I didn’t know what to think when I saw it
http://broadband.espn.go.com/ivp/splash2?id=2965587
Then I thought, you know, it’s still a great accomplishment, and we just don’t know what he did, or didn’t do. Sure he’s an ass, and probably did cheat by using performance enhancers, but when he hit it, I smiled. I smiled because I was glad to have stayed up till 12:00 EST, and it still is history for my generation. Reading on ESPN.com, I think both Jayson Stark and Steve Philips both said things that I truly believe to be true about the era of baseball in the late 90’s, and current today, and why people just can’t enjoy the historical aspect, and why when recounting this moment, most people will tell their sons or daughters that there should be an asterisk next to it.
Steve Phillips: “Sitting and clapping”
I’ve been asked frequently about what I would do if I were at the game when Barry Bonds broke Henry Aaron’s record: Would I stand and clap or sit on my hands? In fact what I would have done is sit and clap. Barry Bonds is an amazing player. He is one of the best players of all time regardless of what he might have taken. He is a superstar player and a first-ballot Hall of Famer. I have tremendous respect for him as a player and talent. He has done it all in his career. He deserves to be recognized as one of the best ever. For a day or a week or maybe even a month I would like to just celebrate Bonds and his greatness. I want to stand and cheer and salute him for how truly amazing he is. I want to have the feelings for him that take me back to my youth when I got goose bumps when Henry Aaron circled the bases after hitting No. 715. But … I just can’t get there. I can’t help but feel that this remarkable accomplishment has been diminished by the overwhelming circumstantial evidence that Bonds cheated. I cannot boo the man because he is a remarkable, unbelievable player who I often wished had played for my team. But I cannot celebrate the way I really want to either. Instead, I am the one sitting and clapping.
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Jayson Stark: “What we’ve lost”
The biggest tragedy of the steroids era is that it has robbed us of the magic — the magic of the greatest numbers in sports. People used to walk down Main Street — in your town, in any town — and hear those numbers rattling around their brains. They knew what 60 meant. And 61. And 714. And 755. They weren’t just baseball numbers. They were milestones from our entire culture. You didn’t have to be some geeky baseball fan to know them. Women and kids and grandmothers knew them. They were numbers so powerful, you could hear the home run calls in your head if you listened hard enough. No other sport had any numbers like them. And no one should ever underestimate the importance of that. It’s because of what those numbers used to mean that No. 756 and the man who hit it are still enough to make that home run a momentous news event. But it’s what we’ve lost that’s the bigger story, to me. We’ve lost the ability to witness these moments and hear our hearts thumping, or feel our emotions flowing. Too many people now are cynical about what just happened and why it happened for these numbers to feel the same again. And not just 756. All of them.
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Simply put: If we never find out about Barry Bonds doing steroids, this is a great accomplishment, and he’s one of the greatest of all time, regardless of how he treats people, fans, media. If he’s found guilty, then he’s one of the biggest frauds, but even that’s hard to say just because, we don’t know, who is doing it, and how their doing it.
And we probably never will.
P.S.: Kudos to Mike Bacsik, the Nationals pitcher who gave up the home run. He could have walked him on a full count, but he tried to get him out, tried to help his team win, rather than give up history.
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