Bonding with the record books

So Barry Bonds, forever on our sports pages chasing 714, will forever be on our minds at 715. We just can't escape his melodramatic existence or melon-shaped head, and this was never more apparent than Sunday afternoon after 2.14pm. The 41-year-old slugger surfaced in the fourth inning to smack a 445-foot homer at AT&T Park to not only bump The Babe down the home run list, but further smudge the record books.

If you're a Giants fan it doesn't get much better. Just when you couldn't get enough Barry at 714, he trumped Ruth’s record to create a new benchmark; 715-and-counting—a new "magic" number—a new answer to a Trivial Pursuit question. But it's also a number that leaves a sour taste in the mouth—one that doesn't elicit the joy or great respect it should. It’s a number with so much doubt it barely feels like a milestone.

After all, a record is more than a numerical figure; it's a significant moment in time, an affirmation of achievement and most importantly, the fulfillment of someone’s dream. On Sunday afternoon we should have all been celebrating a new number for these reasons. Instead we're left with emptiness. We’re left wondering about the future of the game and how it will deal with the predicament Bonds has helped build—“tainted numbers”.



Who really knows what these home runs mean to the combative Bonds? If he apologised would it make it easier? If he retired now, preserving at least Hank Aaron's record, would it make it alright?

The build up to today has been arduous. There have been so many questions around Bonds; it's hard to know what to think anymore. Perhaps if we just leave Barry be, miring in his own ugly circumstance, we can move on. Perhaps the asterisk next to 715-and-still-counting will be punishment enough. Perhaps by clinging to the numbers we hold dear, the real records won’t fade and the great memories will always prevail.