Book about Bonds' drug use

if he hasnt done it by now, it wont happen.

 

.

 

After he catches a high heater in the ear hole.

 

He was an asshole before the 'roids and a bigger one with them. Fuck him.

 

Seems like two six was the only one who defended him.

 

What if he breaks Hank Aaron's record in Atlanta. He'll be killed.

 

Problem: Barry Bonds MAY break Hank Aaron's home run record.

Solution: All MLB team pitchers agree to give Bonds a different record - all time walk leader for one season.

 

well while he's never been caught or failed a drug test, he's actually a victim of MLB's acceptance of steorid use to bring fans back. now they are throwing him under the bus.

I'd much rather see stories about investigations into mlb execs and the commissioner ruining the game instead of picking on a handful of players.

 

Excerpted from Game of Shadows, by Mark Fainaru-Wada and Lance Williams, to be published this month by Gotham Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA, Inc.). © 2006 by Mark Fainaru-Wada and Lance Williams.

On May 22, 1998, the San Francisco Giants arrived in St. Louis for a three-game series with the Cardinals. That weekend, Giants All-Star leftfielder Barry Bonds got a firsthand look at the frenzied excitement surrounding Mark McGwire, baseball's emerging Home Run King.

Bonds had recently remarried, but on this trip he was accompanied by his girlfriend, Kimberly Bell, a slender, attractive woman with long brown hair and brown eyes whom he had met four years earlier in the players' parking lot at Candlestick Park. Bell had been looking forward to the trip, and it was pleasant in many ways -- a big hotel room with a view of St. Louis's famous arch; a wonderful seat eight rows behind home plate; and even tornado warnings, which were exotic to a California girl. But Bonds was sulky and brooding. A three-time National League MVP, he was one of the most prideful stars in baseball. All that weekend, though, he was overshadowed by McGwire.

Even by the standards of the modern game, the Cardinals' first baseman was a player of exceptional size and power. That summer the 6'5" McGwire weighed 250 muscular pounds and was hitting balls that traveled in long, soaring arcs. The season was less than two months old, but he already had hit 20 home runs and was ahead of both Babe Ruth's and Roger Maris's record-breaking paces. Players, fans and the media were already eagerly anticipating that McGwire would break baseball's most storied record, but Bonds's mood remained irretrievably foul.

On that trip Bonds began making racial remarks about McGwire to Kimberly Bell. According to Bell he would repeat them throughout the summer, as McGwire and Sammy Sosa, the buff, fan-friendly Chicago Cubs slugger who also was hitting home runs at an amazing rate, became the talk of the nation.

"They're just letting him do it because he's a white boy," Bonds said of McGwire and his chase of Maris's record. The pursuit by Sosa, a Latin player from the Dominican Republic, was entertaining but doomed, Bonds declared. As a matter of policy, "they'll never let him win," he said.

As he sometimes did when he was in a particularly bleak mood, Bonds was channeling racial attitudes picked up from his father, the former Giants star Bobby Bonds, and his godfather, the great Willie Mays, both African-American ballplayers who had experienced virulent racism while starting their professional careers in the Jim Crow South. Barry Bonds himself had never seen anything remotely like that: He had grown up in an affluent white suburb of San Francisco, and his best boyhood friend, his first wife and his present girlfriend all were white. When Bonds railed about McGwire, he didn't articulate who "they" were, or how the supposed conspiracy to rig the home run record was being carried out. But his brooding anger was real enough, and it continued throughout a year in which he batted .303, hit 37 home runs, made the All-Star team for the eighth time and was otherwise almost completely ignored. The home run chase, meanwhile, transfixed even casual fans, in the way that a great pennant race used to do in the old days.

McGwire hit number 62 on Sept. 8 in St. Louis, amidst a wild celebration and before a national TV audience, and then continued hitting bombs: five of them in his final 11 at bats, including two on the last day of the season, to finish with 70, four ahead of Sosa.

On the West Coast, Barry Bonds was astounded and aggrieved by the outpouring of hero worship for McGwire, a hitter whom he regarded as obviously inferior to himself. Bonds was 34 years old, had played in the big leagues for 12 years and was known for an unusual combination of speed and power. Before the 1993 season he had signed what was then the richest contract in the game: $43.75 million for six years, and he knew he was on his way to the Hall of Fame. For as long as he had played baseball, Bonds had regarded himself as better than every other player he encountered, and almost always he was right.

But as the 1998 season ended, Bonds's elite status had slipped a notch. The game and its fans were less interested in the complete player who could hit for average and power and who had great speed and an excellent glove. The emphasis was shifting to pure slugging. As McGwire was celebrated as the best slugger of the modern era and perhaps the greatest who had ever lived, Bonds became more jealous than people who knew him well had ever seen.

To Bonds it was a joke. He had been around enough gyms to recognize that McGwire was a juicer. Bonds himself had never used a performance enhancer more potent than a protein shake from the health-food store. But as the 1998 season unfolded and, as he watched Mark McGwire take over the game -- his game -- Barry Bonds decided that he, too, would begin using what he called "the s---."

He began working out with a real gym rat, a trainer who spent 12 hours a day pumping iron in a gym on the San Francisco peninsula. Bonds's new workout partner called himself the Weight Guru, and he had a sophisticated approach to training. He prescribed specific, intense workouts for individual muscle groups, and he tailored the program for baseball to maximize hitting power while maintaining agility. He could talk about nutrition and blood tests and body-fat percentages with such authority that you might mistake him for a doctor.

Not incidentally, the Weight Guru was a longtime steroid user and dealer. He had expertise with drugs ranging from old reliables like Deca-Durabolin and Winstrol to more exotic substances like human growth hormone. The drugs could quicken recovery after workouts, build stamina, add muscle. They could eliminate that slump in August, when the minor injuries and fatigue of the long season would otherwise wear a ballplayer down. Beyond that, for a player with the natural ability of Bonds, the sky was the limit as far as what the drugs might do. The Weight Guru told Bonds all of this, and Bonds decided to go for it. The Weight Guru's name was Greg Anderson.

Anderson was an unlikely agent for the transformation of Barry Bonds into the greatest hitter who ever lived: A muscular, spike-haired man, Anderson was at once unknown, unlucky and financially strapped. In 1998 he was working as a personal trainer at the World Gym in Burlingame, a place where the gym rats sold steroids out of the trunks of their cars. Anderson wore a long-sleeved sweatshirt that covered his heavily tattooed arms and concealed just how much muscle he had packed onto his 5'10", 225-pound frame.

Like Bonds, Anderson grew up on the San Francisco peninsula, in San Carlos. As a shortstop at Fort Hays State University, in Kansas, Anderson had begun using steroids to boost his weight training. Over time he had become extraordinarily knowledgeable about performance-enhancing drugs, as a secret recording made years later would prove. An old friend from San Mateo hooked Anderson up with Bonds. Anderson offered to put together a baseball-oriented strength program for him. He would tend to Bonds's weight training and nutritional needs. Bonds agreed, and before the 1999 season began, Anderson was hired to supervise Bonds's strength conditioning.

Anderson felt he had stumbled into an awesome job. Just when his connection to baseball had withered down to doing group workouts with high school kids, he suddenly found himself near the center of the game at its highest level. Every year Anderson got a trip to spring training. When the Giants moved into their new ballpark in 2000, Bonds gave him the run of the clubhouse. He met many Giants players and eventually would supply some of them with steroids.

But the most amazing part of it was his association with Bonds and his opportunity to play an important role in molding him into the greatest player who ever lived. Bonds was dedicated to the program. He was eager to push the workouts, demanding more weight, more repetitions, more sets, and he also showed interest in the nutritional aspects of the training. Anderson kept track of the workouts. It was a gratifying job, but there were downsides. People believed that anyone doing important work for a multimillionaire ballplayer was well paid, but that wasn't the case. Bonds had his people give Anderson $10,000 in cash from time to time, but the payments were erratic, and he didn't earn nearly enough to give up his other clients, let alone buy a condominium in the overheated Bay Area housing market.

 

Anderson didn't like to talk about another downside. Anyone who worked for Bonds had to take a great deal of abuse. If Bonds told you to do something, you had to drop everything and do it. If you were slow to comply or if you tried to explain why it wasn't such a good idea, Bonds would get right up in your face, snarling, calling you a "punk bitch," repeating what he wanted and saying, "Did I f------ stutter?" You had to suck it up and take the abuse and the humiliation -- everyone did.

Of course Anderson's primary job, and the real reason he was hired, was to provide Bonds with performance-enhancing drugs and to track his regimen. Anderson obtained the drugs and administered them. In file folders, and on his computer, he kept calendars of Bonds's use of the substances, recording the drugs, dosages and cycles.

But Anderson didn't think of himself as Bonds's drug dealer. When Bonds paid him, he liked to think it was for weight training. As far as supplying drugs, Anderson thought of his role as "middleman." In San Francisco he knew AIDS patients who had prescriptions for testosterone and human growth hormone and were willing to sell their drugs for cash. Anderson bought and resold them virtually at cost to clients who wanted them for their anabolic effects. Likewise, Anderson knew many sources of conventional bodybuilders' steroids like Deca-Durabolin and Winstrol. He resold those at almost no markup as well. Bonds was keenly interested in performance-enhancing drugs. He asked their pharmaceutical names and then sought, through third parties, medical advice about the drugs. The medical advice was negative. You shouldn't take the drugs, he was told, but Anderson said those concerns were overblown, and Bonds ignored the advice he had sought.

Certainly the program Anderson devised worked. In the years after he linked up with Anderson, Bonds completely remade his body, and the results of Anderson's drug regime are now reflected in the record books. At an age when his father's baseball skills had begun to erode badly, Bonds's drug use would make him a better hitter than he had been at any time in his career -- and, perhaps, the best hitter of all time.

Greg Anderson started Barry Bonds on Winstrol after the 1998 season. It was also known as Stanozolol, the old favorite of body builders, infamous as the drug that brought down Ben Johnson. Anderson provided the steroids and syringes and injected Bonds's backside, although Bonds eventually learned how to inject himself. Anderson began keeping calendars to track Bonds's drug cycle: If a user didn't come off steroids periodically, his body would lose the ability to produce testosterone naturally. Anderson held the unused drugs. There was to be no stash at Bonds's house or in his locker.

Aside from such side effects as acne, baldness, shrinking of the testes, mood swings, surges of anger, reduction of libido and the risk of liver damage and prostate cancer, Winstrol's drawback was that it took months to clear the user's system. No athlete subject to drug testing dared use Winstrol because the likelihood of getting caught was so great. But of course that wasn't an issue for Bonds as the 1999 season approached; baseball was still years away from confronting its steroid problem.

Bonds worked harder in the gym during the 1998 off-season than he had in years. Wearing black gloves, pants and a sleeveless T, he showed up at World Gym day after day, Anderson at his side. The trainer talked quietly to his famous client or just sat and stared as Bonds went through the monotonous routine of pumping iron. Marvelously the Winstrol eliminated the pain and fatigue of training. And the results were equally marvelous to behold.

For the first time in his life, Bonds was buff. He often stood in front of a mirror, laughing, saying, "How do I look?" By spring training, his weight had increased from around 210 to 225, and almost all of the gain was rock-hard muscle. When he showed up a day late at the Giants' spring training camp in Scottsdale, Ariz., in 1999, angry at the club for refusing to renegotiate his contract, the change in Bonds's physique was startling. Around the Giants, they took to referring to Bonds as "the Incredible Hulk." When Bonds took batting practice, he was driving the ball farther than he ever had before. To teammates, writers and fans in Scottsdale that spring, and especially to Giants management, Bonds's appearance and performance raised a fundamental question: What in hell had he been doing in the off-season?

Sportswriters didn't press the question. Most attributed the changes in Bonds's body to a heavy workout regimen, as though a 34-year-old man could gain 15 pounds of muscle in 100 days without drugs. The Giants, from owner Peter Magowan to manager Dusty Baker, had no interest in learning whether Bonds was using steroids, either. Although it was illegal to use the drugs without a prescription, baseball had never banned steroids. Besides, by pursuing the issue, the Giants ran the risk of poisoning their relationship with their touchy superstar -- or, worse, of precipitating a drug scandal the year before the opening of their new ballpark, where Bonds was supposed to be the main gate attraction.

Bonds and Anderson could see the difference the steroids made as soon as the season got under way. In 12 games Bonds, who had often started slowly, batted .366 with four home runs, six doubles and 12 RBIs. But then, because of his drug use, he blew out his left elbow and nearly ruined his career.

An MRI indicated a bone chip. But there was worse news when the elbow was examined by Bonds's personal physician, Arthur Ting, an orthopedic surgeon who treated many sports stars. Ting diagnosed a torn triceps tendon, requiring immediate surgery. Anderson and Bonds figured out that the steroids had allowed Bonds to put on muscle too quickly.

Later, while visiting Bell's apartment in Mountain View, Bonds told her that most ballplayers were now using steroids, and he had begun using the drugs so he could recover more quickly from minor injuries. But steroids also were to blame for the elbow injury because they had made his arm muscles so large that the elbow tendon could not support them. "It makes me grow faster, but if you're not careful, you can blow it out," he told her. Bonds said he would be more cautious in the future. He also implied he was only using oral steroids, saying he wasn't "like those bodybuilders who are injecting themselves."

Fans were told that Bonds's injury was the result of wear and tear from a lifetime of baseball. He spent seven weeks on the disabled list. He returned in June, but soon he pulled a groin muscle and was sidelined again. In 1999 Bonds played in only 102 games, hitting 34 home runs -- one for every 10.4 at bats, the highest frequency of his career. But it was nothing compared to what McGwire was doing in St. Louis, hitting 65 home runs with 147 RBIs, leading the league in both categories.

Bonds's frustrations boiled over when the Cardinals came to town. Just as in 1998, everyone wanted to see McGwire take batting practice. Some clubs had begun roping off the area around the batting cage to control the crowd that gathered to watch McGwire hit. The Giants set up ropes when the Cardinals arrived at Candlestick for three games in July.

Bonds had never seen the ropes on the field before. "What the f--- is this?" he demanded of the security guards. They told him the ropes were for McGwire. Furious, Bonds began knocking the ropes down. "Not in my house!" he said.

With the help of Winstrol, Bonds was so muscular that he could hit the ball as far as McGwire. But even after the elbow healed, Bonds wasn't right in 1999. He felt muscle-bound and inflexible and had trouble turning on inside pitches. He also complained of back and knee problems and about his eyesight, saying he couldn't pick up the rotation on the ball. Bonds' vision always had been astonishing -- perhaps the complaints about his eyes were psychosomatic, a reflection of the worry he felt about his elbow injury, the pressure he felt to perform at the highest level. But Bonds's complaints about knee and back pain and feeling too tight led Anderson to rethink his star client's workout regimen and to seek out other drugs for him.