Barry Bonds' Champagne Life Goes Flat

Notes on the making of an unworthy man.

The evening qualified as bizarre for many reasons. There we sat at the table of honor, with Barry Bonds; his dad, Bobby; their best family friend, Willie Mays; and Peter Magowan, who owned the San Francisco Giants. Dennis Gilbert, Bonds' agent, presided, and because of him we had been invited to this attempt to shine the rising star by having him do something charitable. The charity in question served elderly actors, something along the lines of a rest home for indigent thespians, and Bonds contributed very big money. It seemed an odd match, that charity and that player; wealthy actors tend to look out for their own less fortunate colleagues in any case, and Barry Bonds might have found a needier constituency, bereft of patrons.

The Beverly Wilshire Hotel hosted this soiree, and the elegant building of Baroque highlights and lavish gilt provided a wonderful stage for the many aristocrats of old Hollywood who came to celebrate this intersection of entertaiment and sports. We don't remember all the luminaries, but they included Ginger Rogers and Freddy Bartholomew, names that mean little to new generations, but the event was all A-list, if old A-list.

Petula Clark provided entertainment and crooned her signature song, Downtown, followed by Frankie Valle and the Four Seasons, and Sherry, Sherry Baby. We doused our throats from the bottomless glasses of champagne and marveled at our good fortune to be able to observe the memory-lane-meets-new-celebrity display. We were treated like members of the family, and even Barry Bonds grunted a greeting in our direction on arrival.

We had a uniquely good time, and we regret only that we failed to offer Petula Clark the benefit of our company as she drank alone and forlorn-looking in the bar afterward.

We're reminded of this early-'90s evening because of the current steroid scandal in which Barry Bonds plays such a prominent role. In response to questions concerning his own part in using the questionable substances, he at one point whined to the media that he'd been singled out because of his race since he was threatening a record of the white Babe Ruth.

This struck us as the very epitome of bad taste.

Here is a man of privilege, born to a sports star and surrounded as a child with sports stars, who got to become a sports star himself. We don't really care that he used steroids; it's certainly an issue worth debating, but we resist self-righteous judgments of this sort.

But despite these many advantages of birth, connection, natural talent and unnatural supplement, he conducted himself throughout his career as a spoiled lout. He demanded special treatment on his team, even demanded an easy chair denied his comrades. It was not enough that he was already special, he needed, he demanded, trivial reminders of his specialness, he demanded them at the expense of his teammates, he demanded a special treatment that artificially elevated him while diminishing others.

It would be contemptible if it weren't so transparently pathetic.

We could see it coming that long ago night in Beverly Hills.

Before departing, we stopped to talk with the many fans crowding the entrance; they had spent hours waiting in order to hustle autographs and snap pictures. We knew the type well; they congregated in droves whenever big events like this came down, since they could get evidence of so many different types of celebrities in just one outing. Famous actors, famous musicians, famous athletes, famous rich guys. Fan nirvana.

We inquired as to how the actors responded to requests for photos and signatures as they'd entered earlier.

They're great! Especially Ginger!

They were unanimous in their appreciation of the entertainers, whether actor or musician.

We then asked about the athletes, and received in return a Bronx cheer.

Real jerks, they said, especially Barry Bonds.

Too important to sign an autograph, too special even to stop for a split second and smile for a picture.

This, by the way, was toward the beginning of his career, at an event designed to make him look good.

We considered this intelligence as we saw Ginger Rogers depart through that same crowd, old, decrepit, smiling, pushed along in a wheelchair, wearing a sequin gown, and signing every autograph put in her way.

It was a perfectly graceful display, sadly highlighted by a perfectly disgraceful Barry Bonds.

So much for the guest of honor and his champagne.

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