Below The Fold

He stands at 713. The Babe is one step away, a 340-ft shot to left field on a windless day in AT&T Park. From there, it’s one more shot; maybe 320 feet out over the right field fence into McCovey’s Cove and Bonds passes the Babe, alone only behind Hammerin’ Hank Aaron.
In sports, records are made to be broken. It’s as tired a cliché as, “We just have to take it one game at a time,” or, “We got the ‘W,’ that’s all that matters,” or, “Yes officer, I play for the Oakland Raiders.”
Bonds already has the most home runs in a season: 73. That’s 12 more than Maris’ 61 in ’61; three more than Maguire’s 70 in ’98. Bonds can swing. There’s no arguing that.
But as Bonds stands one more homer away from tying the Bambino, he does so with plenty of other notable shortcomings:

• Babe hit 714 in 2,503 games. In 2,730 games, Bonds stood at 708
• Bonds has close to 800 more at-bats than the Babe had
• Bonds has well over 100 more strikeouts than the Babe
• Ruth hovered around a 2.5 era in six seasons as a starting pitcher
• The Babe won 7 of 10 World Series; Bonds is 0 for 1.

The Babe wasn’t a saint. I’m sure if he were playing in the same era as Bonds he probably would not have escaped the steroids probe unscathed. But there is a glaring difference in the two personalities: Bonds hates the limelight. He suffers his fans. He plays for himself and himself only.
The Babe reveled in the spotlight. He loved every minute of it. He loved his fans too much.
So I send an open letter out to every single pitcher Barry will face for the rest of his careers: Walk him.
Don’t let Barry get 714. Or 715. Walk him. Send him trotting to first, and as he does, give him a big toothy grin that says, “You ain’t pinnin’ it on me, bud. This walk’s for The Babe.