Walk The Line

Sure, it’s absurd. Crazy maybe. But is there any other recourse?

Barry Bonds, one of baseball’s purported greats, has tarnished the game more than any other player on the road to The Record. When he surpassed Mark McGwire in homeruns and bicep size, we cared for a millisecond. The Mark-and-Sammy Show had captivated our attention a few years before, so the new homerun race was a bit of a yawn. But now we’re taking notice because he stands on the verge of breaking the record of all records. Two names were synonymous with the career homerun record – Ruth and Aaron. Babe and Hank may have had their foibles, but they were pure players. There were no injections, no creams, just pure bat-on-ball heroics. Barry Bonds passed the Babe last year and now he’s 15 away from the Hammer. No player deserves less.

For all of the arguments about the nebulous rules Major League Baseball had in place during the heyday of steroids, there’s one simple truth: they all knew performance enhancing drugs were wrong, even if they weren’t illegal. When I’m at the ballpark, I don’t care if the first baseman gets drunk after every game. I don’t care if the catcher has a mistress in every city. And I don’t care if the left fielder placed a few side bets. What I care about is that nothing taints the sanctity of baseball. Mess with the muscle and might and you’re messing with the game itself.

Barry Bonds doesn’t deserve to be enshrined in the Hall of Fame. He doesn’t deserve the uniform on his back. And he certainly doesn’t deserve to hold The Record. But is there any way to stop this potential upheaval? There is. Call it a gentleman’s agreement between players, managers, and fans. When Bonds steps to the plate, pitch him outside, not for fear of a shot to the stands, but to keep the statisticians from scribbling in an at-bat. No at-bats, no hits. No hits, no homeruns. No homeruns, no record, and Bonds pays for his crimes. What better way to punish Bonds than to frustrate him at the one thing he was always able to do? We all knew you could hit, Barry, but you didn’t need to jack them into the stratosphere for us to remember you.

Time is running out. Pitchers, when Bonds comes to the plate, walk him. Managers, even if his walk loads the bases, and some phenom who grew up idolizing Bonds is poised in the on-deck circle, give him a base. Fans, don’t float your boats in the Cove waiting for Barry’s next bomb. He’s not going to retire in shame. Bud Selig can’t banish him. But keep him from swinging that bat with his oversized arms and his inflated ego, and Barry will be nothing more than an asterisk in a very sad period in our nation’s pastime.

Sure, it may not be practical. It may be ridiculous. But on that long, lonely walk to first, with the air filled with boos and chants, make Barry Bonds realize he should have walked the line.