Don't buy the book

I had the good fortune of living out in Monterey, California for the 2001 and 2002 Giants seasons, following Bonds' 73 homer season and even getting to see the Giants crush the Angels in the fourth game of the World Series in 2002. Best game I've ever been to in my entire life, even if I did pay $350 for a bleacher seat.

I love the Giants. I am a big fan of teams with storied histories, and so rooting for the Giants came naturally to me during those seasons. (As a lifelong fan of a forever underachieving team, the Reds, I've come to appreciate other teams as sort of September stand-ins to root for, and those with the histories are the ones I've developed affinities for, with the Giants, Cubs, and Red Sox having the ability to break my heart.) Pac Bell Park, as it was then known, was my playground, a weekend escape from the daily grind of Arabic language training that I was undertaking in Monterey.

San Francisco is a beautiful city. If it weren't so far away from the rest of the world, I would consider living there. Maybe when California breaks away from the mainland we can dismantle the city and move it to the East Coast - it would fit nicely in that space between Baltimore and Philly that they call Delaware. Anyway, the baseball season air in San Fran is positively delightful, and when you are sitting in the right field view seats, it feels like Heaven as you look out over the Bay and into the China Basin, watching the kayakers wait around for a Bonds ball to make a splash and seeing the people on boats listening to the game while having a few beers out on the water. I miss that place sometimes, especially on scorching days at RFK, where not only are there no splash hits, but there are few dingers even leaving the yard.

The air changed when Bonds came to the plate - you could literally feel when he was going to hit one out. The crowd's collective breathing shortened until the bat made its mighty arc toward the ball, then the breathing stopped completely while the ball sailed for the fence, and an explosion of cheering erupted as soon as the homer was complete. The air was electrified when he came to bat, and last year only proved how much he was the team, he is the team. John Perricone at Only Baseball Matters has a great take on the Bonds issue.

I will always be a Bonds fan thanks to those two years of watching him play day in and day out when the magic air came, picked up his hits, and threw them out of the park and into that lovely water. I don't care what cream he used to try to keep his body from falling apart, the man is other worldly, a legend, a god. In the off seasons until this past one, he worked out six hours a day, six days a week, so don't say he isn't a hard worker. Make him pee in a cup this year, but don't destroy his legacy. It's time to put the past behind us and simply revel in all the man has accomplished. Please don't buy that book when it comes out. It's time to slap the sportswriters in the face; they're only trying to destroy the game.