BUD SELIG’S PUBLIC relations war on drugs is operating at full speed as his 15th Opening Day as Commissioner nears. His goal is simple: make sure the public understands that management—especially the Commissioner—had no knowledge whatsoever of major league players using performance-enhancing drugs.
And that means staying as far away from Barry Bonds as he can, a strategy that quickly turns the San Francisco star’s pursuit of Hank Aaron’s record into a national morality play. Bonds entered the season 22 home runs shy of breaking the game’s most coveted record. Should the Commissioner validate Bonds’ accomplishment by attending the record-setting game? Or should he shun the man who may soon stand accused of lying to a grand jury about using steroids?
It’s a question Selig is asked at every public appearance. And it’s a question he continues to answer—with great solemnity—as he does at the Diamondbacks home opener on April 9: “I have not made my decision yet,” Selig tells reporters. “I will do whatever I think is in the best interests of baseball.”
This is why he asked George Mitchell to investigate steroid use in baseball, he reminds the media as often as he can. Hiring Mitchell has been a win-win for Selig from Day One, no matter how much the Senator has struggled without the players’ cooperation. Mitchell seemed genuinely surprised that he could not persuade Don Fehr to cooperate with his investigation. Selig knows Fehr well enough not to be surprised, but he also understands the box in which he’s so shrewdly placed his longtime adversary.
Every time Mitchell complains that the union refuses to cooperate with him—which the Senator has done often—it makes Fehr look like he and his players have something to hide. And every time Fehr and his staff publicly complain about the questions asked by Mitchell, it looks like they’re protecting players who cheat.
Case in point: the union blasted Mitchell for writing letters to Bonds and several other players connected with Balco, requesting they allow their teams to turn over their personal medical records. Mitchell also asked these players to sign waivers that would allow teams to send him past, present, and future records. “Nothing is more important than the integrity of the game of baseball,” Mitchell wrote in letters that went out on February 1.
Fehr was furious with Mitchell’s request. The union has already advised the players not to give up their Constitutional rights—some things are more important than baseball—when Gary Sheffield’s response to Mitchell’s letter appears in USA Today. “This is all about getting Bonds,” Sheffield told the newspaper on February 26. “If this was legitimate and they did it the right way, it would be different. But this is a witch hunt. They’re just trying to collect a lot of stuff that doesn’t make any sense and throw the shit against the wall.”
Fehr was furious with Mitchell’s request. The Senator and the union have already clashed over what Mitchell and his lawyers are allowed to do under the basic agreement. They drew up a separate agreement to make sure there were no gray areas. These new requests, Fehr thought, clearly crossed the line. And in a letter that found its way into the New York Times, union general counsel Michael Weiner told Mitchell: “We feel your actions have left us no choice but to advise the players you have written to not to respond to your letter at this time.”
But the nation’s baseball writers were seeing developments like this the same way the Commissioner was: the union was protecting cheaters. Fehr almost always had the upper hand when the playing field was the country’s labor courts. But this is the court of public opinion, and for once Selig is trouncing the union leader.
About the only downside for Selig are the complaints from owners who are unhappy with Mitchell’s lawyers asking for reams of documents and email files. But Selig will take that trade-off. Besides, all he has to do is remind them what Mitchell said at the owners meeting in January: work with him or expect another trip to Washington for more hearings before the Senator’s old friends in Congress.
Mitchell continues to alternately cajole and threaten the union, but Fehr and the players won’t budge. With nowhere else to turn, Mitchell’s only remaining option is the medical records analysis proposed by James J. Heckman, PhD, at the University of Chicago. Heckman says he can strip the records of player identities, then produce data that will show the percentage of players using steroids on a yearly basis. The union initially agreed to cooperate, but as the season gets under way a handful of teams and the union are having second thoughts, leaving Mitchell empty handed.
But most if not all of the Senator’s problems disappear when Balco lead prosecutor Matt Parrella calls Mitchell in mid-April. We’ve caught someone who has dealt steroids to dozens of major league players, and now he’s working for us, he tells the Senator. Let’s talk about how we can work on this together.
Parrella doesn’t reveal the dealer’s name to Mitchell until just before Kirk Radomski pleads guilty to distributing steroids and money laundering in the U.S. District Court of Northern California on April 27. And then the whole world learns about the one-time Mets clubhouse man, now 37, who admits to selling testosterone to dozens of players all across the major leagues. Parrella says Radomski, whose crimes carry a sentence of up to 25 years in prison and $500,000 in fines, has already testified before a grand jury and has agreed to cooperate with Mitchell’s investigation in exchange for leniency.
Selig is delighted, and it’s clear the Senator is confident he now has what he needs. On May 4, Mitchell tells the media he’s asked a number of active players to come in and speak with him, sparking speculation that these are Radomski’s customers. Parrella tells reporters he is providing Mitchell information “on an item-by-item basis,” and Mitchell tells the New York Times that his investigation is now entering its final phase.
“We expect to meet soon with the players whose interviews we have requested,” says Mitchell, who reminds everyone that the Commissioner has agreed to make all the Senator’s findings public. With everything now falling into place, Selig issues a gag order, telling all 30 clubs to stop saying anything about Mitchell’s investigation.
Mitchell first meets the man who will bail him out in New York on June 7 at the DLA Piper offices on 6th Avenue, right across from Radio City Music Hall. “Just tell me the truth and tell me what happened, even if it is the smallest thing,” Mitchell tells Radomski. “If I ask a question and you don’t remember or are not sure, don’t say anything. I just want the truth.”
Radomski looks around the crowded 29th-floor conference room. Parrella and Novitzky are there, along with two other federal agents. They all remind Radomski that if he lies to Mitchell, his deal for a more lenient sentence is off. Mitchell has his staff there, too: Charlie Scheeler, who’ll write most of Mitchell’s report, and two more DLA Piper lawyers. It’s an awful lot of suits for a small-time drug dealer from Long Island.
“I’ll tell you the truth,” Radomski tells Mitchell. “I just don’t want to look like some drug peddler or pusher.”
And then comes Radomski’s story: dealing steroids to stars such as Lenny Dykstra—his first client—Todd Hundley, and Mo Vaughn and to role players such as Larry Bigbie, David Segui, and Adam Piatt. He shows Mitchell phone records, post office receipts, canceled checks, and his address book, containing the names of dozens of major leaguers. Mitchell gives him a list of every major league player and asks him to identify all his customers. It’s not long before the Senator is sure his report has the necessary bite.
Radomski tells Mitchell he only met with a handful of his clients face-to-face in New York—that most of his deals were done over the phone. Yes, he’s given instructions on how to use these drugs. But save for one journeyman pitcher, he never witnessed any player take the drugs he sold them.
Nor did Radomski know what one of his steady customers did with the steroids and human growth hormone he sold him. But that customer is Brian McNamee, the trainer for Roger Clemens and Andy Pettitte. And he’s given Radomski plenty of hints about who the drugs are for.
There’s another big crowd in the DLA Piper conference room when McNamee walks in with his lawyer on July 9. He, too, has cut a deal with the feds, who remind McNamee that any false statements to Mitchell will result in criminal prosecution. And soon McNamee is telling Mitchell about the times he injected Clemens with Winstrol, a potent steroid, when they were together in Toronto. And again when McNamee joined the Yankees in 2000.
While McNamee is telling his story to Mitchell, the union is filing a motion to keep all the information in Radomski’s affidavit secret. The motion will fall on deaf ears. And four days later, Mitchell sends a letter to the union requesting a meeting with Clemens, a request that is forwarded to Clemens’ agent.
The Rocket once pitched for the team of Mitchell’s dreams. Now he’s the answer to the Senator’s prayers.
It’s an unusually chilly late-July night in Milwaukee, though the roof is open in the 4th inning at Miller Park when Bud Selig and his security guards walk into the press box. A sellout crowd is on hand to watch the first-place Brewers play the Giants. Many in the crowd are here to see Barry Bonds, who is now three home runs away from breaking Hank Aaron’s record of 755.
Selig isn’t one for organized press briefings, so he gathers up the media for an impromptu session. He pokes fun at several of the regulars as he leads them to the media cafeteria, a few yards down the hall.
“Beautiful night, a ball game in my home town, and I thought I’d come to the game tonight and probably Saturday and Sunday,” the Commissioner tells them. “It’s part of my routine that I generally come in to see all of you, and I didn’t want it to seem like I was ducking you. That’s frankly why I’m here.”
But it’s not the media the Commissioner has been ducking. Selig continued his season-long cat-and-mouse game with Bonds at the All-Star Game in San Francisco a week ago. Not once in the three-day event did Selig take the time to visit the hometown hero, who was voted to his 14th All-Star team with a late rush in the final week of voting. And at his annual midseason luncheon with the baseball media he emphatically knocked down a report that he had decided to follow Bonds in his pursuit of Aaron’s record after the All-Star Game.
“I have made no decision on the Barry Bonds situation. None. Zero,” Selig said gruffly. “I’ll do what I believe is in the best interest of the sport.”
But now Bud speaks in an unusually soft tone, telling reporters Aaron’s record is a deeply personal matter to him. He says he won’t comment on reports that Bonds had asked him to reach out to Aaron, who has said publicly he wants nothing to do with Bonds’ run at his record.
“I will let Hank speak for himself,” the Commissioner says.
And if Bonds breaks the record this weekend in Milwaukee?
“Whatever happens happens,” he says.
He says he has no plans to meet with Bonds while the star is in town—the two men have not spoken in almost three years—and will decide Sunday if he’ll travel to San Francisco to follow Bonds if Aaron’s record remains unbroken. “One has to use what I think would be called common sense,” Selig says.
He shrugs when asked if he’ll consider the record legitimate. “We won’t get into it, let’s see if he does it,” he says. “Whatever else happens, I’m not passing judgment.”
The Miller Park crowd serenades Bonds with boos when he steps into the batter’s box at 7:12 p.m. with runners on first and second and one out. He grounds out, starting an 0-for-4 night. He’s booed loudly every trip to the plate.
Bonds is in the starting lineup the next day for a nationally televised game and answers questions for 17 minutes before the game. He’s asked about the news that the Balco grand jury’s term has just been extended. “I’m not concerned,” he says defiantly. “Do I look concerned?” A reporter asks Bonds how he would feel if Selig were not in attendance when he breaks Aaron’s record. “We haven’t talked in a while, but I have respect for Bud,” Bonds says. “Bud has always been kind to me.”
Bonds goes 0 for 2 with two walks, sits out Sunday’s game, and leaves town for a seven-game home stand in San Francisco. Selig at first decides to stay behind, then has a change of heart and flies to San Francisco late Tuesday afternoon. But not before releasing a statement to explain his thinking.
“Out of respect for the tradition of this game, the magnitude of the record and the fact that all citizens in this country are innocent until proven guilty,” Selig’s statement reads, “I will attend Barry Bonds’ next games to observe his potential tying and breaking of the home run record, subject to my commitments to the Hall of Fame this weekend.
“I will make an additional statement when the record is tied.”
Bonds celebrates his 43rd birthday while Selig is in the air traveling, but he has little else to cheer about until Selig leaves for Cooperstown on July 27. After going 22 of 23 days without a homer, Bonds hits No. 754—a solo shot to deep left-center field—in the 1st inning off Marlins rookie Rick van den Hurk. By then, Selig is beginning the three-day celebration of Cal Ripken Jr.’s and Tony Gwynn’s induction into the Hall of Fame. Only Ripken obliquely references Bonds’ march on baseball history, calling the induction “a way to step back from the controversy. Maybe we’ll be back to reality tomorrow.”
Selig is back on the Bonds watch in Los Angeles, then moves on to San Diego with Barry still one home run behind Aaron. The Commissioner has thought long and hard about what he should do when Barry ties and surpasses his good friend’s record. Should he stand and applaud? Should he stand and keep his hands at his side? Should he express his displeasure and remain in his seat?
He finally has to make a decision at 7:29 p.m. on August 4, when Bonds rockets a pitch into the left-field stands off Clay Hensley, who two years earlier failed a steroids test while still in the minor leagues. Bonds circles the bases, jumps on home plate, and hugs his son Nikolai while teammates surround him in celebration. The 42,497 fans react in mixed fashion: Many boo, many others cheer. Some hold up Bonds jerseys. A few fans hold up signs depicting an asterisk.
Selig takes it all in from his seat in Padres owner John Moores’ box. The ESPN camera finds Selig moments after the record-tying homer, standing with hands thrust in his pockets, a scowl on his face. There will be no Commissioner’s visit to the press box this night, no postgame trip to the Giants locker room, only a written statement handed to reporters in the 9th inning:
“No matter what anybody thinks of the controversy surrounding the event, Mr. Bonds’ achievement is noteworthy and remarkable.”
Bonds shrugs off the Commissioner’s statement in a cheerful media conference following the game, won by the Padres, 3–2, in 12 innings. “He’s welcome to come talk with me anytime,” says Bonds. He’s glad this home run is behind him—“The hard part is over now,” he says—and thanks the folks in San Diego. “I really appreciate the way San Diego handled it and the way their fans handled it,” Bonds says. “It’s been a fun ride.”
Bonds announces he’s sending the batting helmet he wore tonight to Cooperstown, and he’ll do the same with the one he’ll wear when he breaks the record. But that won’t come tomorrow. Bonds says he’s sitting out the final game against the Padres and will return to the lineup Monday when the Giants start another home stand against the Nationals. “It’s like saying to my own family, I’m coming home,” Bonds says.
Selig will not be going to San Francisco. Instead he’ll be flying to New York to prepare for his sit-down with George Mitchell on August 8 to discuss what he knows about drug use in baseball. “It was scheduled a long time ago,” says Selig, promising that someone from his office will pinch-hit for him at the Giants game.
The scene in the Giants’ AT&T Park locker room the night of August 7 is like most that have come before it: an edgy media circulating among Bonds’ teammates, asking questions about the man sitting off by himself, an invisible wall keeping out all but a chosen few. One of those allowed inside is ESPN baseball editor Claire Smith, who’s known Bonds since his days with the Pirates. Neither considers the other a friend, but they recognize their shared experience: Bonds is one of the few African American stars left in the game, Smith is one of the first black reporters to cover the sport.
Smith walks over to Bonds, who looks up from his easy chair in front of his locker and smiles. Barry is surprisingly relaxed and open, and the two talk about their families and mutual friends. Traces of bemusement and bitterness surface in Bonds when the conversation turns to the media circus that surrounds him. “They call me a liar and an idiot, then want to come and talk to me every day,” he tells her several times.
Bonds is even more conflicted when their talk shifts to the Commissioner. “He never spoke to me the night I tied the record,” Bonds says.
“Yes, I know,” Smith replies.
“He’s not here tonight, is he?” Bonds asks. “I swear, I really don’t give a damn.”
Bonds says nothing more about Selig.
“You know Frank and Jimmie Lee are here,” says Smith, referring to baseball Vice Presidents Frank Robinson and Jimmie Lee Solomon, the two highest-ranking African Americans in the game. Smith approached both men earlier that night, asking if they would congratulate Barry if he broke the record this game. Both glared, then adamantly insisted they would.
The conversation turns to Aaron, who long ago distanced himself from Bonds and the home run chase. The two men have known each other for years, and not long ago they had discussed plans along with Willie Mays for a joint marketing campaign. But Bonds knows why things have changed.
“Hank’s in a tough spot,” Barry says. “I don’t blame him. I understand.”
Smith thanks Bonds for his time and walks away, chats with a few ESPN staffers, and rushes off to a production meeting. This is going to be a busy night. She catches up with Barry once more before the game, stopping him just as he’s about to take the field for batting practice. The Giants have played a video tribute to Bonds after each homer in the run-up to No. 756. Muhammad Ali did one. So did Mays and Robinson, who hit 1,246 home runs between them.
Who’ll speak on the big night?
“It’s gotta be Hank, right?” Smith asks Bonds.
“I can’t tell you,” answers Barry, a smile lighting up his face. “But I think you can figure it out.”
The wait ends in the bottom of the 5th, when Bonds blasts a high-arcing shot 435 feet into the right-center-field seats off Nationals right-hander Mike Bacsik. A party for 43,154 fans erupts, with fireworks, water cannons, and streamers everywhere. Bonds’ teammates are there as he crosses the plate. So are his family members. Mays, Barry’s relentless defender, leaves his box seat to join his godson on the field. Then everyone looks to the scoreboard.
The man congratulating Barry on the big screen is Hank Aaron.
“I move over and offer my best wishes to Barry and his family on this historical achievement,” Hank says in a tape made a month earlier. “My hope today, as it was on that April evening in 1974, is that the achievement of this record will inspire others to chase their own dreams.”
Giants manager Bruce Bochy sends Barry out to left field, then immediately pulls him so the crowd can give their star a thunderous standing ovation. Bonds jogs into the dugout and down the tunnel, followed closely by Robinson and Solomon. All three men duck into the clubhouse, where Solomon hands Bonds a phone. Selig is on the other end.
“Congratulations, Barry,” Selig says. “You’ve endured a lot. I have a lot of respect for you.”
Their conversation is brief. So is the Commissioner’s statement, released by MLB moments later.
“While the issues which have swirled around this record will continue to work themselves toward resolution, today is a day for congratulations on a truly remarkable achievement,” it reads.
Bonds enters the postgame press conference wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, a black hat, and a huge smile. He gives special thanks to Aaron and his message—“It meant everything to me, absolutely everything”—says home run No. 755 was the tough one, then defends what he’s just accomplished.
“This record is not tainted at all—period,” he says. “You guys can say whatever you want.”
The next day, President Bush tells his secretary to find Barry Bonds and put him on the line. He wants to congratulate the man the Justice Department is still chasing down. “You’ve always been a great hitter, and you broke a great record,” the President tells Bonds.
It’s one day later when Aaron tells the Atlanta Journal-Constitution he may talk to Bonds about the record someday. “To be honest,” Aaron says, “I’m as happy for him as anybody.”
With the record broken, talk in San Francisco shifts to whether the last-place Giants will ask Barry back for another season. That speculation ends September 21, when the Giants announce they will sever ties with their superstar after 15 years at season’s end. “I would have loved nothing more than to retire as a Giant,” says Bonds, who plays one last game in San Francisco four days later. He finishes with 28 home runs, a game-high 132 walks, and—65 hits shy of 3,000—a strong desire to keep playing. The home run record now stands at 762.
“There is more baseball in me,” Bonds says. “My quest for a World Series ring continues.”
It’s the Red Sox who win their second World Series ring in four years, with Selig once again handing the championship trophy to owner John Henry, the man he handed the franchise to five years ago. Boston’s four-game sweep of Colorado caps a stunning season for Selig and MLB, which reached a record 79.5 million in attendance and surpassed $6 billion in revenue.
But the good vibes end on November 15, when the Commissioner gets word that Bonds has been charged with four counts of perjury and one count of obstruction of justice. Reporters call Selig when the news breaks, asking if he’s decided to suspend Bonds. The Commissioner ducks the question—just barely.
“While everyone in America is considered innocent until proven guilty,” Selig says, “I take this indictment very seriously and will follow its progress closely.”
The following day New York Times baseball columnist Murray Chass captures what most of baseball is thinking. With the game’s home run king now facing up to 30 months in jail if proven guilty, baseball eagerly turns its attention to the player most likely to break Bonds’ record.
“Major League Baseball officials suddenly have a new rooting interest,” Chass writes. “His name is Alex Rodriguez.”