¶ 10:04 AM
