The national perception is that San Francisco is solidly behind Barry Bonds in his chase for the home run record. Like most things in this city, it's not that simple

	Barry Bonds is beloved in San Francisco by some, but not all. Photo Illustration by SI Imaging

By Chris Ballard

It is warm, way too warm for spring in San Francisco. At seven in the evening in May, it's 70-something and sunny, like some Al Gore nightmare come to life. People arrive at AT&T Park suspicious of the weather, in jeans and a sweatshirt, fleece and khakis, as if this were the old Candlestick and winter might descend in a moment.

But it does not. The sun lingers, making the giant catcher's mitt in the leftfield stands glow orange, and the young women who were brave enough to wear tube tops giggle and smile and raise their arms in little woo-hoo motions during player introductions, the better to catch the attention of young men. And when the Giants' cleanup hitter comes to the plate in the second inning, their woo-hoo is more pronounced, their wriggle more wriggly. "Leading off, number 25," says the P.A. announcer, her voice rising dramatically, " ... leftfielder ... Baaa-reee Bonds!"

And here he comes, swaggering to the plate, thick arms encased in plastic armor, a familiar grimace creasing his wide face. Even at 42, he has remarkable presence, one of those athletes whose mere physicality is awesome to behold, especially once he's into his batting stance, all coiled power, the bat flicking above his head, a fuse sizzling. Every pitch is dramatic, infused with promise.

It is impossible not to watch, but not as impossible as it once was. Three, four years ago, time stopped when Bonds stepped to the plate. Now it just slows. Some still cheer, of course. In the centerfield bleachers two scruffy men in Giants jerseys stand and holler, their drooping guts rolling as they turn side to side. They wave their arms and roar, fueled by $8 beers and God knows what else. "Baaa-reee! Baaa-reee!"

Their enthusiasm is not contagious, though, not even to the guy in the leftfield bleachers who wears the replica jersey that reads bonds above the number 756. To those outside the Bay Area this may be hard to believe. Why wouldn't they be going nuts? Having played in only 144 games and hit just 31 home runs over the last two seasons, Bonds was expected to back into this record, maybe by Labor Day, muddling along as a glory-seeking baseball invalid. But instead, this? Two home runs a week, sometimes three. Monster blasts. Pitchers avoiding him, like in the old days. The familiar lethal swing. Gaudy statistics -- 11 homers through Thursday, 745 for his career. At this rate he'll top Hank Aaron's 755 in mid-June. At this rate he'll be the most feared hitter in all of baseball again. Maybe he already is.