An Open Letter to Barry Bonds
When I was young, I used to watch baseball in wide-eyed amazement- the milieu of fake-grass green and burnt brown providing a perfect backdrop for those tall and lean athletes who stood ever so stoically at the plate. The white zip of the ball as it passed through the air; the basemen tensing before the swing of the bat; the umpire watching the ball leave the park as he lifts his mask from his face.
To me, they could do no wrong. They were perfect then- just boys who looked like men, playing a larger version of a game I enjoyed quite often in a vacant yard down the street. There were no salaries, no cheating, and no endorsements. The game was simply that- a game. People doing what they love in front of people who loved watching it.
Of course as I grew older more and more of the childlike varnish wore off- but baseball, in its grandeur, replaced it with something less fantastic yet more durable. The men weren't so much perfect anymore as simply athletes who had reached the peak of their game through practice and hard work. And yet the humanity and all the imperfection wrapped up in it made the ascent all the more glorious to behold. Here were men of roughly my size and height hitting a ball roughly one tenth of a mile- not based on superhuman strength, but instead an intangible mix of raw talent and technique that forced the ball to obey.
Then came Barry. Sure, there were doubtless others who share the blame. No one suggests he was the first. But he is the bellwether of this sordid flock, and the only one who threatens to make meaningless all that which is hallowed in the baseball world.
He will likely play this season and surpass Babe Ruth for second on the all-time home run list. Next year, Hammerin' Hank will likely fall to his artificial prowess.
In an ironic twist of fate, Barry will replace a man who spent roughly thirty years of his life battling human frailty and death threats. He will do this by pumping himself full of fake fortitude and manufactured mettle- at any cost, at any price. It is an insult to an honest and storied game and to every honest ballplayer to take the field. It is a slap in the face to every man, woman and child who ever plunked down their money and spent two hours to watch a game.
For the love of all things decent, Barry- go home now. Sit on your couch in your mansion and write a memoir denying everything vehemently. Do interviews on ESPN until you turn blue in the face. Endorse Viagra. But do not continue to desecrate this game that at one time I would guess you truly loved.
Remember back, Barry. Remember when the game was nothing more than a kid with a stick hitting a ball. When the goal wasn't so much to win as to laugh with your friends and hope the day would never end. If some part of that child still exists in there, listen to it. Listen to it hard.
The day must end after all, Barry- let it go with some decency.
To me, they could do no wrong. They were perfect then- just boys who looked like men, playing a larger version of a game I enjoyed quite often in a vacant yard down the street. There were no salaries, no cheating, and no endorsements. The game was simply that- a game. People doing what they love in front of people who loved watching it.
Of course as I grew older more and more of the childlike varnish wore off- but baseball, in its grandeur, replaced it with something less fantastic yet more durable. The men weren't so much perfect anymore as simply athletes who had reached the peak of their game through practice and hard work. And yet the humanity and all the imperfection wrapped up in it made the ascent all the more glorious to behold. Here were men of roughly my size and height hitting a ball roughly one tenth of a mile- not based on superhuman strength, but instead an intangible mix of raw talent and technique that forced the ball to obey.
Then came Barry. Sure, there were doubtless others who share the blame. No one suggests he was the first. But he is the bellwether of this sordid flock, and the only one who threatens to make meaningless all that which is hallowed in the baseball world.
He will likely play this season and surpass Babe Ruth for second on the all-time home run list. Next year, Hammerin' Hank will likely fall to his artificial prowess.
In an ironic twist of fate, Barry will replace a man who spent roughly thirty years of his life battling human frailty and death threats. He will do this by pumping himself full of fake fortitude and manufactured mettle- at any cost, at any price. It is an insult to an honest and storied game and to every honest ballplayer to take the field. It is a slap in the face to every man, woman and child who ever plunked down their money and spent two hours to watch a game.
For the love of all things decent, Barry- go home now. Sit on your couch in your mansion and write a memoir denying everything vehemently. Do interviews on ESPN until you turn blue in the face. Endorse Viagra. But do not continue to desecrate this game that at one time I would guess you truly loved.
Remember back, Barry. Remember when the game was nothing more than a kid with a stick hitting a ball. When the goal wasn't so much to win as to laugh with your friends and hope the day would never end. If some part of that child still exists in there, listen to it. Listen to it hard.
The day must end after all, Barry- let it go with some decency.
posted by Yorick at 7:05 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home