Hall of Famer

           

       Barry Bonds
believes he belongs in Cooperstown. “Not a doubt in my mind,” he says.

       Certainly
Bonds was an incredible athlete and his 762 career homeruns were an unparalleled
feat which toppled baseball legend Hank Aaron’s 755 homerun record set decades
earlier.

       But

       And it’s a
big but.

       Bonds
cheated.

       And that’s
not okay.

       Bonds is up
for Hall of Fame consideration this year. He wants in. Of course he does.

       But those
voting should say no -simply, no. It’s time we send a right message to all the
little kids who may want to follow in those considerable footsteps of his.

       That there
are consequences to actions, that even those whose egos are as big as their
paychecks can be held accountable. That there is a cost to cheating.

       For Bonds’s
talents—steroid-fueled or not—he was amply rewarded. One of the highest paid
baseball players of all time, over the course of his career, Bonds earned more
than $175 million –for playing a game. Until the tide turned against him, he
was also idolized by millions; he was baseball royalty with all its perks,
privileges and prestige.

       Now, he wants
more.

       He wants his
obstruction of justice conviction during the BALCO steroid scandal overturned
to clear his way for a place in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

       There is a
school of thought that believes Bonds (and others like him) should perhaps be
allowed into Cooperstown, but with an asterisk attached to his name.

       That’s
ridiculous.

       If baseball
truly is the American pastime, then there let’s attach some old-fashioned American
pride and principles to the sport. Let’s acknowledge all the truly great
players who came long before Bonds and give them a nod of respect -by not
allowing Bonds in their company.

       Perhaps this
rant is fueled by the fact that late Johnny Pesky, Mr. Baseball himself,
doesn’t have a spot in Cooperstown.

       Pesky wasn’t
just a stellar baseball player; from all accounts he was an all-round good guy.

       Born on the
day Babe Ruth played his last game as a Red Sox, Pesky dedicated his entire
life to the sport he loved. And asked little in return.

       And oh yeah,
he could play the game.

       In his first
three seasons, Pesky led the league in hits and he held a lifetime batting
average of .307 (Hank Aaron’s was .305). When he finished his 1942 season,
Pesky’s batting average was number two in the league –behind teammate Ted
Williams.

       So he was no
slouch.

       Problem was
that he missed the next three seasons to serve in the Navy during World War II
–can’t rack up hits and defensive plays when you’re defending your country. He
was also sidelined by an injury later in his career.

       I understand that
Hall of Fame consideration starts with stats. Maybe Pesky’s didn’t quite
measure up. On the other hand, please tell me that it’s not just about numbers.

       Please tell
me that we give some credit for all those other attributes we attach to the
best of our athletes: dedication, passion, perseverance. Maybe even good sportsmanship?

       Sure, I’m
biased. Red Sox Nation knows a true baseball hero when it sees one. John
Michael Pesky was a hero.

       Bonds or
Pesky? Puh-leeze.


Toddler Triathletes

Truly successful athletes have a winning combination of ability, drive and opportunity. That particular
trifecta is what propels the best of them to the big time—be that college-level play, the Olympics or the dance floor of pro athletics. The possession of all three of those oft illusive components are what separates Michael Phelps from the kids at the other end of the pool.

          I get that.

          I also admire it.

          And will likely be watching as top athletes from 204 countries step to center stage at the 2012 Olympics. I’ll marvel at their ability, revel in their accomplishments, get caught up in the pomp and circumstance. I’ll still get choked up when they raise our flag to the rafters, understanding not only the pride in a final full-win, but also all that must have come long before it. The work, the sweat, the dedication.

          Whatever the games’ outcomes, the ripple effects across the pond will surely yield an uptick of participation among young, would-be athletes. For the love of a sport, in the thrill of competitive play, kids will take to fields, gyms and arenas. There’ll be new swimmers and gymnasts; new interest in soccer, volleyball and fencing.

          All good. All fun.

          But as millions of baby runners and divers and fencers and kickers and players jump into pools, and onto fields and into arenas, it’s important to note that the vast majority of them won’t make much of a splash. Eureka results from the gold rush of competitive athletics are discovered for precious few. Tenacity can’t replace talent and even the most gifted of athletes often fall short of their own goals.

          That’s not to say the bar shouldn’t be high and that those with a passion shouldn’t pursue it. They should. And I’m certain that most every Olympic athlete competing in London will avow that their sacrifice was worth it.

          Passion and sacrifice are a good combo toward success, but not when the passion belongs to the parent instead of the kid and when the sacrifice is a childhood. 

          Modeling itself upon the adult version of the event, there’s a new kid sport in town: triathlons. Its proponents tout it as a low-key version of the anything-but real-deal events. They say it’s good
exercise, that it’s a swim-bike-run for fun.

          But by its very definition, a triathlon isn’t for the uninvested. It’s intense. As it’s supposed to be. But do our kids really have to be? Already?

          When I read of a six-year-old training at a local Y, I couldn’t help but think: kids shouldn’t be training; they should be playing.

          And when a trainer said, “just to finish a triathlon, for a 6-year-old, is a big deal,” I thought duh.

          So is skimming a stone, or mastering the splash of a cannonball or spinning around in circles without toppling over.

          Or laying in a summer’s grassy field and imagining dragons in the clouds.