E-mail Battle: Response from the 'Duk

(Ed's Note: Here's the response to an Ether-laced Takeover coming from the Windy City Finest ... the 'Duk)

D-Man Smith,

I appreciate the e-mail from Kansas City, even if it’s a terrible
reminder that spring comes to the City of Fountains a month earlier
than it does to the Windy City.

I’ve just finished reading your Jigga-like take on Barry’s questionable
Run to the Record and it surprised me a little. Though others might
argue with me, you’ve always been a fan of substance over style. That
much was evident in your early pushing of John Legend, before John
Legend was John Legend. No crap like Young Jeezy for you, bra. You’re
argyle over arm bands; suspenders over sweats.

If I’m picking my all-around renaissance man in Kizza City, you’re the
pick. More importantly, you are an important and knowledgeable person
when it coms to the black community – both local and national. If
something’s wrong, you’ll say so. Which is why I’m a bit taken aback by
your backing of Barry Bonds.

But before we get to all of that, I feel it’s only appropriate that I
voice my own appreciation of Willie Mays’ god-son. Back in the day,
when I was rocking Ruzicka Field in the Bartlett Little League, I found
myself on the AAA Pirates. As such, I secured a black, mesh-backed Bucs
hat and took to learning their important players … Sid Bream, Bobby
Bonilla, Andy Van Slyke, Gary Redus and who could forget pudgy Mike
LaValliere?

Bonds, of course, was the man, running to a 1990 NL MVP with a rare
blend of quickness, power and all-out athleticism. He seemed like the
type of guy I would like: he wasn’t brash like everyone else’s favorite
player – Jose Canseco . But he also wasn’t quite as humble as our
hometown hero, Ryne Sandberg. He was a wild card and, at the age of 12,
I think I could sense this. I followed Bonds and when he went to the
Giants in 1993, I was startled by his cocksure attitude in a May issue
of Sports Illustrated, the very same edition that contained a
fictitious profile of Cheers bartender Sam Malone.

Still, I liked Bonds. Though others might be turned off by his
surliness and arrogance, I saw a flawed character who might have been
classically “misunderstood.” A Giants’ visit to Wrigley was always an
anticipated one and I always made sure to poke a vote for Barry when it
came time to stuff the ballot box for guys like Frank Thomas over at
Comiskey.

Admittedly, I didn’t pay too much attention as Barry grew in size from
1998 to 2003. The 2001 homerun record was lost in a haze of
post-graduation celebration and uncertainty over my future profession.
Then 9/11 came and I could care less. I was more interested in my new
car and running around the suburbs trying to find a good time.

In 2003, my father, sister and I found ourselves at SBC Park for a
Monday night game against the Cardinals. We were in the right field
standing room area, eating a plate of garlic fries and shivering from
the wind off the bay when Barry stepped to the batters’ box. On the
first pitch, he belted a screamer toward right center field, a shot
that left little doubt it would count as another notch closer to Ruth
and Aaron. I pinned up the game ticket at work, content that I would
one day show it to a grandson, if, of course, Bonds’ record still
stood.

But then the steroid accusations came. And everything changed.

I no longer view Bonds as the classic, misunderstood man just trying
his way through a thicket of media which can often be unfair,
particularly to rich black men. Instead, I see a man born into every
privilege – wealth, athleticism, good looks – and appreciating very
little of it. It’s often said that the only way for an athlete to be
labeled a “good guy“ is to call a sportswriter by his first name. In
the case of Bonds, that standard was probably much lower. And yet he
still didn’t care to act like a decent human being to anyone … least of
all his family, teammates or former mistresses.

Your assertion that Bonds is only doing what America is built on is a
bit off base. Pre-steroids Barry surely would have made the Hall and
that is why he will eventually address a lawn full of people one August
day in Cooperstown. But Barry’s post-steroid behavior, so delicately
detailed in the new expose, has shown no regard for the integrity of
the game that so many of us hold dear. That Buck O’Neil, a man who
overcame the worst types of racism, will watch Barry’s induction from
the lawn and not the members’ stage speaks volume over the silliness of
HOF admission.

You address the fact that Big Mac and Sammy may have committed the same
transgressions and I think it’s safe to allow that both did. You
conclude that their steroid use makes it OK for us to cheer Barry to
No. 756. I feel this is also wrong. I recently read a back issue of
Sports Illustrated where a fan central to the 1998 home run chase
expressed no regret for losing himself in that magical summer. “You
don’t hate all those Christmas mornings, even after you learn the truth
about Santa,” he said. That fan was right. And now Barry is nothing
but your uncle dressed up in a red suit. The illusion is gone.

But finally, back to my original surprise at your opinion. You cite
the racism and prejudice that Henry Aaron faced in 1974 and, surely,
that must have been the toughest social athletic feat since Jackie
Robinson crossed that line in 1947. For all that fear and doubt that
Hank faced, why wipe it all away with 48 more swings of a Louisville
Slugger? We should have more respect for the feats of our elders than
that, particularly when it comes to the plight of Hank Aaron.

And so I leave you with that. While you find yourself busy with a
tainted run toward history, I’ll be sitting in my recliner, not
necessarily rooting for a pulled hamstring or a strained groin but not
exactly dreading it , either.

Much love,

‘Duk