Confessions of a Barry Bonds Apologist

I knew nothing good would come of it—the headline staring back at me from the computer screen was nothing but trouble.

Sure, the statement was just Barry Bonds' way of stealing a little bit of the spotlight from the World Series.

And yet those five little words wouldn't stop screaming at me.

Truth be told, I never stood a chance—I had to read on.

It was just too tempting:

"Bonds bitter for getting 'Fired'"

All right, Barry, you win—once again I’ll play along and give you the attention you so desire.

My reward?

Well, once again, I got to bear witness as you preened in front of a staged pep rally. I got to see you play the martyr—saying and doing everything in your power to blame the media and management so fans would embrace you.

You see, I didn’t ask to be a Barry Bonds or San Francisco Giants fan—I was born into it. The Giants are my team, my father's team, my grandmother's team...and they’ve been there through thick and thin.

Through my high school years—when all my father and I could talk about were sports—the Giants were there. Had we not had that connection, we might never have found a common interest to build an actual friendship on.

When my grandmother passed away, the Giants were there, as we put the SF cap and Willie McCovey card in the casket and said our goodbyes.

You see Barry, I didn’t ask for you to become a part of my life. It just happened.

Barry Bonds AND the San Francisco Giants—that’s what’s become of our team over the last 15 years.

And like a battered spouse, I took your abuse and explained it away, because you were a part of my team.

“Sure he doesn’t acknowledge the fans, but it’s OK, he’s focusing on playing the game.”

“His teammates hate him? That’s OK, they don’t have to like each other; they just need to win games.”

“Of course he should have two lockers to himself away from the team—and a recliner! He’s the star; he should get special treatment.”

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t always blindly cheering for you, Barry.

In 2001, I saw the changes to your body. I questioned the increased mass, the explosive offensive production.

I knew what was going on, but once again I enabled your behavior.

“You can’t tell me McGwire and Sosa weren’t on something too. Creatine—whatever!”

“Hank Aaron hit the bulk of his home runs in his 30s too. It’s not out of the question for Barry to be doing what he’s doing.”

“Steroids can’t help you hit a curveball.”

Well Barry, the load has gotten to be too much.

I can’t change the past. When you set the single-season home run record and led the Giants to the World Series, I cheered for you—because you were on our team and that made you part of our family.

But no more.

I’ve been held hostage by my allegiance to a team that means more to me than just baseball—and through default, Barry, by my allegiance to you.

I’ve let that blind me in the past, but those feelings are gone now. So when someone asks you about your many accomplishments on the field as a Giant—the 14 All-Star appearances, the seven National League MVPs, the eight Gold Gloves—this answer just won't cut it:

"I did, and then I got fired. Shame on me, huh?"

I'll no longer fall into the traps of old. Yes Barry, shame on you.

Not because you feel you’ve been wronged by the Giants—that’s between you and them.

But shame on you for once again dragging the fans into it.

Barry, I’m waving the white flag. I just can’t do it any longer, and I know I’m not alone. Stop putting us in a position to be your only defenders. After 15 years of loyally taking up the charge against your critics, isn’t that the least we deserve?

Then again:

"I don't have fans in San Francisco—this is my family."

I may just need a patch for this.