Of Home Runs, Barry Bonds, and Asterisks
To fanatics who regard major league baseball as both a religion and a profound spiritual experience, February signals the start of an annual pilgrimage to sacred places of worship all across America, and even into Canada.
The annual baseball pilgrimage begins with spring training in Arizona and Florida, where baseball batteries--pitchers and catchers--congregate to work into "shape" after a four- month hiatus punctuated by sloth and shameful self-indulgence.
In early March, "position" players join pitchers and catchers. These millionaires with attitude will descend upon cities like Vero Beach, Phoenix, Scottsdale, and Mesa, wreaking havoc on local liquor supplies, and creating a dangerous shortage of chastity belts as concerned parents scramble to shield young daughters from being deflowered--for at least one more spring.
In early April, the athletes "break camp" and begin the regular season in ball yards from California to Massachusetts, and from Florida to Toronto, Canada. This lasts throughout summer and into early October.
Finally, after 8 1/2 months and scores of millions of polish sausages, peanuts, cans of beer, and a pandemic of gastrointestinal afflictions, the baseball pilgrimage concludes with the World Series, also known as the "Fall Classic."
Oddly enough, the World Series is often played in bitter cold, wind, and rain; the same nasty weather that ball clubs avoid in February and March by holding training camps in sunny Florida and Arizona.
Why baseball showcases it's most important games in hurricane-like conditions, while playing meaningless training games in paradise, is a most perplexing question. The answer can probably be found by "following the money."
Still, the World Series IS the World Series--weather or not!
For die-hard baseball addicts, one of the most captivating aspects of the game is the great records of individual achievement, some going back more than 100 years.
Most agree that the Holy Grail of baseball records is career home runs, a record currently held by Henry Aaron, with 755. Aaron surpassed Babe Ruth as the King of Swat in 1974.
No individual record excites the baseball fanatic like the home run mark.
Which makes it all the more contemptible that Major League Baseball has seen fit to turn stewardship of this American treasure over to a used car salesman named Bud Selig.
Given the huge steroid scandal overshadowing baseball, the sport desperately needs a dedicated professional to safeguard the integrity of the sport, and its most treasured record. That should be the greatest priority of the Commissioner's office.
A responsible and professional commissioner would have frozen career homer records before the start of the 2006 season. That would have been the most prudent course of action, and would have been "in the best interests of baseball."
Records set by Henry Aaron and Babe Ruth would have remained intact, regardless of anything Barry Bonds might do, at least until definitive word was forthcoming from the Mitchell Commission charged with investigating the issue.
Unfortunately, Commissioner Selig sat on his hands and did nothing. Barry Bonds catapulted over Babe Ruth, and is now just 22 home runs short of the highly respected and honorable Henry Aaron.
Bonds' problems have been exacerbated in light of recent revelations that he tested positive for amphetamine in 2006.
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This latest alleged dalliance with illegal substances by the insufferable Bonds may be the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.
Assuming that Commissioner Bud Selig is able to tear himself away from used lemon sales long enough to feign real concern about the greatest game ever played, the following scenario seems quite likely for Barry Bond:
It is Spring, 2012. Five years have passed since Commissioner Bud Selig ended the career of Barry Bonds after the slugger was indicted for perjury and tax evasion.
This is the first year in which Bonds is eligible for induction into the baseball Hall of Fame.
Sportswriters are debating whether or not Bonds' convictions on those federal charges should prevent him from entering baseball's highly coveted museum of greatness.
Bonds' single-season and career home run records have been asterisked by Commissioner Selig, but admission to the Hall of Fame has been left in the capable, if shaky, hands of America's sports writers.
Meanwhile, in Leavenworth, Kansas, The Prison Dawg's clean-up hitter, and single-term home run leader, sits anxiously beside his cell phone, in Cell 25.
Barry Bonds, Prisoner Number 007, hopes his reputation as a media-friendly, warm and congenial superstar will carry him over the top, and into Cooperstown on the first ballot.
Bonds grows edgy as he awaits that "Big Call" from the Hall of Fame.
At the end of the day, Bonds must confront the brutal truth: He will NOT be in the Hall of Fame, at least not this year. His only hope is to wish for better luck next year.
Meanwhile, he will just have to sit on his asterisk for another year in Cell 25!
