He’s Fully Invested in Bonds

Twelve days with Barry now and it’s fair to assume we’re not yet in the throes of Stockholm syndrome.

We are, however, quite stricken with the Syndrome of the Bambino, like the better-known Curse but with more balls falling untouched into shallow left field.

No, it is clear Barry identifies with few who aren’t related to him or on his payroll, and, as a group, baseball writers identify with no one who would like to see us perish in a structural fire. And, after two weeks, we’ve frankly forgotten who is the captor and who is the captured.

Still, history is history, even if it’s second-place history, so we tried to think of our time with Barry as the woolly mammoth blood on baseball’s cave wall.

He hits the home runs, we scratch rudimentary pictures, and somebody gets carried away by the pterodactyl. If you’re wondering who is the more likely prey, then you didn’t see Barry go first to second on Pedro Feliz’s double Thursday afternoon, and you underestimate the persistence of federal prosecutors.

Meanwhile, AT&T; Park has become the cocktail party on the Poseidon. As Barry takes on water, Giants fans go for more limes.

And, well, who could blame them?

Many believe the man is the reason there is baseball in San Francisco, and that, because of him, baseball is played in one of the most nearly perfect ballparks ever constructed. Even if Barry’s is suspect, their consciences are clear. So when a situation arose last week in which the Chicago Cubs could have intentionally walked Barry, the loudest cheer of the day was for Cubs catcher Michael Barrett, for squatting.

Through Milwaukee and Philadelphia and then here, through the Brewers, Phillies, Astros, Cubs and Dodgers, we have observed Barry’s naps and swings (both left-handed and mood-related).

We have noted that Manager Felipe Alou lists his roster in black on a marker board in his office, and that on that board he designates the left-handed hitters with a bright red asterisk.

We have witnessed a tiff between a television reporter and Barry’s personal cameraman, softened when Barry happened upon the ruckus and offered, “C’mon, man, stop the violence.”

We have seen opposing managers come to a sweat when Bonds hoists himself from the other dugout and trudges to the on-deck circle, despite his pedestrian five home runs and 12 RBIs in six weeks. The fact is, he is still Bonds from the elbows down, his hands still quick and his bat still capable, if not utterly Ruthian, unless we’re talking Ruth at 41.

“You never know when you lose it, either,” said Alou, who turned 71 on Friday, adding, “But I don’t think Barry has lost it.”

That is debatable in so many ways.

But Alou is being the good company man here. He smiles at the people who suddenly occupy his office, asking whether he thinks Barry is pressing or his timing is off or what. He grows expertly defiant when Barry’s triumphs are lacquered in doubt, allows Barry late-inning at-bats that defy previous intentions to save Barry’s legs, and reveals that Barry’s teammates are Barry lovers who once held a meeting during which they agreed to be supportive of Barry, he said, “no matter what.”

During this edgy carnival, Alou’s team is struggling to stay near .500, his pitching is inconsistent, and he has scooped up his son and No. 5 hitter from the warning track in Philadelphia.

You almost never see the manager in the clubhouse. But, then, for long periods it appears the clubhouse is off limits for all Giant personnel, players included.

The organization tries to celebrate this surpassing of Ruth, which then would transition into the March on Aaron, but Barry doesn’t like to talk much and, even then, it’s hard to hear him over the television that has been set up beside his locker.

Once, in Milwaukee, he said he’d never been to the Babe Ruth museum. A career National Leaguer, he has played only one series in Baltimore. The museum is a few steps from Camden Yards.

Asked whether he’d ever consider going, he said, “If I’m invited, sure.”

Told the museum allows walk-ins, he said, “I live in California.”

He may consider himself invited.

Museum director Mike Gibbons’ people called Barry’s people last week. In time for the start of a renovation project, the museum has asked for a slice of Barry’s 714th home run -- the bat, the jersey, the cleats, something -- Gibbons said.

Barry could bring it to Baltimore in late July, when the Giants play in nearby Washington. Then he would be a part of the museum, and the museum would generate more momentum in its fundraising campaign.

“I think it would be a great thing for the museum,” Gibbons said, “and a great thing for Barry.”

Barry is a bit lacking in great things for Barry these days, considering the reception he has had in road ballparks, home and road grand jury rooms and, presumably, someday, George Mitchell’s law offices. Also, as Barry advances on the all-time home-run record, it appears as though his single-season record has some serious competition in Albert Pujols.

The banners -- “Ruth did it on hot dogs and beer” comes to mind -- have been unkind, as have the newspapers, as have pitchers. It is difficult to find a baseball person who doesn’t believe a part of Bonds’ career is fraudulent. And when one looks at Barry in his black leather lounge chair, eyes gently closed, a ballgame hours away, you wonder if he regrets any of it.

Late one afternoon, he gathers himself from his chair, snakes through the Giant clubhouse and disappears through a side door. A few minutes later he returns. In his hand, smeared in mustard, a hot dog.

And you think, “Too late for that.”