6. Barry Bonds Committed the Unforgiveable Sin

BARRY BONDS COMMITTED
THE UNFORGIVEABLE SIN

STERIODS, SCHMEROIDS: NO ASTERISKS FOR BARRY,PLEASE

As a kid growing up in the frigid northeast, winter seemed without end. Any small sign of spring was dashed by the inevitable “surprise” snowstorm in early March. But there was one infallible symbol of spring’s inevitability,

“Baseball’s Spring Training camps open in Florida,” blared the sport’s pages.

The headlines were reinforced with photographs of overweight pitchers and catchers descending upon sun-drenched fields. (They always came first.)

Baseball is a metaphor for renewal, for hope and optimism. As the fresh season nears, even last year’s losers start without a blemish, tied for first place. After all, look what the Boston Red Sox did last year.

To most New Yorkers in the 1940s and 50s, Florida was a mysterious paradise, with palm trees yet. The flocks of “snowbirds” migrating south was a decade or two away and Arizona had not yet been discovered by baseball’s moguls as a spring training alternative to southern Florida.

To most easterners Arizona was a place they sent you if you had trouble breathing.

Fans from small market cities like Milwaukee and Kansas City may never see their teams in a playoff, but, for those few weeks before the games start to count, they shed the loser’s mask and dare to believe this will be their year.

Such is the joy of baseball in the spring.

But not this year.

STERIODS

Major League Baseball initiated a steroid testing program last week. Nobody showed much enthusiasm. The Player’s Union has always been wary of any such testing, and the owners’ primary concern remains “counting the house.”

Commissioner “Bud” Selig seemed near nausea at the press conference announcing Baseball’s great need to cleanse the game of “performance enhancing” drugs. This was the party line, and Selig was faithful to the script,

Everybody knows what’s going on here. This is a media generated fraud.

Baseball has no steroid problem!

Blumert’s Beautiful Wife (BBW) “Did I hear right? You’ll get 10,000 angry e-mails on that one. Why do I suspect that Barry Bonds has something to do with all of this?”

As I patiently explained to my dear wife: steroids can have a critical impact on people who are “jerking and lifting 500 pounds,” or, racing 100 yards in less than 10 seconds. To such folks a jolt of steroid juice could make a difference.

Those 300-pound behemoths that put on body armor for three hours every Sunday and are called “Linemen,” can also be beneficiaries of a visit from the friendly “vitamin” dealer.

But not Major League baseball players. They would never benefit from the use of steroids over a 162-game season. Baseball is a slow, measured game. Things can get excruciatingly tense, but rarely is there need for an explosion of effort that would be abetted by a stab of steroids in the butt.

The media people know this. If they are appalled, yet fascinated by the use of steroids, let them spend their time monitoring Track and Field. They can compete for Pulitzer prizes every 4 years at the Olympics where there are enough “dopers” to go around.

Allow me to dwell a moment on that great American, the “sports writer.” Most were nerds at college, jealous of the “jocks” they would later report about, hating them all the while. By temperament, they would be better suited writing obituaries.

My wife was right about one thing; Barry Bonds is the real target of the media’s attack on steroids and baseball. We know the media despises Bonds (see “The Mortality of Baseball Players—Even Barry Bonds” and “The Unforgiveable Sin: The Superstar the Media Hates”) and this was their grand opportunity to mortally wound him.

“Bonds is a ‘cheater’ and an asterisk should be placed next to every one of his records,” whine the media pygmies. Some of Bonds’s more vociferous critics would have his name expunged from the Record Book entirely.

Bonds has remained indifferent to the years of image-hammering the media has conducted. He’s done little off the baseball diamond to win friends and influence others. A charmer he’s not.

This may explain why people who should know better have succumbed to the media’s scurrilous attack on Barry’s accomplishments.

One absurd example is that steroids have enlarged Barry’s head by several hat sizes. You mean there are muscles on the skin side of the skull?

Maybe Bonds knew the “clear” he rubbed on his knees was an illicit substance; maybe not, but 2005 is his 20th year in the Major Leagues. For those who have been suckered by the media and would give credit to chemicals for his assault on Baseball’s hallowed records, I submit this brief overview of his career; what follows are Bonds’ production for his first 15 years and the last 5 (steroid years?):

	FIRST 15 YEARS	LAST 5 YEARS
BASES HITS	2010	720
STOLEN BASES	460	46
BASES ON BALLS	1430	872
HOME RUNS	445	258
STRIKE OUTS	1112	316
ALL STAR	9	4
MVP	3	4
GOLDEN GLOVE	8	0

To the non- or casual baseball fan they may be just numbers, but to those of us weaned on baseball statistics, these are the “stats” of a super superstar.

Is Barry Bonds the best baseball player ever? I don’t know, but it’s the sort of debate that links the generations. Don’t let the loathsome media poison the well.

March 8, 2005

THE UNFORGIVEABLE SIN: THE SUPERSTAR THE MEDIA HATES

When a prominent athlete hits the front page these days, it’s usually a sordid tale involving murder and mayhem.

One athlete savagely dismembers his wife, another sullen footballer hires an amoral thug to murder a pregnant girlfriend, and on Super Bowl weekend in Atlanta, an NFL poster boy takes part in a bloody confrontation that leaves two dead.

It was very different when the San Francisco Chronicle featured baseball star Barry Bonds on their front page on June 1, 2001. But the only violence in this story was Barry Bonds bruising baseballs during his record-breaking barrage of home runs in the month of May.

Baseball was forever changed by the mighty Babe Ruth—from a bucolic game played on a cow field with a dead “ball” to a struggle dominated by the “home run”—an American metaphor for success.

Bonds, in his sixteenth year in the major leagues as a superstar, was never identified as a home run slugger in the mold of the great Babe or modern bashers like Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa. In his early years, Bonds was a lithe figure, emphasizing speed and defensive skills.

When Bonds struck his 500th career home run earlier this season, the baseball establishment seemed surprised. How had this interloper entered the legendary domain inhabited by only seventeen baseball immortals? The event was well covered by the media, but Bonds membership in the exclusive 500-career home run club seemed more honorary than earned.

Then came the month of May—and Barry’s shower of home runs. Almost one per game. Unbelievable.

No longer the slender figure, Bonds, mature, solid, but clearly not shaped by steroids, has become a bona fide slugging home-run hitter. He is currently on pace to break all existing single-season records for homers.

Bonds is a baseball aristocrat. His father, Bobby Bonds, was a proven major leaguer with impact of his own upon the record book. It is also widely known that Willie Mays, whom baseball experts rate as one of the three best players ever, is Barry’s godfather.

While growing up, Barry might have had difficulty identifying with Mays, an icon from another time and place, but Mays’s accomplishments were part of Bonds’s family lore.

Barry attended Serra High, a fine Catholic school in San Mateo, a prosperous suburb in Northern California. Arizona State was selected for his college “education” as the school had an outstanding baseball program with a pipeline to the big leagues.

Baseball, more than any other sport, has a reverence for statistics. During Bonds’s sixteen-year major league career, he has accumulated an impressive array of records and approaches many more. This tornado of statistics makes it impossible for the baseball establishment to deny him superstar status, although some writers consider him an intruder into hallowed territory.

What is it about Barry Bonds that the sports media cannot countenance?

What’s wrong with Barry?

If he were guilty of domestic violence or had succumbed to drugs, and then became contrite and begged forgiveness, would he be embraced by the media?

I don’t think so.

There is one sin the media can never forgive. One sin which drives them into an unrelenting crusade against the perpetrator. This is the sin committed by the star athlete who doesn’t like the media.

Barry learned early in his career how duplicitous the sports reporter could be. With a smile, Barry’s honest comments were solicited and then perverted. Barry would learn that some reporters were snakes and he suffered their venom repeatedly. It was self-defense for him to withdraw, become defensive and aloof.

In one instance, some years ago at Candlestick Park, he hit a soft fly ball along the left field foul line. Barry guessed that the ball would fall untouched in foul territory and did not “hustle” by running it out. When the ball fell fair, some fans booed. In an interview about the incident, Bonds explained that after years of wear and tear, he has learned to ration his energies to avoid injuries, thereby extending his career.

Barry’s response was perfectly plausible, but by the time the story was recycled, he emerged as lackadaisical and uninterested.

Even ESPN baseball expert Peter Gammons shocked a TV baseball panel when he compared Bonds to the legendary Ted Williams, the greatest hitter of all time. The other sports panelists seemed offended with Gammons’ assessment, and poor Peter backed off his observation by pointing out that what Bonds shared with Williams was their mutual dislike of the media and vice versa.

I fear this deep-rooted dislike of Bonds will endure whatever his final baseball accomplishments. It’s possible, I suppose, that Barry will acquire theatrical grace and be transformed into a media darling. After all, Mark McGwire converted from a surly, unresponsive interview to a lovable American hulk while pursuing his remarkable 70-home run year.

Will this happen to Barry? I don’t think so.

The criticisms of Bond continue like a mantra: Barry is not a team player, they say. He never performs well under the pressure of post-season play. He doesn’t exhibit the fervor of a Pete Rose, for example. And finally, that Bonds’s home-run accomplishments are due to the era of the “juiced” baseball.

Phew. Where do I begin refuting these phony allegations?

It is true that Bonds is a reserved fellow and not a chum to his teammates. But in the manner in which he plays the game he is the consummate team professional and earns respect, particularly from young players. Bonds stays in excellent physical condition, and now at age 37, works harder at it than ever before.

He leads by example and is acknowledged as one of the all time great defensive players. He is a consistent Golden Glover, a rare quality for a home-run slugger.

As to Barry’s disappointing post-season statistics, it is interesting that Willie Mays’s World Series performances are almost identical to Barry’s, yet where is the criticism of Mays? This is additional evidence of the media bias against Barry.

Regarding Bonds’s attitude, in his sixteen-year history, it is well known he often plays “hurt.” Never before has a slugging superstar stolen 500 bases, risking injury on every hard contact with the ground while at the same time dodging the spikes of enemy infielders. Another rare quality for a home run slugger.

Over sixteen seasons Barry played an average of almost 150 games per year. Even in the year 2000 when he underwent major arm surgery, he amazed the doctors with his recovery, playing the last third of the Giants championship season.

The “juiced” baseball charge is ridiculous. Sure, there’s lots of homers hit these days, but Bonds struck his in the difficult home field confines of Candlestick Park. The new Pac Bell Park may also prove to be more favorable to pitchers. Even Barry’s harshest critic would acknowledge that he would have collected over 600 career home runs by now had he played his home games in any other major league park.

The fans either love him or hate him, but nobody goes to the john or the fridge when Barry Bonds is due up. At the ball park business stops at the concession stands when Barry is at bat. He remains the most dangerous hitter in baseball.

Barry, I’m rooting for you to hit 71 home runs this year, although everybody knows how impossible a goal that could be.

Most important, don’t let the media creeps get under your skin. You are true baseball royalty, and they are unworthy slugs.

April 29, 2004

THE MORTALITYOF BASEBALL PLAYERS, EVEN BARRY BONDS

MEMOTO EDITOR ROCKWELL

AND OTHER BASEBALL FANS:

Let me shift your attention for a moment from the Red Sox vs. the Yankees, the finest teams money can buy, to the Left Coast and the incomparable Barry Bonds.

I know you read all about Bonds’s heroics in Box Scores the following morning, but the media bias dulls his accomplishments.

Let me bring you up to date.

For the first twenty games of the 2004 season Bonds:

•Leads the league in batting: .500

•Leads the league in HR: 9

•Leads the league in Bases on Balls: 30 (this statistic is ominous)

These astonishing numbers are consistent with Barry’s shattering of records the past three seasons. Here are those highlights:

•In 2001 Bonds hit 73 Home Runs (a record that will NEVER be broken)

•He won the League’s Most Valuable Player Award (MVP)

•In 2002 Barry won the Batting Title by hitting a glittering .370

•During the World Series, he batted .471, hit 4 HR and was walked 13 times.

•Bonds’ performance during the 2002 playoffs dispelled any theories about his “choking” in big games.

•He won the MVP.

•In 2003 Barry Bonds hit his 600th HR and won his 3rd consecutive MVP. This was his 6th MVP. For this, Barry Bonds stands alone in baseball history.

“Steroids, Steroids,” the hateful chorus chants.

Listen, steroids might enable a body-builder to win the Strongman Competition on ESPN by schlepping a 6-ton truck up a hill, but a carload of steroids wouldn’t improve bat speed, nor the ability to hit a baseball launched at 95 mph. As baseball afficionado Joe Sobran points out, hitting a sphere moving at that speed with a cylinder is the greatest achievement in sports.

As the Spring Training Camps opened the media insects couldn’t wait to see how “withdrawal” would affect the steroid juice-heads. Several well known “sluggers” were visibly depleted of muscle mass.

Not Barry.

He has consistently denied the use of steroids. Even those snakes hired to do nothing but study Bonds’s anatomy, and expose him as a fraud, found the same magnificently conditioned athlete they see every year.

Whatever the future reveals about Bonds and his relationship with some of the questionable characters who push enhancers, none of that can tarnish Bonds’s place in baseball’s pantheon.

In some sports super-stardom can be earned through one superlative effort, or a glorious series of accomplishments like California swimmer Mark Spitz winning seven gold medals in swimming at the 1972 Olympics.

There are other winners who don’t require validation by the Record Book.

On May 6, 1954, Dr. Roger Bannister became enshrined in Track and Field history as the first to run a sub-four minute mile, a feat then believed impossible.

Even Mohammad Ali’s dazzling boxing career can be distilled in just a handful of three minute rounds, his greatness measured in milliseconds as he proved to be more lethal than his opponent.

One of Ali’s primary credentials as a legendary pugilist was his epic, bloody war, the “Thrilla in Manila” with arch rival Joe Frazier. The drama, the violence, the action, all took place in less than forty-five minutes.

Statistics were not necessary.

Seven-footer Wilt Chamberlain, arguably the best basketball player who ever shot a hoop, is remembered for one quirky night in March, 1962 when he scored one-hundred points in an NBA game. (Some were more impressed with Wilt’s claim in his 1991 biography, A View From the Top, that he bedded ten thousand different women. Another group of admirers contend that the statistics here were understated.)

But baseball is different.

There are no shortcuts in baseball. No quick way in. The only passport to immortality is the revered “Record Book.” Every hit, every error, every injury is recorded. The athlete’s place in baseball history is uncovered beneath an avalanche of statistics.

As Barry Bonds enters the final years of his career, not only has he been rewriting the Record Book every time he comes to bat, he has altered the way the game is played.

Rival managers walk Bonds rather than give him a chance to beat them. Barry has broken all of Ruth’s Base on Ball records and it is certain Bonds will break his own record in the current 2004 season.

It is hard to imagine that as recent as 2001 there were baseball writers who questioned Bonds’s credentials as a Superstar.

In May 2001. I wrote a piece for LRC proving the case for Barry Bonds’s greatness and indicting the media for allowing their bias of Bonds to cloud their objectivity. They hated him because he hated them.

And Barry keeps rolling on—

Two weeks ago he surpassed Willie Mays’s Home Run Career total. Only Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron remain in his crosshairs. If Barry’s home run production continues he will pass the “Babe” in 2005 and exceed Aaron in 2006.

Some respected baseball writers contend that Barry could hit over .400 this year, a feat unattained since 1941 by Ted Williams. (Williams was also despised by the media.)

Barry will be 40 this summer. In recent games, I’ve sensed a change. I’m not talking about his skills diminishing. For the first month of this season his bat had never been quicker and the pitchers never in greater fear, but I realized that even Barry Bonds was mortal.

When I was a kid, I actually saw Babe Ruth in uniform. He was near the end of his life, making an appearance at Ebbets Field in Brooklyn. Can you imagine a seven-year-old seeing the great legend Babe Ruth? It’s an image that never fades.

Hall of Famer, New York Giant first baseman Mel Ott was my idol. I watched him play at the Polo Grounds in New York City. I still have my Mel Ott jersey. (Not for sale, thank you.)

Willie Mays is about my age, and we sort of “grew up together.” He never lost his boyish charm.

Often, in those half-awake moments before drifting into sleep, I would re-run Willie Mays’s unique baseball exploits of that day’s game. I never met Willie, but he was a companion for over twenty years.

(I said above that Bonds is the greatest player ever. If you put my back to the wall, and ply me with four ounces of wine I’ll admit that Willie Mays shares the mantle of the “Greatest Ever” with his godson, Barry.)

At forty most baseball players are set out to pasture. The legs go first, they say, and then the reflexes.

Bonds takes more games off these days, and his feet must be giving him trouble. He never complains. By the way, Harold Reynolds, the brilliant ESPN baseball analyst, pointed out that because Bonds is issued so many walks, he spends more time on base than anyone in the game. Unlike every other major leaguer, Barry does not get his share of rest time in the cool shade of the dugout.

Barry Bonds is driven by challenge, to be a winner and finally wear that World Series Ring. To rewrite every record in the book, with Ruth and Aaron as his targets.

What happens when the challenges are gone? When the aches and pains that visit the forty-year-old athlete finally subdue him?

The original purpose of this memo was to alert Editor Rockwell and other baseball fans that we are witness to the best baseball player EVER. It was my hope that he would be around at least through the year 2006. If that were true we would have many opportunities to see him perform.

Now I’m not so sure. I have become pessimistic about Barry’s immediate future in the game.

I fear that the constant refusal to pitch to him, to walk him twice a game, is beginning to wear him down. This has never happened to any other player in the history of the game.

If I’m right, it’s extra URGENT that you get to see Bonds on the field soon.

If you go to the ballpark, get there early and watch Barry take batting practice. See him when the Giants visit your hometown team, watch Barry on tv, or better yet, come to San Francisco. I’ll help you get a ticket.

There will never be another like him.

April 29, 2004

BAM, WHACK, POW

In a startling piece of investigative journalism, Jack Newfield (New York Post, 20 March 2000) reveals that the so-called “sport of boxing” is corrupt. Reeling from that shock, the reader braces himself for the next revelation: the New York State Athletic Commission (supposedly boxing’s watchdog) is a “cesspool of patronage and incompetence.”

This hard-hitting expose is what Pulitzer Prizes are made of, and it’s rumored Newfield’s next explosive piece will disclose that New York City has a traffic problem.

Boxing has also drawn the attention of political heavyweights. Senator John McCain (R-AZ), before he adopted campaign finance reform as his mantra, was urging federal guidelines to govern the sport. There was even a movement afoot to make McCain US Boxing Czar.

Listen, you bozos, leave boxing alone.

There is a refreshing quality about the world of boxing and the commissions that govern it: corruption is pure and unadulterated.

The road to ascendancy in the world of boxing has no moral detours. For those who rise to the top, a stretch at Sing Sing is more valued than an Ivy League degree (and the alumni connections more useful). A murder indictment is equivalent to a graduate degree (see the bio of impresario Don King).

There is no waste of resources in locating members for the athletic commission. The marketplace assigns a dollar value on each appointment and the only concern is that the bills are unmarked.

As with every facet of the sport, money drives the engine. However, when money isn’t enough to get the desired result, violence is employed quickly and efficiently (usually outside the ring).

Hypocrisy is unknown in the world of boxing. Who cares about the stumble-bums the state agency is supposed to be protecting? Victims-schmictims. “Let’s get ready to rumble,” as the man says.

To the charge that boxing is just as phony as wrestling, I submit that that observation is rubbish. Wrestling makes a mockery of such noble American traditions as fixing the outcome, and where boxing involves true violence, wrestling simulates it with ketchup and break-away chairs.

Actually, the New York State Athletic Commission should be a model for all government agencies. No political correctness, no transparent efforts to appear judicious, and a disdain for the art of subtlety.

And, by the way, the taxpayers manage to get a few laughs for their money.

March 22, 2000

SEABISCUIT REVISIONISM

Blumert’s Wife (B.W.): “Could somebody please tell me why, at 6 o’clock in the morning, we’re rushing to see a movie?”

Blumert: “Rockwell wants me to review Seabiscuit, so we better step on it if we want good seats at the 7:00 a.m. showing.

B.W.: “The 7:00 a.m. showing?”

Blumert: “It’s the Senior’s Sunrise Special, and a ticket is only $3.50. I’m sure I’ll get reimbursed.”

B.W.: “Don’t forget to keep the ticket stub, and, if you want, I’ll sign an affidavit swearing you shelled out the $3.50.”

Blumert: “Don’t be sarcastic. Rockwell’s been on an economy kick lately. Since the beginning of the year we’ve been washing the cancellation marks off postage stamps so we could use them again.

“And, this morning, I got a parcel from Auburn containing a Tee Shirt Stencil kit, including instructions. By putting the LRC logos on myself, LRC saves 85-cents per tee shirt. So far, I’ve ruined seven shirts, but I’m getting the hang of it.

“Anyway, if Rockwell doesn’t reimburse my $3.50, I’ll get Medicare to pay. Seniors have entitlements, you know.”

B.W.: “Why in heaven’s name does Rockwell even want a movie review from you?”

Blumert: “Murray Rothbard was Mr. First Nighter, and he did great movie reviews for the old Rothbard-Rockwell Report. I’m just carrying on that tradition.”

B.W.: “So now, I suppose, you’re Mr. First Thing in the Morninger? I remember one tasteless movie review you submitted to Rockwell that he not only rejected, but afterward, would not take your phone calls for six months.”

Blumert: “What was so tasteless in my reviewing, Charlie Chan Gets Circumcised? Recently, all the Charlie Chan movies have been virtually banned as politically incorrect. I was just an early victim.”

B.W.: “Well, Rush Limbaugh was talking about the Seabiscuit movie and how the horse did so much to heal the damage of the Great Depression by lifting people’s spirits.”

Blumert: “What sentimental goop! It’s just like giving that commie FDR credit for getting the country out of the Depression. All Roosevelt did was prolong the hard times and move us to socialism. Yes, I said FDR was a commie. And Seabiscuit was a commie horse.”

B.W.: “Don’t blame the poor horse. Seabiscuit was a champion, wasn’t he?”

Blumert: “Champion? He doesn’t rate in the top 50. Don’t even mention Seabiscuit with the true great thoroughbreds.

“Here’s my Top Ten:

1.Man o’ War; Won 21 of 22 races

2.Citation; Triple Crown Winner

3.Secretariat; Triple Crown Winner

4.Affirmed; Triple Crown Winner

5.Count Fleet; Triple Crown Winner

6.Native Dancer; Won 21 of 22 races and

7.Genuine Risk; The greatest filly of all

8.Whirlaway; Triple Crown Winner

9.John Henry, a “true” Cinderella horse who got better with age.

10.Kelso: Five Time Horse of the Year.

“As to Seabiscuit’s great Match Race victory over War Admiral, that was more hype than history. War Admiral, a Triple Crown Winner, was severely injured in the Belmont Stakes, the last of the Triple Crown races.

“It was feared he would never race again, but the courageous colt defied the veterinarians and continued competing. The War Admiral beaten by Seabiscuit in the Match race, however, was not the same champion who won the Triple Crown.

“Seabiscuit was a nice, gritty colt and a boon to California racing. After all, horse racing had been illegal in the Golden State for twenty-five years at the time Seabiscuit was racing.

“The Eastern aristocratic owners who scrupulously studied and improved the bloodlines of their magnificent thoroughbreds had every reason to be contemptuous of any California horse at that time.

“They weren’t being elitist or arrogant. The ‘Sport of Kings’ is dominated by history and bloodlines. It would take California many years to build reservoirs in both areas. (To this day, California-bred horses rarely achieve the status of those bred in Kentucky, New York, or Ireland.)

“The magic of Seabiscuit is the magic of Laura Hillenbrand. Her best-selling book, Seabiscuit, is beautifully crafted, and she weaves her characters seamlessly from Coast-to-Coast, with an important stop in Tijuana, Mexico.

“Unfortunately, she did not write a reference book for the Sport of Kings. She took a myth and made it into a mile.

“Laura Hillenbrand could have spun just as riveting a tale had she focused her creativity on some plug equine on its way to the glue factory.”

B.W.: “It sounds as though you’re not going to like the movie. In fact, it seems to me you just wrote your review.”

Blumert: “Well, at least I don’t have to worry about getting reimbursed the $3.50 from Rockwell. Let’s have breakfast.”

EDITOR’S NOTE: Eventually, Blumert did see the movie. Even though a witness observed him shedding a tear during one touching scene, he stands by the views expressed above.

August 2, 2003