Barry Bonds: The Great Uniter
by Rick Paulas

No one divides the sports fan community like Barry Bonds. One half despises him for tainting the game by injecting vast amounts of steroids into every one of his muscles not named "groin." The other half hates him because of his extreme arrogance in press conferences and autograph sessions. And while some of this arrogance was eased with a brief appearance as an incredibly unattractive, though heavily-bosomed, Paula Abdul the arrogance haters mostly joined the first category after the excerpts of Game of Shadows were published.

Only a small minority even tolerates the slugger anymore. And that's comprised of (a) Giants fans, (b) folks with Bonds on their fantasy roster or (c) people going out of their way to be "punk." (In a recent Rolling Stone interview, South Park creator Matt Stone says that the only way to be punk anymore is going to a party and saying President Bush rules. Rooting for Bonds outside of Telephone Park might be a close second.)

Meanwhile, everyone else is taking their Bonds voodoo Bobble-Head dolls out of mothballs, sharpening their needles, and hoping he'll get hurt before passing Hank Aaron's home run mark. But these people are missing the greater picture: Bonds passing Aaron is good for baseball.

Before you turn off your monitor or minimize this article in favor of the latest "Paris Hilton did what?!?" sighting at Defamer.com, allow me to half-bore you with a story from my high school days:

Back then, I had an enemy. We'll call him "Mike Carlson" because that's his real name. He and I had a long-standing feud. Whenever we passed in the halls, we'd stare each other down like dual Clint Eastwoods. Except without the rugged manliness. As such, that was as intense as the confrontations got.

One day, our chemistry teacher put us in a group together. At some point, I made a remark about another classmate that got on my nerves. Carlson reciprocated by airing his own grievance. Soon we were using class time to plot our drive-by egging revenge together. We were like Zack and Slater, putting aside past differences to deport an exchange student who caught the eye of a young Kelly Kapowski. And when the yolk cleared from that night of Godfather-like vengeance, a friendship had been born. Its amorous parents? Mutual hate.

Now take that quantity — Baseball Prospectus doesn't have a statistic for Friendships Born Of Mutual Hate yet, so for arguments sake, the number will be 1 — and multiply it by 30,000. That's a FBOMH reading of 30,000! Or, in layman's terms, a substantial amount of camaraderie present in the stands whenever Barry takes the field. Like it or not, 30,000 boos sound a hell of a lot louder than 30,000 cheers. And they have much more of an effect. (They have such an effect that sports announcers are contractually obligated to make a distinction between boos and "Moose" or "Luke" chants every time they occur, so as not to cause the players years of therapy.)

But it's not the FBOMH Player-Effect we're talking about here. Part of Bonds' evil is not being distracted by fans; it's the effect it has on the fans themselves. Here's a simple test. Right now, in the comfort of your own home, office, home-office, or bathroom stall (if you're lucky enough to have wireless Internet and suave enough to sneak in a laptop), I want you to emit a small boo. Feel that? Right in the bottom of your throat? The calming bass of vibrating vocal cords? Now stop that. You're making a fool of yourself. Try a cheer instead. Just a slight one. Not as pleasant, was it? Kind of strenuous.

It might take a million more muscles to make a frown than a smile, but it takes a lot more effort to cheer than boo. Why do you think monks, long-regarded as the most lazy people in the world, chant in low voices instead of high ones? You never heard of anyone losing their voice from booing, have you? Baseball, more than any other sport, needs booing. Not only will it calm down your internal hippy-examined rhythms, but could also lead to a friendship or two. What better way to end a day at the ballpark than sharing a beer or two with some new friends?

And as Bonds gets closer to passing Aaron, the boos will only get louder. The FBOMH will increase, and you'll have more friends and greater tranquility. So then, one day, when someone greater and more worthy snatches the home run crown from Bonds' cold hand (Albert Pujols anyone?), your and your new friends' vocal cords will be nice and rested to give him the hearty cheers he rightly deserves.

E-mail Rick Paulas at rickpaulas at hotmail dot com.