Like Lou Gherig, I have been diagnosed with a terminal illness so rare that it has been named after me. What you see here in front of me is a pile of doctor's notes, mostly from my trainer Greg Anderson, who diagnosed me with "Barry Bonds' Disease" back in 1998. The symptoms include drowsiness (for which I was prescribed a powerful anti-narcolepsy stimulant), muscles that get progressively weaker with age (for which I was prescribed a cattle bulking agent), anger management issues (for which I was prescribed a mistress) and, finally, a massively swollen head, something that we have yet to get under control.
And yes, Barry Bonds' Disease is a terminal illness. That's right-I'm going to die. Greg has given me 40 years to live, meaning I might never get the chance to watch my grandchildren grow up, get married, give me great-grandchildren and then die. I never imagined the nightmare scenario of having my grandchildren outlive me, but that's the sort of unthinkable future that I'm facing with Barry Bonds' Disease.
I blame you, the media. Somehow.
Because you didn't want to see a black man break Hank Aaron's record, you have made my family's life a living hell. Yesterday, my son and I were playing Scrabble and he challenged the word "Barry" because he said it was a proper noun. Because of you, my son can't stand to see a black man win, either. And now he's got all of Barry Bonds' Scrabble words written backwards across his face from where you made me slam his head down into the Scrabble board.
By now, I'm used to the media's dirty tricks. You guys have torn powerful black men down since the beginning of time. You didn't like Malcolm X when he was alive, did you? The critics weren't so kind to Mr. T during the A-Team days. When Jesus walked the Earth, the newspapers couldn't believe that he was turning water into wine without the help of steroids. Well now, Jesus and Malcolm X are dead and it's time to crucify Barry Bonds.
Oh, now look at that. Everyone get your cameras over here. I hope you're happy, you've made my son cry. In front of millions and millions of people, my son is crying like a weak coward.
To answer your question, he is not crying because I knocked his mother unconscious to emphasize my point about Malcolm X. He is crying because you refuse to tell his father's story. You continue to focus on the negatives instead of the fact that I am trying to rescue you from Hank Aaron's Stalin-like rein over the career home run record, Barry Bonds' Disease and all. I guess he'll just have to read the truth about his father in the record books, or alternatively when they finally get around to writing the rest of the Bible. Then who'll have the last laugh?