Because I don't want him to.
I really don't want him to.
Barry Bonds hit his 749th career home run on Friday, and it made me sick to my stomach. By 753, I expect to be broken out in hives. By 756, I'll be lucky if I can get out of bed in the morning.
The idea of Barry Bonds breaking Hank Aaron's record is wrong on so many levels that it's not even worth talking about. It's just wrong; that's all that matters. So, so, so wrong.
And so it goes, I guess.
Maybe the point here is that records don't really matter—at least not on their own. When Hank Aaron passed Babe Ruth, it was important because we made it important: because we grasped the historical and racial and cultural magnitude of the moment. When Barry Bonds passes Hank Aaron (shudder), the only significance of the event will be that which we ascribe to it, that of which we—You and Me and We—deem it worthy.
Or then again maybe that's all just wishful thinking on my part, and maybe 756 will be the worst thing to happen to baseball since...
You can fill in the blank there. I think I need to lie down.