Bonds hit homers but, again, not the jackpot

They kept showing videos of the swing, so powerful, so effective. Then they kept showing the differential between the votes Barry Bonds received and the votes he needed — and painfully, for one last time, failed to receive.

The man could play as well as anyone who ever played. Baseball, that is.

But he didn’t play by the rules, or more accurately by the standards created to keep the playing field level — even though, level or tilted, there was no doubt that the field belonged to Bonds.

He's off the Hall of Fame ballot now. His decade is done. His journey to the Baseball Hall of Fame is unfinished, and no matter the optimistic predictions of a rescue by the Hall’s veterans’ committee, it may remain unfinished forever. Along with the journey of Roger Clemens.

Bonds, who hit more home runs in the history of America’s most historic game, 73 for a season, 762 for a career, and Clemens, who won the Cy Young award seven times, did everything possible to improve.

Which is the problem.

They are acknowledged to have used products known as PEDs, performance-enhancing drugs, which because they allowed more repetitive workouts resulted in greater strength and resilience.

That each was a probable Hall of Famer before using the PEDs — Bonds was a seven-time MVP — is not the issue. He and Clemens were tainted. They always will be tainted.

So much of this is about timing. Barry’s was impeccable when he stood at the plate, not so much when it came to his place in the overview of the sport.

Maybe if Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire hadn’t made Bonds jealous by the attention the country gave to their 1998 home run battle, Bonds would have been content to go about business as usual.

He was great, to his justified way of thinking, greater than anyone. But the big boys got the big praise.

Remember that commercial, “Chicks dig the long ball”? So did everyone else, as Bonds quickly enough discovered.

True, Bonds had a prickly personality, which seemed modified after he retired. To get an interview required patience and luck. He rarely said hello or addressed journalists by name, but Barry knew every one of them.

As I learned during the BALCO (Bay Area Laboratory Co-Operative) hearings.

This was the first day at the San Francisco Federal Building. The writers came down one elevator, the defendants and lawyers another. We waited on the ground floor. Suddenly, Barry yells my name and greets me with a hug. Who knew?

What we do know is this: whether he ever gets into the Hall, he was a Hall of Fame player, learning baseball from the time he was toddler, the son of a man, Bobby Bonds, who could hit home runs and steal bases as few others could.

Bobby in reality was the first 40-40-man, home runs and stolen bases, well before Jose Canseco, although he lost one of the home runs because of a rainout.

They say Barry always felt he had to overcome the burden of being Bobby’s son. Whether that was the case, Bobby delighted in being Barry’s father. Once, when the media was down on Barry, deservedly or not, Bobby walked by and without any bitterness said, “Be kind to Barry.”

Now after the rejection — Bonds received 260 Hall votes this time, well short of the 296 required to reach the 75 percent figure that gets a player in — he definitely needs more kindness.

His own disappointment may not be known for a while, if ever, but the disappointment for fans of the San Francisco Giants, his team after a career start with the Pittsburgh Pirates, is apparent.

He was their guy, the one who could hit balls into the bay almost on command. Unfortunately, he’s still waiting to hit the jackpot.

Cooperstown: Babe and the Kid, Line Drives and Lipstick

By Art Spander   

COOPERSTOWN, N.Y. — The statue of James Fenimore Cooper sits in proper relaxation, maybe a pop fly away from the bronzes of Roy Campanella and Johnny Podres, who naturally as catcher and pitcher are located 60 feet, 6 inches apart.

This indeed is Cooper’s town. It was established more than 250 years ago by his father, in the rolling Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York, where the subjects of Cooper’s novels, the Mohican Indians, lived.

This also is baseball’s town, the site of the most famous of American sporting halls of fame, a shrine to myth and reality, where a visitor quickly comes upon life-size figures of the Babe and the Kid, George Herman Ruth and Theodore Williams.

That baseball almost certainly wasn’t invented in Cooperstown by Abner Doubleday but more likely in Hoboken, N.J., by Alexander Cartwright is of no great issue here. Legends do not require confirmation, only recognition.

What Milan is to opera lovers and St. Andrews is to golfers — sites that if not quite holy are close — Cooperstown is to baseball. There’s an art museum here. There’s also a golf course — Leatherstocking, named for a Cooper book. They are insignificant.

Baseball is the lure, the National Baseball Museum and Hall of Fame, where kids in T-shirts and shorts reach up to touch the letters of plaques honoring a Babe or a Ty Cobb or a Willie Howard Mays, as if able to grasp some bit of history.

It’s been said that one of the virtues of baseball is that it enables the generations to talk to each other. Seven years old or 70, the link is the game, grandfathers recalling their youth, grandsons projecting the future.

A half-century ago, it still was three strikes you’re out, and yes, Sandy Koufax and Juan Marichal knew how to throw those strikes the way Justin Verlander knows these days.

Main Street — what else would the main street of Cooperstown be called? — is packed with memorabilia stories and ice cream parlors. Of course.

It was the late Leonard Koppett, a fine journalist and brilliant thinker, who insisted that one of the reasons kids grow to love baseball is that at the ballgame, parents — dads, mostly — unhesitatingly buy them anything, cotton candy, hot dogs, particularly ice cream. Who wouldn’t want to go?

Maybe 10 years ago, every other shop in Cooperstown was peddling something connected with Pete Rose, who, if he’ll never get in the Hall — silly when the guy with the most hits in history isn’t a Hall of Famer — was getting wealthy from the sale of autographs.

Pete’s presence has dimmed. He was at the induction ceremonies a couple of weeks back, which drew only a tiny percentage of the usual 10,000 fans because no living ballplayer was involved, but the various stores now focus on the Yankees and Mets. That’s understandable, because the Big Apple is only about a three-hour drive away.

As with other places in the country, really the world, Cooperstown has been hurt by the economy, although at the moment most of the bed-and-breakfast locales, places with names like “Baseball, Bed and Breakfast” or “Landmark Inn,” are filled.

In another few days, as a contrast, the county sheep dog trials will be held in Cooperstown. It would be neat if the dogs could be taught to steal second. You mean they already do, grabbing the bag in their jaws and running off?

If men are predominant here, women are not ignored. There’s a shop on Main calling itself “Line Drives and Lipstick,” which despite the allusion is more boutique than dugout store.

Several shops manufacture bespoke bats or at the least engrave any name you want on any previously milled bat. “Please don’t swing the bats,” admonishes a sign at Cooperstown Bat Company. That’s inside.

Outdoors, on Main Street, where boys are trying to duplicate Miguel Cabrera, or Lou Gehrig, it’s a wonder there aren’t more broken heads or broken windows.

For Red Sox fans, and they are easily identified by their attire, it’s more a question of broken hearts. On a wall in the Hall is an enlarged reproduction of the promissory note of $100,000 the Yankees gave Boston in 1919 for Ruth. The man then in charge of the Yanks, Jake Rupert, was one of the recent Hall inductees. No reference to the Curse of the Bambino, it must be noted.

In the Hall’s souvenir shop you can buy various jerseys, including one with Yankee pinstripes and the No. 3. All well and good, except above the number is “RUTH,” which is nonsense because not only were there no players’ names on uniforms when Ruth was active but the Yankees, home or away, never had them at any time.

“Never let fear of striking out get in your way,” is the quote from the Babe, who whiffed 1,330 times in his career. Never let fear of revising his uniform get in your way, either.