By Sandy Grady
USA TODAY

One evening this summer, Barry Bonds will end his cheerless trudge to immortality. Bonds will smite home run No. 756 that eclipses Henry Aaron’s lifetime record. Polls show Americans conflicted: Some will cheer; many will boo.

Me, I’m not going to watch. No thanks, I’ll take a pass.

Surely there’s a clause in the Constitution about my inalienable right to avoid a sports event I think to be fake.

Let the TV networks feature Bonds’ record smash, with fireworks exploding while his godfather, Willie Mays, plus assorted politicians and glitterati greet him at home plate. Click, off. That’s why the remote control was invented. Replays on ESPN? Click, click.

I doubt I’m alone in Bonds Apathy. There doesn’t seem outrage or exultation over his impending feat, merely resigned indifference toward Bonds. To twist the Simon and Garfunkel lyrics in The Graduate movie: Our cynical nation turns its eyes from you.

Snubbing Bonds’ record should have little to do with his sullen, bristling, boorish personality. The Hall of Fame is full of ball yard heroes who weren’t Mr. Sunshine. And despite some black vs. white polls, anti-pathy toward Bonds definitely shouldn’t be based on race. Last time I looked, Aaron was also an African-American. Unlike Bonds, Aaron came from a dirt-poor background. He was an earnest, working-man player with steel-band wrists. He set his record amid racist taunts and death threats that make Bonds’ march look like a waltz.

No, there’s only one reason to avert your eyes from Bonds’ unsavory moment. That’s the deeply held suspicion, based on mounting circumstantial evidence, that his burst of late-career homers was achieved by performance-enhancing drugs.

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