Barry Bonds' 756th HR: My View From Center-Left

Originally broadcast on SFist.com, this is what I saw on August 7, 2007.

Well, that was fun.

Last night out in the center-left bleachers, each time Barry Bonds came to bat, the crowd rose giddily to their feet. The stands brimmed with grins and shouts of encouragement and nervous energy. Mitts were pulled on and pounded in anticipation. With each pitch thrown to him, photoflashes flared all about the stadium like Chinese New Year firecrackers.

In his first two at-bats Bonds hit a double and a single. The crowd applauded appreciatively after each. It was far better than seeing the oh-fer-three Barry of the night before. The lead flipped back-and-forth between the Giants and the Washington Nationals as the two pitchers had their offerings slopped all around (and out of) the park.

Then: Bottom of the fifth, one out, no one on, everyone on their feet, all eyes on one man.

Three separate sounds essayed from the crowd when it happened.

At the crack of the bat, there was a beat of silence. A collective breath drawn in. Could it be?

As the ball reached the top of its arc, that intake of air exhaled into an involuntary ohh! The sudden sound of thousands of eyes yanked wide in disbelief.

Its apex reached, the ball tore back down towards the stands in the deepest part of the park. Center-right. The last thing we saw in center-left was the dull white shape jounce off a scrum of humanity that swelled like a sponge to greet its descent. In an instant, the crowd's OHH! became a YaaAAA!

Disbelief tore through to realization. And then we were all jumping and shouting and jumping.

A great burst of laughter! High-fives flew as thick as anti-aircraft flak. It was a great loosing of energy, comparable only to a quake. Shouting and cursing and laughing from all quarters. Shock. People did not know what to do with themselves. It had happened. It happened right now, right in front of us. Strangers hugged one another rib-tight, leaping up-and-down in unison, shouting and cackling in celebration. He'd done it. He'd done it tonight, right now. The heft of this stupid record made people hug each other.

Bouncing, bounding, laughing, we were looking to see our own disbelief reflecting in another witness's glee. Looking to share it with everyone around us. There was a gout of light as fireworks scoured the gray sky above us. No sense of sound. We never even saw him cross home plate. We were busy celebrating what he had done.

But why celebrate? Why celebrate this petulant stand-offish jerk with the strained little-boy's voice? Did he cheat? Prob'ly. He hasn't been caught, but overwhelmingly it doesn't look good.

So, why did we cheer for Barry?

It may be as simple as this: In that moment when we were there with him, wanting nothing more than to see him to hit it out, he hit it out.

Might be as simple as that, at least for last night.

Last night; that was fun.