Barry Bonds and throwing up
I hate Barry Bonds.
I don't like to "hate;" I've got enough anger and rage and disappointment in my life not to need to waste additional energy hating, particularly inanimate objects like pro athletes.
But I hate Barry Bonds and there are many reasons why.
Barry Bonds cheats on his taxes. That makes him a bad citizen and bad American.
Barry Bonds cheats on his wife. That makes him a bad husband.
Barry Bonds cheats on his profession. Bonds' runaway abuse of illegal performance enhancing drugs makes him a cheater, a scoundrel and a sham.
Barry Bonds uses his children as props to deflect negative media attention from him. That makes him a bad father.
On top of all that, Barry Bonds seems to go out of his way to be a jackass to everyone he comes in contact with whom he has nothing to gain from for no reason other than he's just a creep at his center and that makes him a bad guy.
Despite all that, I can't wait for him to hit his 755th and 756th career home runs and finally pass Hank Aaron.
Unless an unfortunate batting practice accident or a mysterious illness should befall Bonds before he gets to 755 – definitive proof that there may be a god after all – I'd just like Bonds to go ahead and break the record already.
Let me tell you a little story. I went to Cozumel, Mexico for vacation when I was a teenager. I ate some bad pizza. I don't know if it was the cheese or the sausage or the yeast, but it tasted strange going down, and it soon was doing loop-de-loops in my tummy.
Lying in bed, sick to my stomach, unable to sleep, I knew I didn't want to throw up. Throwing up is awful. It's violent, disgusting, foul – an all around unpleasant experience. And if I concentrated hard enough, I could hold on to my stomach and not yak back up that bad Mexican pizza.
But here's the rub: I couldn't sleep either. The nausea and effort it took me to keep from puking prevented me from getting any rest and I was exhausted.
Sometime after midnight, I made the decision, in order to sleep, I'd have to go to the bathroom and throw up.
So I marched into the bathroom, leaned over the toilet and deposited the pizza where it belonged in the first place. It was uncomfortable, but to get on with my night, I had to do it.
It wasn't 10 minutes later and I was back in bed, sleeping peacefully, shortly to wake up in the morning feeling right as the mail.
Here's the point, we've all been holding our stomachs on Barry Bonds long enough, praying, hoping, wishing something would prevent him from getting to 755. We hoped the FBI would bring him down, we hoped his injuries would bring him down, we hoped the tell-all books or the commissioner's office would bring him down, but Bonds is going to hit 755 and 756. It's going to happen. It can't be prevented anymore.
With that in mind, I just want it over with. Let's go into the bathroom, puke Barry Bonds into the toilet and lay back down to finally get some sleep.
Enough already, I can't take it anymore.
That night when Bonds does pass Aaron will be awful. It will be disgusting and will churn the stomach and will cause retching and a headache and will leave a terrible, acidic, scummy taste in all of our mouths, but for us to get on with our lives – just like throwing up – it has to happen.
Barry Bonds is a rotten person. He's a criminal, he's immoral, he's devious and a grade A a-hole; there's hardly a person on earth less deserving or ethically worthy of holding the greatest single record in sports, but it's going to happen. I've come to peace with that fact. And now I just want it done with.
Barry Bonds has upset our stomachs long enough as we've hoped against hope something could prevent him from getting to Aaron, but now that it's apparent nothing can stop him, the sooner he does it the better.
Barry Bonds is like bad Mexican pizza, you can only get over him once you've thrown him up and we can't flush Bonds down the toilet until he hits #755 and 756.