Appreciating Bonds

Though obscured by the home run barrage, an older, wiser Barry Bonds is in many ways better than ever

By Jeff Pearlman

Issue date: June 5, 2000

The chair in front of Barry Bonds's lockers at Pacific Bell Park is big and black, a $3,000 Sharper Image leather recliner so large that it appears to block off one side of the San Francisco Giants' clubhouse. All other members of the team -- no matter how well established -- sit in dinky folding metal chairs, the kind found leaning against the back wall of high school auditoriums. Sometimes, when San Francisco scribes feel like taking a poke at Bonds's legendary ego, they will write about his four lockers and his Moby Dick of a recliner.

"You know, it's just a massage chair," says Bonds, reclining three hours before a recent Giants home game, an ice pack on his neck as he glances at the movie showing on the 32-inch TV on the floor by his footrest. "Big deal. Junior had one in Seattle and nobody said anything. I have one and it's in the papers. But you know what? My teammates don't care. My manager doesn't care. You know why? Because I have bulging discs in my back. I'd be all locked up if I sat in those metal chairs all day. I might as well make sure my back is O.K. so I can perform at my best. Three years ago, I didn't need a special chair. But you get older. Things change." He pauses, adjusting the ice pack. "It stinks, but they do."

Bonds will be 36 in July. He has added an extra helping of stuffing in the cheeks and jowl since he won two National League MVP trophies with the Pittsburgh Pirates in 1990 and '92 and a third with the Giants in '93. When he wakes up the morning after a night game, Bonds's body doesn't scream, Go get 'em! as it once did, but, Go get Advil! "There was a time I could play, then run around all night, then rise and play again," he moans. "Not anymore."

Bonds is not as fast as he was five years ago; a 40-stolen-base threat has become a 25-stolen-base threat. His left arm, an assault weapon once banned by the U.S. government, is now, following a triceps tendon tear that sidelined him for 47 games last season, just average. Worst of all, inside fastballs occasionally whoooosh through his swing and into the catcher's mitt. "He still has bat speed," says Giants lefthander Shawn Estes, "but five, six years ago he was a lot quicker getting to the ball inside. He may have to cheat more now."

Like Skip, the hobbled family Lab doomed to be put out of its misery, nothing in sports is sadder to see than the crumbling superstar who, decimated by a couple of incisions and a few misplaced fat cells, has gone from Norm Cash to Casey Candaele, from Tom Seaver to Craig Swan. And it happens so quickly. Just scan Total Baseball: In 1982 a 36-year-old Reggie Jackson carried the California Angels to the American League West title with 39 home runs, 101 RBIs and a .275 average; in '83 those totals fell to 14, 49 and .194. Barry's father, Bobby, starred as a 33-year-old outfielder with the Cleveland Indians in 1979, hitting .275 with 25 homers, 85 RBIs and 34 stolen bases; the next season, with the St. Louis Cardinals, his numbers went into free fall (.203, 5, 24, 15), and his career was over.

Time -- and baseball -- can be cruel, but Barry Bonds isn't ready for a rocker quite yet. Although in the eyes of many he was displaced as the best player in baseball by Ken Griffey Jr. and was lost in the hype surrounding the Home Run World of Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa, Bonds remains one of the game's best all-around performers. Through Sunday he was second in the National League in home runs (19), third in slugging percentage (.785) and tied for third in runs (46). He also was hitting .313, had 38 RBIs and was tied for the team lead with five stolen bases. Plus, as his diving, eighth-inning catch of a Mike Lansing liner in a recent 5-0 win over the Colorado Rockies showed, Bonds continues to cover a good deal of ground. "I don't know how he's done it," says his manager, Dusty Baker, "but I truly believe Barry is a better overall player now than he's ever been. It's early, but he's an MVP candidate again. He's gotten older, slower...and tougher."

There is, says Estes, a "pure greatness" to Bonds that allows him to play by a slightly different set of rules. Before a day game in that same series with Colorado, as his teammates took 11 a.m. batting practice for a 1:05 start, Bonds -- shoes off, arms folded -- snoozed in his comfy chair, waking up just minutes before one. "He's got his own way of doing things," says second baseman Jeff Kent. "We don't worry about that as long as he produces, and, love him or not, Barry usually does."

Opponents are equally generous in their praise. "Where does Barry Bonds rank for me?" says New York Mets rightfielder Derek Bell. "Number 1. He's the best. There's more to the game than home runs. Barry's still out there hitting .300, driving in 100 runs, stealing bases. It's about putting up all-around numbers. Barry is the complete package."

"I love Junior and Mac and Sosa, but nobody is better than Barry," says St. Louis Cardinals utilityman Shawon Dunston, a former teammate of Bonds's. "He can pick up a team, carry it on his back and not put it down. He's not going to hit 70 homers, but he believes he can. That's frightening."

What drives Barry Bonds? In a rare moment of humility, he admits, almost sheepishly, that he's spurred on by the performance of younger stars such as New York Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter, 25; Montreal Expos rightfielder Vladimir Guerrero, 24; and Kansas City Royals rightfielder Jermaine Dye, 26 -- players who grew up watching Bonds. In San Francisco, however, there are many other theories about what motivates him:

--Bonds, whose 464 home runs through Sunday ranked 21st alltime, wants to surpass 660, the figure reached by his godfather, Willie Mays.

Bzzzzzt! Wrong!

--Bonds, the first man ever to have 400 home runs and 400 stolen bases, wants to be the charter member of the 500-500 club.

Bzzzzzt! Wrong!

--Bonds is annoyed by the attention afforded Griffey, McGwire, Sosa and anyone else pounding 50-plus home runs.

Bzzzzzt! Wrong!

"I'm always reading about this motivating me and that pushing me, and it makes me mad," says Bonds. "If I don't reach 660 home runs, big deal. I'm fine with that. Same with 500-500."

What about 70 dingers in a season?

"Seventy home runs is amazing," he says. "Sixty-five home runs two years in a row is amazing. But ask McGwire if he would throw any of those 70 home runs away for a World Series, or if Sosa would throw any of his 63 home runs away so the Cubs wouldn't be in last place, and they would.

"Every year I go through a long season and I get close to a championship, and every year I go home disappointed," says Bonds, who has been to the postseason four times without reaching the World Series. "Every year I have to go back to the drawing board and figure out what am I doing wrong or what are we doing wrong as a team. We're all going home thinking, I wish I was still playing. I wish I was in the World Series. I get tired of wishing. Numbers? Yeah, I like putting up good numbers. But if I never reach another milestone, and the Giants finally win a World Series -- that's all I could ask for. I'd be complete."

Another reason Bonds seemed to fall off the radar was his surly personality around the ballpark. For 13-plus years Bonds had an unmatched record of standing up reporters, of blowing off autograph seekers, of dogging teammates, of taking every opportunity to remind everyone that there is only one Barry Bonds -- and you're not him. Over the past year or so, however, Bonds has become a kinder, gentler superstar, one who laughs and smiles and -- gasp! -- occasionally opens up to a reporter, rambling on about his paper route when he was a teen; his three-story, 12,500-square-foot house; his appearances on Beverly Hills 90210 and Arli$$. ("I am," he says, "a terrible, terrible actor.")

"When Barry lets his guard down," says Rockies catcher Brett Mayne, a former teammate, "he's a charming guy." On Opening Day at Pac Bell, Bonds spent nearly 40 minutes before the game signing autographs. A man who generally shunned endorsements -- when Madison Avenue wasn't shunning him -- Bonds has recently become a pitchman for the 2000 Census, Armour Hot Dogs and a Sega Dreamcast baseball game. Most shocking to those who know Bonds, San Francisco's KNBR radio is broadcasting weekly The Barry Bonds Show, during which listeners can call in and speak to Bonds. "Sometimes you have an awakening in your life," says Baker. "Barry seems to be more cognizant of the people around him. I really think he enjoys having people like him."

Oh, there will be skeptics. There should be. "I think Barry's making more of an effort to be liked, I really do," says Estes. "But if it looks like a rat and smells like a rat, it's probably a rat. At thirtysomething years old, you're never going to change who you are, deep down. Your true colors are always going to shine through."

But what if Bonds's true colors have never been revealed? What if it's taken the gradual winding down of a career, the 6-4-3 double play of time, to persuade him to drop the armor? "I'm just making myself a little bit more accessible to the public, as well as the media," says Bonds, who, angry over a 1993 cover story, refused to speak to SI for seven years. "I haven't in the past, and it has affected me," a reference to the paucity of endorsement deals. "Am I a nicer person? I think that's the wrong statement. I'm not mean to anybody. I have my moments when I want to do something and moments I don't want to do something. But that doesn't make me a bad person."

Maybe so. But as Bonds sells hot dogs and works on his gladtameetcha smile and recounts his 90210 experience for the 97th time, there is one layer of permafrost -- one tiny bit of aloofness -- that he will not alter. As far back as his days with the Pirates, teammates and coaches have routinely been enraged by his refusal to offer tips and guidance. Bonds may be one of the game's keenest observers, but he keeps most of those observations to himself. "Barry has a great wealth of knowledge," says Dunston. "He picks up little things a pitcher's doing, a hitter's doing. But he doesn't feel the need to share it."

Bonds, still reclining in his chair, ice pack still on his neck, is asked about this. He adjusts the pack, shifts into a more comfortable position and thinks for a minute. "If you're the star, you're supposed to go out of your way for everybody else," he says. "But I could tell a guy things that I know, and the following year he might be on a team I was talking about, and now he's telling his guys what my tendencies are or what I might do. How smart would that be?" He grins. "Hey man, I've gotta keep my edge."

Were it up to Bonds, he would spend all his nonbaseball time at home in Los Altos Hills, Calif., roaming through his three-story house, goofing around with his wife, Liz, and his three kids, Nikolai, 10, Shikari, 9, and Aisha Lynn, 16 months. The cofounder of Digital Interiors, a San Jose-based company that installs state-of-the-art technology in homes, Bonds is something of a techno-geek. He loves fidgeting with the latest gadgets and doodads, and his house is wired with eight computers and 19 televisions. With the touch of a cellular phone, he can do everything from adjusting the temperature to closing the garage to firing up the Jacuzzi. "Really, I'm not that much of a geek," he says. "I'm a people person, believe it or not. I'll talk to anyone."

Anyone?

"Really, anyone. I mean it."

So what if, on The Barry Bonds Show, a listener calls up and, as sports talk fans are wont to do, shreds Barry Bonds as the biggest jerk since Steve Martin?

"I'm going to say, Hey buddy, that's your opinion," says Bonds, "and on some days, you're 100 percent right."

Bonds smiles. And giggles. Getting old isn't so bad after all.

Issue date: June 5, 2000