David Halberstam writes a sour piece about Barry Bonds in today’s ESPN.com Page 2.
Sure, it would be great if Barry Bonds were thoroughly happy, if his joy were infectious, if his love for the game and reporters and us, the fans, was limitless and unconditional. Sure, it would be great if Barry Bonds weren’t so clearly conflicted about his job, his role and way sports define us (and him). I’d like him to be happy.
Heck, I’d like to be happy.
What gives Halberstam the right to rip this man on a personal level, a man who has devoted himself to developing incredible baseball skills and delivers them every day (a man who in other words does his job well), escapes me. Halberstam has spent some time in locker rooms, I would think, and most surely knows the resentful arrogant vitriol that spews from the mouths of reporters day after day. Halberstam must have spent some time on the field, near the players, and heard the vicious impersonal bleating of fans looking for interviews, photos, or simply a reaction.
To ignore the context of Bonds’ complaints is disingenuous, an easy sort of rabble rousing that gets the bleachers cheering for you, Mr. Pulitzer Prize Winner, and throwing screwdrivers and golf balls at the objects of your displeasure.
It would be great if Barry Bonds reacted to all that stuff with a goofy smile, a bit of wit and a hug, to remind us all how lovable we are. It would be wonderful if Bonds could hit like Ruth and mug like Uecker. But I happen to think that it is better that Sir Barry has used his anger and rage to motivate him to work hard and to achieve all he can, while he can. Some of the alternatives available to him, the paths of Darryl Strawberry and Jose Canseco, for instance, are perhaps easier and would be far more sad.
It would be nice if Barry had the grace to suck it up the way Mark McGwire–another athlete who seemed more comfortable playing than talking about it–did when he was under the magnifying glass. But to rip him this way is as vapid and contextless as suggesting that Bonds’ world (and the world at large) would be a better place if Bob Gibson were around to throw a little chin music. That sentiment–also Halberstam’s–is worse than sentimental claptrap, it’s also dangerous.