Look at him, Sammy. Look at those Hans-and-Franz muscles. Look at that slow-pitch-softball 240 pounds. Look at the record pace for home runs and magazine covers.
Now look more closely. Look at his embarrassing lapses in the outfield. Look at his mind wander to his next history-chasing, world-stopping at-bat. Look at some teammates subconsciously waiting for him to save them with a three-run homer–and some beginning to resent the media mobs feeding his 70-or-bust obsession. Look at a team losing its chemistry and compass. Look at the 29-homer sideshow overshadowing the Giants’ sub-.500 record.
Look, Sammy. You see Barry Bonds. I see you in 1999 and 2000.
You gaze with envy and long for your king-of-the-world days during the Great Home Run Chase. I gaze at the standings and hope you comprehend how much more valuable you’ve been than this literal Giant.
You say you’d have 29 homers–you seem embarrassed by your 16–if the Cubs would get you some lineup protection. I say, Why risk sending condescending messages to your teammates? Exactly how much have opponents pitched around you during this “Twelve Days of Christmas” winning streak? You’re 18-for-41, a .439 average.
Yet you hit only two home runs, in wins No. 10 and 12. What should that tell you?
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“That tells you,” says your manager, Don Baylor, “Sammy is playing all-out, all-around baseball.”
Winning baseball. One-for-all baseball. Little-things baseball like your idol, 175-pound, Ichiro-sized Roberto Clemente. Look in the mirror, Sammy. This is the old you, the sleek stallion. This is how you looked before you got caught up in competing with Paul Bunyan–Mark McGwire–in the weight room and at the supplements counter. In ’99 you looked like you belonged in a No. 21 Santa’s suit. Now you’re 32 going on “Saturday Night Fever.”
I applaud you. So does Baylor: “I’ve noticed his physique. He’s running as well as I’ve seen him in a long time. When he goes from first to home, you better get out of his way. It’s not all about RBIs, he wants to score. He’s playing great defense. He’s throwing well. We’re winning. The home runs will come.”
They will, Sammy, in the feel-good flow. Look hard: What’s the most overrated, overhyped statistic in baseball? Record-threatening homers by one man. McGwire’s Cardinals missed the playoffs during his 70-homer ’98. They made the playoffs without him last year and they’ve been better this season when he has been injured.
True, you exploded into America’s heart with your record 20 homers in June of ’98 and your 66 that year helped launch your team into a wild-card berth. But that team won with an unlikely formula of clutch slugging streaks by everyone from Brant Brown to Gary Gaetti and tightrope closing by Rod Beck and his 51 saves. This team wins conventionally with pitching, defense and just enough timely hitting. This team plays baseball.
True, chicks still dig the long ball. So do Leno and Letterman. But what could make you even bigger than ’98? Winning a World Series.
Listen to Bonds after hitting a crazy-hot No. 29: “This would be a lot sweeter if we were winning.”
You’ve hit 26 singles, Sammy–15 more than Bonds. In the category considered most telling by experts–On Base Plus Slugging, figured by runs scored plus RBIs minus homers–you lead Bonds 74-69. You’re merely tied for fifth in strikeouts instead of your usual commanding lead. You’re hitting .385 with men in scoring position.
All of which indicates you’re turning into more of a dangerous hitter than a home-run hitter. Finally “patient Sosa” and “disciplined Sosa” and “mature Sosa” don’t seem like such oxymorons. Your ballooning weight and team-killing lapses in right field and on the bases nearly got you traded to the Yankees last July. But you won back some respect–and a new contract–through the second half. “Humbled Sosa” also might apply.
Look inside yourself, Sammy. Don’t let your ego resurface. What happened with Mark Grace protecting you the last two seasons? You were a one-man show for baseball’s worst team.
What was your unsung contribution in Saturday night’s win? With two outs and the score tied 1-1, you laid off a 3-1 curve low and away. Last year you might have swung from the heels and missed. Your walk set up a game-turning three-run homer by Matt Stairs.
Bonds wouldn’t admit it, but he would have been envious.