Although I tend to lag behind the pack in most things, allow me to be ahead of the Barry Bonds Hate-Fest by a few hours.
I'm absolutely appalled that he broke Hank Aaron's record last night. Right up until it actually happened, I was holding out for some kind of divine intervention. God can't possibly approve of this blasphemy. Isn't this one of those situations tailor made for locusts and/or frogs? And if you could pull out all the stops for Noah in that unrighteous world, surely you can do something about Balco Barry, that surly overinflated goon with his Syringes of Doom.
I'm willing to cede that Father Time has had his way with all of us as we limp our way into middle age. Many of us 40-somethings have put on a pound or two or 50 since our salad days in our 20s. The place I struggle to suspend my disbelief is that not so many of us have managed to put on 60 pounds of muscle in our late 30s and 40s. I'm willing to bet Barry wouldn't have either, without a little pharmacological enhancement. And probably not from his vitamin-fortified Wheaties, either. He was a svelte 180 pound rookie that was able to maintain his weight for 15 years until he suddenly became 240 pounds of solid muscle. Those are some damn fine vitamins. I bet the bullies never kick sand in his face anymore!
So last night he did it. He inserted himself at the top of the record book with his 756th home run. But c'mon...can't you smell the asterisks from there? His record will always be the kind of tainted achievement that'll make fans seek him out to ogle, then avert their eyes to avoid direct contact with his shame.
Yeah, so what, Big Guy. You cheated your way to fame and glory. Congratulations. Maybe when you're done playing baseball, you can finally come clean about the 'roids. Maybe you can collaborate with O.J. Simpson on a "How I Would Have Done It If I Had Done It, Which I Didn't" book. Or maybe consider a second career in professional wrestling, where steroids are not just accepted, they're passed out in the employee cafeteria with lunch.
But the part I won't forgive you for is that forevermore, your surly countenance will be up there with the greats. Not the guys who had the best pharmacists, but the guys who were actually baseball geniuses.