When I was a 11-year old kid I got a transistor radio for my birthday. I was rarely without my radio; humming along to “My Green Tambourine” and listening to the San Francisco Giants.
In those halcyon days summers stretched forever and my beloved Giants could do no wrong. They didn’t enjoy much success on the diamond, but they never let down a kid who believed baseball players were on par with comic book heroes and astronauts.
I loved Willie Mays and Willie McCovey, but my favorite player was Bobby Bonds. Bobby was an outstanding combination of power hitting and blazing speed, he hit for 30 home runs and stole 30 bases a record five times.
When I graduated from Jr. High School I was given a 3-inch trophy for having the third best grade point average in my class. At that same graduation ceremony, jocks who excelled in intramural sports were given huge trophies. As a skinny and nerdy kid I started to resent athletes, but my love of Bobby Bonds was undiminished.
In those innocent days we never heard about the extracurricular activities of sports stars. I knew everything about Bobby Bonds the baseball player, but I knew nothing about his personal life.
About a decade ago I moved from San Francisco to Virginia, but I still follow the fortunes of my favorite team.
I don’t keep up with the Giants by listening to a squeaky transistor radio, but by watching them on my widescreen TV.
I was delighted when Barry Bonds, the son of my childhood idol, joined the Giants in 1993. Barry is not the most loveable person in the world, but I was glad the Giants signed the best baseball player in the word.
But when Barry morphed from a lanky and swift specimen into a blundering behemoth, I knew it wasn’t Flintstones Vitamins that he was gobbling.
How do I feel about Barry Bonds breaking the most hallowed record in sports? Do I feel that he belongs in the Hall of Fame, or should his alleged use of steroids disqualify him from such a lofty honor? I don’t know how many times I’ve been asked such questions in the last few days by friends who know how much I love the Giants.
I am no longer the wide-eyed little kid who worshipped the Giants and dreamed of writing for the New York Times. I’m a sad-eyed old fart who writes for a small town newspaper, and who realizes that heroes have feet of clay.
Babe Ruth got wasted on alcohol before games, and Barry Bonds may or may not have used steroids — nobody is perfect. I’m not making excuses for Barry Bonds; I am strongly against the use of any illegal drugs. Sports stars should set a good example for the wide-eyed kids who idolize them.
But Barry has suffered for his alleged crimes, he is perhaps the most hated sports star in the world. His home run record should not be marred with an asterisk and he belongs in the Baseball Hall of Fame.
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