Confession

I'm a baseball fan, and have been since I was six years old. During the winter, I count down the days until pitchers and catchers report in February. On Opening Day, which should be a national holiday, I feel all is right with the world.
When the season ends, I start looking forward to the next one.

But, this year was different.

I couldn't wait for the end of this season.

It's not because I lost my passion for the game. It's quite the opposite. I just can't stand the abomination that is likely going to occur in San Francisco sometime next year. Barry Bonds is going to pass Babe Ruth and maybe even Hank Aaron in home runs. That makes me want to puke.

714 stood as the goal that eluded the greatest hitters of the 40's, 50's and 60's. Studs like Mays, Mantle, Killebrew, Gehrig, Williams, DiMaggio, Robinson and Musial couldn't do it. Only Hank Aaron could eclipse the Great Bambino's record. He did it while ignoring death threats and despite that, at his biggest, he was 6 feet tall and weighed a buck eighty. Those two men, my friends, are baseball heroes. They are amongst the immortals of the game. Their accomplishments should not be sullied by that freak in San Fran. It sickens me that that Rat Conte and his disciples have cheapened the game I so love and the records I revere.

Just for the record, no matter what happens, Hank's gonna remain #1, the Bambino will be #2, and Maris is the single season homerun king with 61. Bonds, McGwire and Sosa never happened.