Barry Bonds

My dear wife finds this inconsistent with my generally high moral nature, but I’m all that aroused over revelations of Barry Bonds’ steroid use.

First, it’s not news to me. I’d long assumed he’d used ‘em during the late ‘90s and early ‘00’s, at least. He confirmed it to me when he publicly admitted he’d used them, but without his knowledge. Smart man, I thought. He was obviously setting himself up for any later word that he’d used ‘em. He could then say, again, “Yes, I did, but again, I just didn’t know.”

He knew of course. And his knowledge allowed him and the other sluggers of the era to bring on some of the most exciting baseball in history.

I don’t thank him for it. But I respect the show he put on.

“But isn’t it cheating?” Well, sort of. But not in a way that matters. First, steroids aren’t Underdog-style power pills. You don’t just take them and turn superhuman overnight. Marvin Benard took steroids too, and he never moved down from the leadoff spot. Barry, like the others, used them to supplement a training regimen that my current middle-aged body would run from (although I can do five miles on the exercycle without gasping now.)

You see, the steroid-fueled training regimens gave us exactly what we wanted, an entertaining show. It’s similar to Pavarotti drinking some magic potion to make his voice even prettier than usual. We like the show, we like the sound, and we got it. And paid for it. And will continue to pay for it. With Barry in the lineup, the Giants pull three million into Phone Company Park and almost as many on the road. The cash register will just keep ringing. Ever more so, because Bonds is now even more of a spectacle. We love spectacles.

“But he needs to be an example for our youth”! If my son spends more time worrying listening to Barry than me, the fault’s on me, not Barry.

Of course steroid use is wrong. It’s wrong because it’s unhealthy. They’re destructive to mind and body. They should be banned and athletes tested. That’s the good that’s come out of all this.

In the meantime, I will love Barry even more. I’ve just finished the Sports Illustrated piece which shows him to be a whiny, self-obsessed overgrown adolescent. The perfect anti-hero for baseball. Every game is opera, and Barry is the high-strung diva. Love it.

Since I’m not about to spend any personal time with him, I can and will enjoy the show. The best part is all the huffing and puffing from writers who just can’t stand Barry shrugging them off. The more they fume the more fun I have. Baseball is a game, that’s all. For those of us out here in the real world, it’s an escape. Sportswriters can’t see that because it’s their only world. Poor dears. They’re missing an awful lot of fun.

Longtime San Francisco Giants sportswriter Glenn Dickey says it better on his Web site. In the meantime, buy a ticket. I promise you a summer of thrills, spills and thoroughly annoyed sportswriters. Is this a great country or what?