An Open Letter to Barry Bonds

by Dale Nixon

Dear Barry Bonds,

As you are on the eve of breaking the most cherished record in all of pro sports, I figured this would be as good a time as any to ask if it all was worth it?

You know what I mean (nudge*wink)...

In case you were wondering I've enclosed this wonderful old photo to remind you of what you used to look like when you were the sleek jet of a player that recalled Pittsburgh's greatest player and humanitarian - Roberto Clemente. Not the surly bloated brooding superstar that currently evokes awkward comparisons with Chris Benoit, the other current most celebrated figure of unnatural chemical imbalances.

I mean, where exactly is this record moment going to be celebrated, other than your home stadium with the custom-tailored confines to deposit the ball like a flipped coin in a fountain? That beacon of hyperbole, ESPN, where you have managed to place one of your prime apologists, former manager Dusty Baker, in a prime position to heap awkward praise between nicknames, catch phrases and Mountain Dew commercials?

Surely the record will not be celebrated in Pittsburgh, where you spent the early years of your career and once stole 52 bases while not trucking around the basepaths with that HGH-injected 230-lb frame like an MTA bus.

And I know that fans in Atlanta, where Hammerin' Hank Aaron hit his own epic shot 30-something years ago, will not be lining up to give a parade.

Milwaukee still has the legend of the young Aaron and the shrugged shoulders and smooth toupee of the used-car salesman, Bud Selig, who would become your awkward dance partner as commissioner of baseball.

And in New York, Bob Costas will lead the Greek chorus of those calling foul on your record, all 150-natural-as-a-free-range-chicken-lbs. of him.

What about closer to San Francisco?

Will fans in San Diego, where the Baroid seranade and syringes as lawn jarts came into vogue, suddenly change their tune?

How 'bout Los Angeles, where you travel if the carefully-orchestrated moment does not come at home? Do you honestly think Dodgers fans will swallow 100+ years of Giant hatred to let you take a bow?

Even the cities new to baseball will probably be unsympathetic.

Your ex-girlfriend, Kimberly Bell, living in the house built with undeclared cash income, will certainly not roll out the red carpet in Phoenix. And after Mark McGwire flushed his chances for the Baseball Hall of Fame by giving Congress the silent treatment, I'm sure you won't be anxious to head to Washington, D.C.?

Heck, even Boston might be a preferable destination, what with Curt Schilling still on the disabled list, although you would still run the risk of bumping into former Senator George Mitchell if he comes down from Maine for a game. Even Philadelphia, with a long and distinguished history of open hostility to visiting players, won't be jumping for joy at your accomplishment.

So, don't worry, I'm not asking you to answer this now or even tomorrow, Barry.

Say, maybe 20 years from now, you can look back and shoot me an email or whatever the futuristic communication equivalent will be to let me know. That is, if you are still around. Your father did not make it to 60 before cancer took him. Most doctors agree that a chemistry-set physique will at the very least increase a chance of cancer. Look at all of the Pro Wrestlers and NFL players that have gone before their time. I mean, maybe you can join the Tour de France, where if nothing else your drug-testing evasiveness can provide some inspiration to future champions.

Was it all worth it Barry?

signed,
Dale Nixon