Spare us all, Barry, and walk away
By GARY SHELTON
Published July 20, 2006
If you are Barry Bonds, and bless your swollen melon if you are, this is the time when you should consider digging a tunnel.
Or, perhaps, you think about jumping your motorcycle over the barbed wire. Or scurrying under the fence. Or faking some documents and hopping a train.
If you are Barry Bonds, it is time to think about your escape.
Time is up. The blue lights are flashing in the distance. The sirens are getting louder. Your old accomplice, Bud Selig, seems ready to drop the dime on you. There will be no clean getaway, no honorable discharge, no happy ending at home plate. The only place to run is away.
If you are Barry Bonds, it is time for you to go.
Even through his arrogance, Bonds has to see it, too. Any day now, an indictment is at hand, against him and, by association, against baseball. If steroid abuse does not bring him down, it will be the pending charges of perjury. If it is not perjury, it will be the possible investigation into his tax records. If it is not tax records, it will be a sport that has finally been forced to awaken after a decade's worth of inaction. Bonds is surrounded. It is time to give up.
Given all of his problems, given diminishing skills that are no longer propped up by chemicals, how can Bonds not be tempted by the thought of an exile that is self-imposed rather than mandated? After all, the weather is nice in Elba this time of year.
It should be said, of course, that the carpet will not exactly get soggy from teardrops if Bonds bolts. If Bonds wanted to play Thelma and Louise, most of the country would rent him a car and give him directions to the canyon. We are weary. Most of us have believed for some time that Bonds was among the cheaters, and that baseball looked away. That perception is his legacy. If you doubt the lasting effect of perception, remember that Lizzie Borden wasn't convicted, either.
Personally, I would like for Bonds to hang around. For a sports columnist, it's kind of fun to have a pinata dangling over the computer and, to tell you the truth, I have adjectives I haven't used yet. Besides, every time Bonds hits a home run, Henry Aaron looks a little classier in the rear-view mirror. Aaron was shortchanged on admiration the first time around, but there is nothing like one man's indignity to make you remember the dignity of another. The closer Barry gets, the better Henry looks.
Whether you are Bonds' closest adviser or his staunchest critic, it seems obvious that Bonds ought to retire. It's best for baseball. It's best for Barry.
Oh, Bonds won't want to go. Why give up the cash? Why give up the celebrity? Why give up the chance at the home run record? (Not that anyone will recognize him as the all-time champion for 50 years; you might as well talk about Rosie Ruiz's time in the Boston Marathon).
Still, there is something to be said for leaving the party before you are asked to go. For Bonds, retreat is the final opportunity to act as if he's in control.
This time, Selig has no choice. If Bonds is indicted, he has to be suspended, or the shame on the commissioner is going to be greater than the shame of the player.
Make no mistake; this is Selig's indictment, too. From the time andro was found in Mark McGwire's locker to the moment Jose Canseco turned into Huggy Bear, public informant, Selig has worn the sand as a hat. But political pressure and public perception have changed, and these days, Selig is a co-conspirator. He can act, or he can watch his legacy slow dance with Bonds' for all time.
In a way, Bonds has done baseball a great favor by being such a convenient villain. If Bonds were more likeable, if he were Cal Ripken or Tony Gwynn, then this would reflect more clearly as baseball's mess. With Bonds as a ridicule magnet, everyone else can act honorable.
On his own, however, Bonds has a chance to storm out of the room. He can grouse about the circumstance of the evidence against him, and he can moan about the character of the witnesses, and he can suggest that baseball was to blame for this mess. Maybe some people will listen.
After a few years in the shade of Steroid Acres, that pasture where McGwire and Sammy Sosa have disappeared to graze, Bonds can resurface as a victim. Americans love to understand, to forgive. Bonds could write a book, and he could cry for Barbara Walters, and he could talk about how he was swept up by the desire to excel. And a lot of people may feel simply awful about how mean they were to poor, misunderstood Barry. Or not.
What other choice is there? Bonds can continue to match his scorn against a nation's - so far, he's holding his own. He can take on the indictment and the commissioner's office and public perception and the courts and the calendar and his aching knees and the dwindling market and the stacks of evidence. But he won't win. At nearly 42, can his career withstand a suspension? A trial?
This does not end like The Natural when, in the movie version at least, Roy Hobbs homered in the bottom of the ninth and left the game exonerated.
Trouble is coming.
If you are Barry Bonds, the only choice you have is to beat it out the door.