Bobby Bonds

Earlier this week, the Hall of Fame began running capsule articles previewing each of the candidates eligible for this year’s Veterans Committee election. They’ve already profiled one of the most interesting people on this year’s players’ ballot—the late Bobby Bonds. It’s a shame that so many young fans think of him only as Barry’s father, when he was such a marvelously talented player with his own set of controversies and conflicts.

Few historians would consider the elder Bonds a serious candidate for actual Hall of Fame election, but there’s little doubt that he was a Hall of Fame talent during the early stages of his career. Some writers touted him as the "next Willie Mays," a difficult comparison for any player to sustain, but a particularly burdensome tag when Mays happened to be one of his teammates—playing right next to him in the same outfield! In spite of being cast in an impossible situation, Bonds responded with a succession of marvelously productive seasons from 1970 to 1973. At his peak, Bonds could do it all—he had enormous power, sprinter’s speed, athletic grace in the outfield, and a powerful arm that could play in either center or right field. At his peak, he could dominate single games like few others.

So what happened to Bonds? First, his reputation for fast living began to catch up to him. He drank too much, smoked too much, and his general lifestyle raised questions about his commitment to the game, leading the Giants to consider a change. A trade to the Yankees after the 1973 season didn’t help. Bonds was productive in his one season in New York, despite having to play in the hitter’s Hades of Shea Stadium, but he was doomed to unpopularity as the exchange rate for Bobby Murcer, who was beloved in the Bronx. From New York, Bonds went to the Angels, where his outfield play began to draw criticism. He was also disparaged—and rightly so—for his unwillingness to run out ground balls and pop-ups, a chronic problem throughout his career. Later on with the Indians, teammates railed at Bonds for his inability to hit the cutoff man on routine throws and for failing to hit in the clutch. By 1979, Bonds had made so many stops that he earned a reputation—fairly or unfairly—as a player who quickly wore out his welcome despite his overwhelming on-the-field talents of speed and power.

Then there were the strikeouts. Bonds always piled up large numbers of K’s, even in his glory days in San Francisco. If he had played in the contemporary game, most fans and writers would have forgiven him. But in the 1970s, a tendency to strike out so often carried with it a nasty stigma—with both the media and the baseball establishment. Some managers felt they couldn’t employ such a blatant "swing-and-misser" in the leadoff spot. Other managers felt Bonds’ inability to make contact prevented him from being a true cleanup man. In the eyes of some, Bonds’ strikeouts made him the square peg in a round hole when it came to finding any suitable spot in the lineup.

Bonds also aged badly. Injuries, coupled with his off-the-field habits, rendered him over-the-hill by the age of 34. Unable to compensate, Bonds’ career was over by the age of 35.

Like his playing career, Bonds’ life ended well before it should have. In the spring of 2003, it was revealed that Bonds was seriously ill with lung and brain cancer. By August, he was restricted to a wheelchair. On August 23, he died at the age of 57. For the man with Hall of Fame talent, and for those who had marveled at his dynamic style of play, it was all gone, all too quickly.