Barry Bonds is a force of nature, an atavistic beast of sensation. He is alpha and omega, Cain and Abel, the killer and the victim. He wields a carven piece of maple the way a tornado would nonchalantly dismiss an Oklahoman trailer park. Though he no longer possesses the speed he once did, he still prowls the basepaths with the shrewd violence of a tiger raking its paws across the coarse stalks of the African veldt. And as the favors and loyalty of the tiger are fickle things, so is Barry Lamar Bonds. On the cusp of breaking his sport’s most treasured milestone, he threatened to leave his home of 13 years without so much as a curt farewell.
Even if Barry Bonds were to no longer grace the San Francisco roster, his presence would still be felt throughout the Bay Area, like the stultifying clutch of damp air that portentously precedes a thunderstorm. Discussing the future of the San Francisco Giants without acknowledging the debt owed to Barry Bonds is tantamount to discussing a sunrise without describing in copious detail the sun’s dazzling affect on its surrounding clouds. It is a futile effort. Barry Bonds is not just, to use a base sports metaphor, the straw that stirs the drink. He is the liquid that the drink is in totality, as well as the glass containing the liquid, as well as every single molecule within the entire Platonic construct that we consider “drink.” And he has achieved this pure state of perfection while surrounded by matters of clay that have felled the greatest of men.
In addition to the slings and arrows that regularly careen about his immaculately shaped and shaven head – the allegations of drug use, his demeanor with the media, his perceived persona amongst his teammates – Barry Bonds was forced to face another obstacle this past campaign: the grim spectre of old age. The life of an athlete is a microcosm of life itself. As one grows older, the once-vibrant muscles and bones that allow a man to perform these heroic feats of strength begin to return unto the dust that they once rose from.
Barry Bonds, though he may seem beyond the scope of mortal consideration, is no different in this regard. His baseball year was beset by a multitude of injuries, as well as the injuries visited upon the team by the disgraceful ineptitude of the entire Giants roster. Still, he flourished. He single-handedly kept the dim prospects of the team afloat upon his massive shoulders, pushing them towards success they had no right to even consider reaching. Would that I had such shoulders to rely on while making my film Fitzcarraldo. With Barry Bonds by my side, moving that steamboat across the deceitful slopes of that treacherous mass of dirt would have been an effortless success.
Undaunted by the pettiness that surrounds him, Barry Bonds continues his storied march through the annals of baseball history. Despite yet another year with a mundane batting average, he still managed to acquire twice as many walks as strikeouts, and accumulated 26 home runs in just over a half-season’s worth of at-bats. Superhuman accomplishments for the pedestrian hitter, but Barry Bonds is no mere pedestrian. His pursuit of the Major League Baseball home run career record is a hero’s quest, and all that stands between him and immortality are his own physical failings, and the major media corporations determined to undermine his pursuit and, by proxy, the very sport that earns them their keep.
Throughout the history of baseball, players have sought to acquire every advantage possible by any means available. Whether it be a morsel of lewd and profane knowledge deployed at an opportune moment, a particular pot of coffee, or an injection into one’s well-toned hind quarters, the history of this game is riddled with participants who have attempted to gain unfair advantage within the confines of the game’s rules. Barry Bonds should not be villified for simply following in the footsteps of his predecessors. He should be glorified for his bravery and unwavering commitment to his sport, and the sport’s storied past. And just as Barry Bonds should be honored for his achievements, his compatriots should be congratulated for their unmitigated failures.
No baseball player, regardless of his success within the confines of the box score, can ever be truly considered a great player without winning a World Series championship, and no one player has been able to win such an accolade singlehandedly. It is an irony of Shakespearean proportions that Bonds can succeed so effortlessly as an individual where others have failed, yet find himself bereft in an arena where lesser players have realized success. And this is why Barry Bonds, all personal honorifics aside, will always be considered a second-class citizen by the tastemakers and effete media elitists.
The fault for the lack of Giant stature in recent years falls simply, deathly at the feet of the team’s architect, Brian Sabean. Stubbornly kowtowing to his crippling fetish for experience, and capitulating to his division’s ridiculously low standards, Sabean has surrounded his crown jewel with common beach rocks, players that are either too old or too unfit to allow Barry Bonds to achieve the ultimate goals of his profession. The cool coastal winds of the Pacific that caress the neck of the monstrous Coke bottle in left center field of the stadium Barry Lamar Bonds calls home knows not of vitality and vigor, only of jejune jaundice.
Is it worth talking about the futile flailing of third baseman Pedro Feliz? Is it worth discussing the game but ultimately fruitless pursuits of light-hitting shortstop Omar Vizquel? Is it worth dissecting the wilting hothouse flower that is Steve Finley? Only the perennially injured Ray Durham, and the urine fetishist Moises Alou, could dare think to compare their offensive succes to Bonds’ production. And now one of those players grazes in verdent pastures far from the west coast. This left the Giants entering the dying months of 2006 with a bevy of underachievers, non-tendered slabs of meat, and, potentially, no Barry Bonds. The headlines that touted new manager Bruce Bochy’s eagerness to tackle a new challenge do not understate the dire straits in which the San Francisco Giants found themselves.
Aside from Bonds, their most potent offensive weapon in the outfield would be Randy Winn, a desperate trade-deadline acquisition that played beyond his capabilities for one glorious half of a season, only to show his true colors after agreeing to a multi-year contract that belied his true value. The Giants’ starting pitching staff is anchored by a castoff of the current defending World Series champions, former Cardinal Matt Morris. His lackluster performance and substandard won-loss record would be a welcome addition to the back end of an American League staff searching for a way to bolster the less prestigious end of their roster. But his is not the performance of a staff ace. Yet, with former staff stalwart Jason Schmidt leaving his longtime home for the alluring embrace of a divisional foe, Morris will be relied on to deliver just such an out-of-character performance.
Meanwhile, the bullpen is helmed by an overpaid 260-pound albatross. Armando Benitez has assumed the mantle of goat for his previous teams – the Baltimore Orioles, waylaid by a spectator’s opportune glove; the New York Mets, waylaid by his propensity for fastballs that fail to achieve the proper velocity and position. Now, after contending with injuries that his questionable physique no doubt exacerbated, he is once again expected to return and provide stability to the conclusion of many Giants contests. Contests that will witness a threadbare offensive lineup struggling to score the necessary runs to mitigate the failures of both their pitching staff and their defense. Given the state of the team’s roster, bullpen stability should be the least of the concerns that needs addressing. The wake that could potentially be left by this grouping of miscreants could rival the mounds of ash that crackled beneath the boots of General Sherman.
Perhaps the only blessing for the Giants is the eagerness of other teams to overpay for this year’s free agent crop. In such a tumultuous free-agent market, the threadbare Giants were probably best left to stick to their unloaded guns, and grapple both with the inadequacies of their farm system, and their own Bonds-fueled hubris. Yet, in addition to regaining the services of the admittedly helpful Durham, the Giants have done just what they should not have done, allowing overpaid castoffs such as catcher Bengie Molina and former Giant Rich Aurilia to infect their already gangreous roster. To simply bolster the game’s greatest player with has-beens and never-wills is the foley of an addled idiot, yet Brian Sabean continues to feign strength by doing just this. Discoveries, such as potent wunderkind Matt Cain, have been few and far between. The San Francisco Giants must how contend with their scant cabal of prospects, and the hopes that the rest of their division fall prey to the sloth-like malaise that cripples the Giants’ very own quest for glory.
It is all that the great Barry Bonds has left to hope for, and, utlimately, it is his own fault. Even the greatest of heroes are shackled with a tragic flaw, a weakness that proves to be fatal. Bonds’ weakness is the same as that of the tragic Sophoclean protagonist Oedipus Rex: hubris. For if Bonds was truly committed to tasting the spoils of World Series success, as he has stated in the past, would he not leave the Bay Area? Would he not put aside his need for financial and familial security and find a home suitable for realizing that goal? Surely any number of World Series hopefuls, like the neighboring Athletics of Oakland, or the paper tigers that cower in the shade of the Arch of St. Louis, would welcome a player of Bonds’ caliber into their fold. Of course, the concerns regarding Bonds’ supposedly poisonous presence would be broached by small-minded gnats, but if Bonds were willing to lower his monetary requirements, these quibbles would be minor.
But true victory is never realized by opting to fight an easier battle. Had King Leonidas fought the Persian onslaught with the totality of Sparta’s might, then he would be just another historical footnote. If David slew Goliath with a common weapon, such as spear or sword, then no one would speak of his bravery. And the greatest athlete to ever play this boy’s game chose to realize victory with a more capable cadre of players, then who would he be? He would be no better than any number of high-priced man-whores staining his sport. The landscape of baseball is strewn with sinewy trollops that sell their services to the highest bidder without any compunction. Barry Lamar Bonds towers over them all, a regal mountain of a man standing firm and steadfast against the assaults of all those who dare to fight against him. Despite the countless travails he will face this year, I have no doubt who will succeed once this season’s sun has been extinguished. May the spoils befit the victor, and may Barry Bonds emerge victorious!
Werner Herzog is the director of over 50 feature films and documentaries, and has eaten his own shoe.