Road weary and worn out as the clock closed in on midnight and the prospect of yet another all-night, cross-country flight loomed, the 41-year-old ballplayer sat in a room full of people he didn’t really want to talk to following another losing ballgame. He didn’t want to, but his life has become a bunch of have to things these days. Obligatory kinds of things that normal people have to deal with everyday, only his are a little more high profile, to say the least. Have to fly across the country after midnight; have to pander to the sycophants producing your “reality” show; have to put in the work just to make it through the grind of a season; have to listen to total strangers scream unpleasantries at you ever time you show your face in public; have to answer questions from a grand jury investigation; have to go to work and chase some guy named Babe.
Have to.
“It's draining,” he said. “It is. It's a little bit draining. But I have to stay focused for my teammates.”
So there he was, fulfilling another have to. Tersely answering the inane questions from a few while almost lighting up and becoming engaging at a few queries that seemed interesting. Like the one about which ballplayer has the chance to be chasing the Babe or Hank some day?
“Alex Rodriguez. I don’t know about Albert (Pujols),” he said. “Albert’s going to have to deal with a lot of walks. He’s going to get walked a lot, unfortunately. He’s that good. Unfortunately, he plays in the National League, and when you’ve got pitchers coming up, and in a different league, it’s a little bit different. If he was in the American League, we might be saying something different, but in the National League, if he keeps going the way he’s going, he’s going to be walked a ton.”
That was his longest answer in the 19-minute-and-51-second give-and-take with the press that was beamed worldwide on live television from the tiny conference room in the basement of Philadelphia’s Citizens Bank Park. But there was more, too. Like the part about the chat he and his mother Pat had before Sunday night’s nationally televised game. For a little while, at least, the conversation rejuvenated him. Made him feel good and forget about have to, and the shouting, accusations, big signs with asterisks and others calling him a fraud and worse. The books and the grand juries and the investigations all went away for a little bit.
“It helped me get my head twisted back on,” he said about talking to his mom, adding that he was missing his dad, Bobby, a lot these days.
“I wish he was here,” he said.
Hearing that and watching his world seem to implode all around him and bear down, like an anvil, onto his coat-rack shoulders and softening eyes and face makes it easy to feel sympathy for him. Human emotion is a difficult thing to ignore when it is truly genuine. It’s hard to judge someone so harshly when they glowingly talk about their mom and want to be able to talk to their dad, who is no longer on this earth.
But then reality steps in and delivers a cold, hard haymaker to the solar plexus. You remember who it is – who it is that has seen his world turned into something he can no longer control the way he once did an at-bat in a baseball game or turned a crowd of people into slack-jawed wonderment.
Sometimes people have to reap what they sow.
Right?
So after a weekend filled with yelling and screaming, where signs made of old bed sheets were waved for all to see and the anticipation for a milestone in which the regular folks hoped to one day say “I was there,” the old, tired ballplayer answered one more question, posed for one more picture, forced a smile, and walked as fast as his creaky knees would carry him to a bus that would take him to a chartered flight waiting at the airport.
Barry Bonds was on the way out, and it doesn’t look like he’s ever coming back.