Forget the chase of Hammerin’ Hank and the Babe. Barry Bonds possesses the skills to be much more than the man who would be home run king. On the list of all-time TV dads, he is now in hot pursuit of Homer Simpson and Archie Bunker.
A half-million American households cannot be wrong.
“Bonds on Bonds,” the weekly ESPN television series that takes a touchy-feely look at Barry’s surreal life, is a smash hit.
And, as the San Francisco Giants know all too well, smash hits have been few and far between for Bonds this season.
In the most recent episode of “Bonds on Bonds,” always more fun than a vat full of worms on “Fear Factor,” the deflated slugger addressed those wicked people causing all this constant drama for a regular dude who just wants to lead the simple life.
“They ain’t gonna break me. There’s no way. They can try, but it’s not going to happen,” Bonds said.
In the world according to Barry, his body is falling apart, the feds are constantly poking around in his business, and nobody understands him.
Sounds a little bit like Tony Soprano, if you think about it. And he has been must-see TV for years.
Or, as broadcaster Jon Miller told us during a recent Giants game, “No matter how you see Barry Bonds, the point is that you are looking at him.”
Don’t know about you, but at my house we keep the tuna casserole in the oven and don’t sit down to dinner until after the last melodramatic tear from “Bonds on Bonds” has dried.
Pass me a hankie. Who said there was no crying in baseball?
“Bonds on Bonds” just might be the best way for a family to gather around the boob tube and spend quality time since “The Osbournes” debuted.
When my 11-year-old son asks if Bonds took steroids, I give the same response as when my daughter inquired if Ozzy was drug-addled: “Of course not, just look at him.”
In the luck of the father lottery, Bonds obviously falls closer to Al Bundy than Cliff Huxtable. But our society has developed a soft spot for TV dads who are lovable cads.
The success is no surprise. We knew Bonds was an ardent student of the idiot box when long ago he called ongoing questions about steroids “old stuff. I mean, it’s like watching ‘Sanford and Son,’ you know, rerun after rerun after rerun.”
Bonds is merely hoping to bring some top-notch programming to those sports channels he professes to find too distasteful to watch. Which makes you wonder: Now that “Bonds on Bonds” has hit the airwaves, does the star tune in?
“Bonds on Bonds” seems too dull a title for this engrossing show. I might have suggested “Spin City,” except Michael J. Fox called dibs on it first.
Caterwaulers wail that ESPN, which controls more of the sports world than George Steinbrenner, Tiger Woods and David Stern combined, has climbed in bed with Bonds. If I’m Dan Patrick, the relationship makes me squeamish enough to sleep with the night light on.
The heated criticism is legit. But here’s the cool side of the pillow: In an era when sports stars are often turned into cartoon characters by loud, line-in-the-sand debate, “Bonds on Bonds” does the public service of demonstrating how no athletic hero or villain is 100 percent good or bad.
Except for the infamy involved, it seems to be picking nits to argue the show is a journalistic conflict of interest significantly worse than a newspaper that allows the local second- string quarterback to write a Super Bowl diary.
OK. I admit it. “Bonds on Bonds” is a guilty pleasure. So what?
“Sex and the City” sometimes left me in need of a cold shower.
“Bonds” is more likely to be the catalyst for a long, hot soak in the tub. With lots of soap. To scrub off that slimy feeling of being used.
As the slugger himself says in promos for his show, “There’s no better person to get it from than me.”
So let’s raise a toast of flaxseed oil, because I’m having whatever Barry’s drinking.
After watching “Bonds,” there’s only one conclusion any reasonable viewer can draw about the slugger who owns 708 career homers.
Bonds is a natural. Born actor, that is.
Although not originally intended as a comedy, “Bonds on Bonds” is every bit as bust-a-gut hilarious as reruns of “Sanford and Son.”
No man can buy talent that big in a bottle.
Staff writer Mark Kiszla can be reached at 303-820-5438 or mkiszla@denverpost.com.
