Bonditis

So, the world waits in anticipation of Bonds's breaking Hank's record.

It's like time's stopped. Everyone's wondering when it will happen and where they'll be; women are crying in the streets, so overcome are they by the emotion and the anticipation. As at a parade, children want to be lifted up onto their dad's shoulders so that they can see, and everywhere he goes, there's a low solemn chant, as though the rocks and trees themselves are rooting for him. Barry, Barry, Barry!. He's truly a force of nature.

No, wait. I was thinking of Barry Manilow.

Because about Bonds, nobody seems to care. And that's as it should be, really.

I have a malevolent fantasy that Bonds will get hit by a bus, fall into a crevasse, or decide to saw off his own arm, before he makes his next home run and never be heard from again.

I don't often follow sports, and I bear the man no real ill will. I've heard he's a bastard. But he's not been to me.

It's just that, if he never hits that next home run (and especially if he'd never hit that last one), then all will still be right with the world. Hank is still Hank.

In any case, I suppose, Hank is still Hank.

And Bonds is still Bonds, no matter how many steroid-enhanced home runs he hits.

People call Hank by his first name. That's a sign of affection and respect for the man and his accomplishment.

And that'll never be the case with Bonds. Because he's a poser and a pretender. This would be a sad time to care about baseball.