Barry Bonds was the idol of millions of Bay Area kids, including myself. I wanted to be him. I watched every game I could that he participated in. I was at the game that he returned from his devastating knee injury. He was San Francisco. From early on he was destined to be a Giant. His father, Bobby, was a great outfielder for the Giants for a few seasons. His godfather is the greatest player to ever wear a Giants uniform, Willie Mays. He grew up in the Giant’s locker room and went to high school in the Bay Area. When he reached the big leagues as a Pittsburg Pirate, he wore the number twenty-four to honor his godfather. In 1993 he signed a contract to play for the Giants. That ensuing season, he won the Most Valuable Player Award. He dominated baseball for the next fourteen seasons, including a season in which he hit seventy-three homeruns, a record that still stands today. That was height of Barry Bonds’ success. But towards the latter end of his career, allegations of steroid use plagued the Giants’ star. He received an ovation of ‘boos’ at every ballpark he played in. Every ballpark except for his home field in San Francisco that is. Every time he took the plate in the bricked stadium that was called Pacific Bell Park at the time, he received an applause for a king, because he was the king. The Giants fans adored him because he was the man who seemed capable of finally bringing a World Series Championship to San Francisco. The fans gave him the shadow of the doubt. And in return, he gave them not only failure and disappointment, but a reputation that the Giants fan didn’t deserve. Other fan bases see it as not only did the team cheap, but the fans idolized the cheater. But they’ll never understand because it’s a situation that very few fan bases, if any at all, have been through.

Image borrowed from granitegrok.com