Loving Barry

A few seasons ago, in a languorous weekend day game, Barry was out in left field when a flock of birds landed on the field in front of him. During one of those lulls where nothing happens, Barry, out of nowhere, suddenly lurched forward and stretched out his arms as if he was taking flight in an attempt to chase the birds off. It was unexpected, out-of-nowhere, and totally and completely goofy. We remember seeing that and thinking that he couldn't be all bad. It is things like that, those small little moments that only we have seen, that have endeared us to him.

We see how he plays every day and in how much pain he often is (watch him now-- it's almost heroic). We've seen him greet his son with a kiss after hitting a home run and watched his adorable daughter holding up "Pitch to My Daddy" signs. We've watched him play through the pain of his father's death and give honor to him by playing with dignity and with his heart on his sleeve (we would like to point out here that when Brett Favre did something similar, the sporting press pretty much nominated Favre for Sainthood). And while the rest of the world complains that he's a bit of a jerk and shows no joy in playing, we've seen him smile and we've seen him leap into the stands to lead cheers after clinching in '97, and we've seen him jump for joy when they went to the series in '02. We may not "know" him in the way you can really know any athlete, but we "know" him better than 99% of the reporters out there who all live in New York and nurse grudges because Barry wouldn't let them interview him.

Then there's the obvious baseball stuff, the thrills he's given us. If you were to run a highlight reel of Giants highlights over the past fifteen years, he'd be involved in all of it. Even before he supposedly started in with the BALCO boys. There was his two three-run home runs against LA in the first game of that pentultimate weekend series in '93 (a friend said he almost got in an accident during that game because he was in a cab and the cab driver spent so much time honking his horn in celebration he stopped paying attention to the road). And then there was his home-run against LA in '97 when he did his little dip-see-do move.

From there on, we've had front row seats to history and the best show in sports. When Barry was at bat, the whole stadium held their breaths and watched with such intensity it felt like the entire world was watching in. We saw home run after home run-- some completely unmemorable, some dramatic and game changing. We've watched other teams, their managers and their pitchers, throw away every rule of baseball when he was playing and watched how the mere presence of Bonds in the lineup would somehow inexplicably psych the other team out so much they'd lose the game. Once, while back East, we caught a few inter-league games at Camden Yards. All weekend, the manager walked Barry and all weekend, the fans booed and the press hounded the manager for doing so. Finally, in the last game of the series, the Manager basically said screw it, gave into the pressure, pitched to Barry, and then watched Barry completely destroy the Orioles. Baseball isn't the kind of sport where on person, one batter, can change the game, and dominate it to their will. Football and basketball it's possible, not baseball. Yet Barry did it, day after day, game after game. And we watched it all and loved every moment of it.

Last Christmas, our boss gave us a picture of Barry at bat during a night game at Whatever the Hell It's Named Now Stadium. This was before "Game of Shadows" came out. We thought about taking the picture down, registering our little disgust about the whole thing. But we didn't. It's still up there. It's just an awesome picture of an awesome scene. And no matter what has happened and will happen, that's what it's been rooting for the Giants with Barry on the team-- an awesome scene.