Barry Bonds as the painted bird

I turned on the Giants game last night and was amused, mildly surprised, and bemused by the thunderous boos Barry Bonds received at Dodger stadium. I heard later that it got vicious in parts of the stands, with at least one fight breaking out.

Which surprised me a bit because the Dodgers fans I’ve known have always made such a point of how laidback they are, as if the root word of fan were not fanatic.

I wondered at the sheer volume of the sustained cascading boos raining down, given the stereotypes of the laidback Dodger fan. It was as loud as I’ve ever heard the ballpark, and it was completely personality driven. Nothing had happened, other than Barry was walking to the plate. The ball was not in play, there was as yet no pitch, no hit, there was only the drama of a statistic, a record, possibly to be tied.

Perhaps twenty years ago I went to an old-timers game at Candlestick Park, before a Dodgers game. They brought out a bunch of old heroes, happy to wear the uniform and trot out onto a green field again, tossing balls to each other and laughing from the sheer exuberance of again playing a game most had left behind, lost to youth. I used to seek out the old-timers games, enjoying a chance to see players like Willie Mays again; their joy put the game in perspective — it is a kid’s game, athletes are fortunate to be able to extend childhood and play it, and they felt their luck again.

That day, as we watched the old-timers play, I sat next to a very nice African-American guy, who came up from Los Angeles with his wife. A portly, well-dressed fellow with a bit of a smug smile–the kind of Dodger fan who’s always ready to point out how many world series they’ve won for L.A. Another serene L.A. fan, and we enjoyed chatting together during the game, each of us rooting for our team. True to form, he took pointed pride in saying that the well-mannered fans of Dodger stadium not only applauded their own players but would applaud a good play by an opposing player.

Maybe most of those fans have retired their season tickets, now.

The Giants announcers, Krukow and Kuiper, had some fun with the booing last night, noting that the energy level for a Giants/Dodgers game is always a bit higher than for other Dodgers games, and that this was two or three times what it usually is for the Giants.

They also took some delight in the usual dynamic of fans booing Barry as he approaches the plate, then also booing their own team for intentionally walking him. At one point Kruk and Kuip pointed out one fellow who was booing and kept booing as Bonds popped out which he also applauded. The Dodger fans booed lustily, yet the camera flashbulbs lit the stadium like a rock concert when the superstar appears.

Many years ago, when I was a young teen devouring everything I could about the Beatles, I read Hunter Davies’ authorized biography of them, including a profile of an teenage fan who said she adored John but used to draw fangs on George. She theorized that, just as the Beatles were an outlet for positive emotions (“loving” John) they might also have been an outlet for negative emotions.

Somehow Barry has tapped into the same emotional vein. He certainly has alienated many people with his arrogance and surliness — but it isn’t as if other great ballplayers haven’t been noted for arrogance. Ted Williams, for one, was notoriously surly and famously refused to acknowledge cheering fans by stepping out of the dugout and doffing his cap.

And steroid use was rampant in baseball before Barry was ever alleged to have used them, yet somehow he has become a focal point for fan hatred.

It’s an intriguing dynamic to me, this need to target some other, some one upon whom to vent spleen, the kind of mob anger I imagine once drove people to tar and feather the poor object of their scorn, to ride people out of town on rails.

Jerzy Kosinski‘s book The Painted Bird derives its name from the sadistic practice of capturing and painting a bird which, when released, returns to its flock. The flock, no longer recognizing the painted bird as one of them, pecks it to death — this was Kozinski’s metaphor for his experience of being a dark-haired, outcast child wandering Poland during World War II, surviving horror after horror.

Barry Bonds seems to be the painted bird for many fans now. No matter how many prior heroes have been on steroids, how many games were affected or won by players on illegal drugs, how many pennant races were affected or titles won by players “juiced.”

To blame the game would be too big, too complicated, too much. Besides, we have one super-talented player to focus on, one player who is often churlish and graceless, and who now completes the emotional needs of the fans, so ready to adore their heroes and hate their anti-heroes; Barry is their painted bird.