Tuesday, May 9, 2006
"Love Me, Hate Me: Barry Bonds And The Making Of An Anti-Hero"
Part of me wishes I had never read "Love Me, Hate Me: Barry Bonds And The Making Of An Anti-Hero". That's the part that prides myself on not getting too involved with the off-field exploits of athletes and other celebrities whose only job it is to entertain and perform on the field. Do I care whether Brad and Angelina get married and have a baby? Hell, no. Does it matter if Damon Stoudamire smokes pot? Not really. Is Tom Cruise a fruitbat? Maybe, maybe not, but either way I will still see his movies if they have a chance to entertain me.
Now that I have read the book, by Jeff Pearlman (Harper & Collins, $25.95), I know approximately 100 times more about Barry Bonds than I did when I started. Up until a couple of years ago, I might hear the occasional story about how much of a dickhead Barry Bonds is. You know, I knew a guy who encountered him once and said he was a total asshole; others have said things to the effect of, yeah, he wouldn't sign a ball for my kid, he's a serious prick, etc. And I would say, well, if you were a Giants fan, you'd like him 'cause all you cared about would be whether he helped the Giants win games. But now we have the stories of hundreds of people, literally -- over 500, actually -- and it has been confirmed in my mind, without a shadow of a doubt, that Barry Bonds can be a seriously massive fucking prick asshole dickhead, and it must be stressed that Barry Bonds is the third baseball hero I have ever had (behind prior Giants greats Willie McCovey and Will Clark), but he is my current hero on the field only.
The book is 345 brisk pages detailing Bonds' buffoonery, hijinks and tomfoolery, with equal helpings of his harshness, brazenness, sheer audacity, and other stuff that someone the likes of The Godfather would have put a stop to on a warm summer night in a tiny Italian cafe with a crisp bullet to the head, if only Bonds were named Bonzone. (Dropping a loyal, kind, trustworthy agent while accusing him of destroying his career comes to mind, as does the incident where an opponent's clubhouse employee asked Bonds if he could autograph some items for a fundraiser for a former teammate's ill child and Bonds allegedly replied simply, "Fuck you.") But now and then we also get a glimpse of the good side of Bonds -- showing up on a snowy day in West Virginia to meet with some kids, donating appearance fees to help a school's athletic department.
There are suggestions that Bonds is the way he is because of the childhood he had: the son of another under-appreciated superstar, Bobby Bonds, who might have made the Hall of Fame had he not given himself the aura of an unwanted player due to his penchant for drinking and his (mentally, if not physically) abusive nature. And there are the tales of hotshot Barry arriving in a fancy car for his stint at Arizona State University, dripping with talent and merely a figurative big head, and learning what it means to be coddled and not be coddled. His father's lessons surely began to stick to him: Don't get too close to those who care about you because eventually, surely, they won't give you what you want, probably serving as a pre-cursor to Bonds' handling of the media, which essentially are made up of people who are not interested whatsoever in giving any celebrity what he wants.
But the book is not long on psycho-analysis, and it must be said that is no fault of the author, nor must it be assumed that was the intent; people who shared clubhouse space with Bonds couldn't even get a read on him. (Pearlman relays a story from Mark Carreon, who remembered being in a fight with Bonds only to have Bonds apologize afterwards, telling Carreon he was one of his closest friends on the team. Says Carreon, "I didn't even like Barry, and he thought we were good friends. Man, is he bizarre.") Love Me, Hate Me is a litany of things Barry does right and things he does wrong, and there is no in-between: Those things are lovable or they are hateable. No wonder Barry once said, "Love me, hate me, I don't care" -- those are the only two options he gives you, and sometimes both in the same weekend. Whether he buys you dinner Friday night and then on Saturday afternoon ices you with a cold stare as though you were a Jehovah's Witness waking up a bear in the middle of winter, or whether he takes steroids in 2000 and then hits home runs you admire in 2001, that's all you can offer him.
As the book enters its later stages, the questions of steroid use inevitably arise, and Pearlman makes no bones about his take: Bonds did use steroids. But it's almost an after-thought; the epilogue is really the only place where Bonds' career is put into perspective with a steroids backdrop, with questions such as, if it wasn't illegal, was it cheating? and, Surely he was a Hall of Famer before the accusations, no? Good questions, all. If Bonds had been covered throughout his career in the detail that Pearlman gives us here, however, Bonds wouldn't have had to wait until later in his career to be thoroughly reviled by baseball fans. He'd have been hated right out of the box. And loved by some, to be sure.
Readers of Love Me, Hate Me who hate Bonds will hate him even more. Readers who love Bonds might or might not change their minds, depending on how much exposure to these exploits they've had throughout Bonds' career and whether or not they care about off-the-field shenanigans. The book has very little direct input from Barry himself to negate (or confirm) most of the stories, and who could blame him for not participating? The author's previous subjects include the 1986 Mets and John Rocker, not exactly choirboys (if Pearlman ever approached me for a biography, I'd ask him first if he had photos of me eating the Lindbergh baby). But the book is ripe with information that is presented in a way that the reader really can't doubt any of its veracity; nobody really thinks Barry is the game's greatest ambassador to begin with. We can believe every tale told. And if Pearlman hates Bonds, he's done a good job of keeping the hate in check and being as objective about it as possible.
LMHM doesn't leave any base unturned; there's so much out there on the field for the reader to ingest (and possibly puke back up). Even the casual fan will be entertained enough with the stories inside to say, "What the fuck??? Bonds is a nut ball!", and then he will eagerly turn the page, ready for another anecdote to share with his friends at the bar tonight, as another home run sails into McCovey Cove.
Now that I have read the book, by Jeff Pearlman (Harper & Collins, $25.95), I know approximately 100 times more about Barry Bonds than I did when I started. Up until a couple of years ago, I might hear the occasional story about how much of a dickhead Barry Bonds is. You know, I knew a guy who encountered him once and said he was a total asshole; others have said things to the effect of, yeah, he wouldn't sign a ball for my kid, he's a serious prick, etc. And I would say, well, if you were a Giants fan, you'd like him 'cause all you cared about would be whether he helped the Giants win games. But now we have the stories of hundreds of people, literally -- over 500, actually -- and it has been confirmed in my mind, without a shadow of a doubt, that Barry Bonds can be a seriously massive fucking prick asshole dickhead, and it must be stressed that Barry Bonds is the third baseball hero I have ever had (behind prior Giants greats Willie McCovey and Will Clark), but he is my current hero on the field only.
The book is 345 brisk pages detailing Bonds' buffoonery, hijinks and tomfoolery, with equal helpings of his harshness, brazenness, sheer audacity, and other stuff that someone the likes of The Godfather would have put a stop to on a warm summer night in a tiny Italian cafe with a crisp bullet to the head, if only Bonds were named Bonzone. (Dropping a loyal, kind, trustworthy agent while accusing him of destroying his career comes to mind, as does the incident where an opponent's clubhouse employee asked Bonds if he could autograph some items for a fundraiser for a former teammate's ill child and Bonds allegedly replied simply, "Fuck you.") But now and then we also get a glimpse of the good side of Bonds -- showing up on a snowy day in West Virginia to meet with some kids, donating appearance fees to help a school's athletic department.
There are suggestions that Bonds is the way he is because of the childhood he had: the son of another under-appreciated superstar, Bobby Bonds, who might have made the Hall of Fame had he not given himself the aura of an unwanted player due to his penchant for drinking and his (mentally, if not physically) abusive nature. And there are the tales of hotshot Barry arriving in a fancy car for his stint at Arizona State University, dripping with talent and merely a figurative big head, and learning what it means to be coddled and not be coddled. His father's lessons surely began to stick to him: Don't get too close to those who care about you because eventually, surely, they won't give you what you want, probably serving as a pre-cursor to Bonds' handling of the media, which essentially are made up of people who are not interested whatsoever in giving any celebrity what he wants.
But the book is not long on psycho-analysis, and it must be said that is no fault of the author, nor must it be assumed that was the intent; people who shared clubhouse space with Bonds couldn't even get a read on him. (Pearlman relays a story from Mark Carreon, who remembered being in a fight with Bonds only to have Bonds apologize afterwards, telling Carreon he was one of his closest friends on the team. Says Carreon, "I didn't even like Barry, and he thought we were good friends. Man, is he bizarre.") Love Me, Hate Me is a litany of things Barry does right and things he does wrong, and there is no in-between: Those things are lovable or they are hateable. No wonder Barry once said, "Love me, hate me, I don't care" -- those are the only two options he gives you, and sometimes both in the same weekend. Whether he buys you dinner Friday night and then on Saturday afternoon ices you with a cold stare as though you were a Jehovah's Witness waking up a bear in the middle of winter, or whether he takes steroids in 2000 and then hits home runs you admire in 2001, that's all you can offer him.
As the book enters its later stages, the questions of steroid use inevitably arise, and Pearlman makes no bones about his take: Bonds did use steroids. But it's almost an after-thought; the epilogue is really the only place where Bonds' career is put into perspective with a steroids backdrop, with questions such as, if it wasn't illegal, was it cheating? and, Surely he was a Hall of Famer before the accusations, no? Good questions, all. If Bonds had been covered throughout his career in the detail that Pearlman gives us here, however, Bonds wouldn't have had to wait until later in his career to be thoroughly reviled by baseball fans. He'd have been hated right out of the box. And loved by some, to be sure.
Readers of Love Me, Hate Me who hate Bonds will hate him even more. Readers who love Bonds might or might not change their minds, depending on how much exposure to these exploits they've had throughout Bonds' career and whether or not they care about off-the-field shenanigans. The book has very little direct input from Barry himself to negate (or confirm) most of the stories, and who could blame him for not participating? The author's previous subjects include the 1986 Mets and John Rocker, not exactly choirboys (if Pearlman ever approached me for a biography, I'd ask him first if he had photos of me eating the Lindbergh baby). But the book is ripe with information that is presented in a way that the reader really can't doubt any of its veracity; nobody really thinks Barry is the game's greatest ambassador to begin with. We can believe every tale told. And if Pearlman hates Bonds, he's done a good job of keeping the hate in check and being as objective about it as possible.
LMHM doesn't leave any base unturned; there's so much out there on the field for the reader to ingest (and possibly puke back up). Even the casual fan will be entertained enough with the stories inside to say, "What the fuck??? Bonds is a nut ball!", and then he will eagerly turn the page, ready for another anecdote to share with his friends at the bar tonight, as another home run sails into McCovey Cove.
