Wine, Women & Song

On holiday for a couple weeks. Coronado. Mission Beach. Reelin' in Pacific bass with the boy. White wine and steamers with the little woman at sunset, near Cardiff.

Speaking of little women, will be at Dodger Stadium Aug 3 or 4 (I forget). Not a favorite day trip from San Diego, but the missus insisted on seeing Gonzo for way too much money. I relented, as nothing floats my boat quite like sustaining a fantastically vague connection with Alyssa Milano.

Since the home run record may fall in my absence, a word on Bonds. Many people feel he's a pretty sad excuse. Selig's a sad case. And it's sad about Henry Aaron.  The saddest thing, though, is the extent to which millions of baseball fans petulantly refuse to acknowledge what a truly magnificent player Barry is, apart from the separate issue of the home run title. Reminds me of a generation ago, when similar consternation about an "inferior" player breaking the very same record was commonplace. More common than some care to remember. His name was Hank Aaron.

I'd also like to thank Barry Bonds because my father and I often argued about the relative merits of each generation's stars. When I'd bring up people like Aaron and George Brett in response to his Ted Williams speech years ago, he'd just kinda laugh. Not in a mean way.

"You dont understand", he'd say. "Williams had incredible eyesight, reached base half the time over his career, and almost hit .400 when he was 38 and could barely run. Aaron's a great player, but no one today hits remotely like Ted Williams. I'm tellin' ya, you had to see it to believe it."

Well, now I have, thanks to Barry. Thanks for making a mockery of the game like Williams and Babe Ruth did - by being better than all your contemporaries. Forget Hank Aaron. Watching Bonds, one hears the echoes of Williams, and of Ruth before that - the music of the greatest players ever, not heard in half a century.