Barry Bonds is on television, live, behaving like a petulant child. Leaning on a baseball bat, complaining about being tired and blaming all his woes on the media. I don’t have the time or the effort to document all the instances of Barry’s own behavior feeding this vicious cycle, but needless to say, he’s an enormous asshole. Plus, he’s interrupting my mid-afternoon Braves-Mets spring game featuring Tom Glavine. The bastard.
If I were a reporter and he had just blamed me for his tiredness, steroid use, and injury/rehab woes, I’d have gotten in his face. “Do you really blame me, specifically, for your problems, Barry? Have you read my stories? Do you know my name? If not, have a Coke and a smile and shut the fuck up! Do your rehab, Barry, and continue your non-denial denial about the steroids. See if I give a shit. You’ve given no one, least of all me, any reason to ever care about you as a person. You’re tired? I’m tired of your shit.”
But maybe I just have an elaborate revenge fantasy life. Maybe I shouldn’t hate Barry so much. But I do. And no doubt, Barry would blame that on me, not him.
So fuck you Barry Bonds. Enjoy your rehab. Get some rest, because I’m coming to the park early and often to boo your sorry ass when you come to town. If you come to town. If your season and career aren’t over. Asshole.