Actually, I wouldn’t just love to run into Barry Bonds. I would love for Barry Bonds to need something from me. A ride. A pen. A hamburger.
I’d love for Barry Bonds—who now looks to be about the same size as most sports journalists—to ask me for something. I’m not a vengeful person. Really, I’m not. I rarely hold grudges. My memory is pretty short. But if Bonds were to ask me for a pen, I’d pretend I didn’t hear him. Literally, I wouldn’t respond. He’d raise his voice and ask again, and I’d swivel my chair in a different direction. I’d kick my feet up, turn on the television, behave as if he didn’t exist.
Or, maybe I’d just keep him waiting. I’d know he needed a ride; that he really, really, really, really had to be somewhere 10 minutes ago, and I’m the only dude with car. But I’d pretend I was unaware of his plight. I’d sit in my chair and clip my nails and flick some dried skin off my arm and pretend to read a magazine. I’d make him stand and stand and stand and stand until he’d whisper, “So … can I maybe have a ride?” Then I’d ignore him some more, just … because. I’d ignore and ignore and ignore, kick my feet up, turn some pages in the magazine, ignore, ignore.
Ultimately, I’d rise and retreat to the Pearlman-only bathroom area.
And Barry Bonds–artificial superpowers gone, pipe-cleaner arms—would know how it felt to be a member of the San Francisco media during his reign of jerkitude.
Ah, to dream …
