What happens when Buffy goes against Bonds. I wrote this a few years ago.  

I don’t know what I’ll be doing when Bonds hits 756. Number 500 is seared in my memory.  2001 was a real “Chew him up, spit him out kind of year” for me. I wore a shirt on New Year’s Eve 2001 that simply stated “2001 Sucked.”

The dot com bust had me living the first six months of the year in a terribly over priced $2200 a month apartment with no incoming cash. I eventually traded that in for a piece of floor in a friend’s one bedroom in North Hollywood. For those who don’t remember 2001 so clearly, I think there is no better cartoon than the one made by Odd Todd.

It was desperate times living from unemployment check to unemployment check. Sure, there were folks who had it worse, but by god it was terrible. It seemed so hopeless, I tried temping. Since most of the city had been laid off to get an interview at a temp agency took six months.

The energy of the city had been drained and hordes of people with nothing better to do walked zombie style through the Marina everyday looking for a free Starbucks sample. Job Wanted ads were scarce and after scanning them daily, I eventually just switched to see how many more “nearly new, LOW MILEAGE!!” Porche Boxers were added to the “Cars for Sale” section. The Business section read like an obituary. Every single day 1000’s more were laid off. 1000’s more became “Dave of the Couch”

This was something that I had missed in my previous 8 years in LA, and it was a real treat.

I craved accomplishment, any kind of accomplishment. Anyone’s accomplishment and Bond’s was sitting on  499 career homeruns. I had the evening perfect planned for the evening. An Unemployment check had just come in, so I could afford splurge on BALL PARK (Hebrew National would have been  “La Dolce Vida”) hot dogs, drink some cheap beer and watch him smack it. When unemployed you always have money for cheap beer.

So. I’m ready… 7:35 start time and the Dodgers are going through there first at bat. There is a thud from the door. Mustard stains the left corner of my mouth and drips down on my jersey. Just like at the game. Perfect.  I had no pretzel.

The rambling of my 25 year old little sister of a roommate bungles up the staircase to the flat with some salmon steaks. EXCELLENT! She was thinking of her ole pal riding the striped couch through tough times and brought home some dinner.

No, that’s not what happened.

She had invited friends over to watch one of just four remaining new episodes of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”  There was a brief mock argument concluding with  a half smile and “Watch it in a bar you unemployed Jackass”.

This unemployed Jackass couldn’t afford a bar.

So we compromise --- one salmon steak for commercial break flip back. Barring a huge rally, Bonds was up about every 25 minutes.

It was early in the season, so I give on the whole game. I just wanted to see the at-bats. The foul ball tension, the endless camera flashes at every swing. Then that, oh so, perfect swing that lands it in McCovey Cove while a fleet of kayakers risk drowning in the fight for the ball. The build up is the whole part of the experience.

It’s a low scoring game and my timing is perfect. Check back at commercials. Catch two at-bats; nothing happens.  “Buffy,” a show I had never seen before, was quite entertaining. In the back of my head, the anticipation of Bonds achievement becomes my achievement. Just give me something positive to feast on and lick for days off my fingers like Brother’s Ribs.

 500 home runs, only a handful had done this in the entire history of the National Pastime. I feel hopeful. I feel optimistic. I feel like a man. I feel.

I make it through the hour. YES! Now I can kick back with the roommate’s cute girlfriends and gay guy and simply watch the game.

But no. I guess a part of that whole Buffy the Vampire mélange is another show called “Angel” which I had also never seen. We hadn’t negotiated for a second hour.

But now I was stuck. “Angel” isn’t as good as “Buffy.” While “Buffy” relies on empowerment, “ Angel” is just about some hunky dope with a $150 haircut who does nice things for people.

Screw that chump. Real men hit baseballs.

I flip back and forth and realize that Bonds doesn’t hit as well in the later innings. So chances are it isn’t gonna happen tonight. Tomorrow is another day. We flip back and forth, but less manically. But the tension is still there. The lust grows. The roommate continues to nag about how “it” isn’t gonna happen and how I was bitching for no reason.

The character of “Angel” gives some girl a new wardrobe of the clothes. The Girl squeals and hugs him and the magic words “Created by Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt” flash in white titles on a black space. I hit flashback on remote.

My stomach lurches to my stained socks as I watch Barry Bonds round third base to unemployed cheers of  an ecstatic emotion starved PacBell Park. I know these people just got laid off too. Fireworks shoot over the bay, but ring hollow. The flat is silent. I look to the roommate, who is jaw-dropped and frozen in mid-decorking of her third bottle of wine.

The whole idea of achievement hits hard. Achievement is not something that I am part of. It’s something I can watch on Sports Center later.

And I feel emasculated, I feel pushed around. I feel suckered. I feel cheated.

And then I don’t feel and hear the wine pop open and accept a small apologetic glass from her fallen face.

We didn’t speak for days.

And she respected that.

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