The Yang Slinger: Vol. LXXXV

As another Major League season begins, let's go back two decades, when America's sports journalists had to deal with their worst nightmare—approaching Barry Bonds at his locker.

With the Major League season opening yesterday, I thought it might be lovely to discuss some of my glorious moments covering the grand ol’ game for Sports Illustrated. I mean, I was there when Mike Piazza homered in the first New York-based sporting event after 9.11. I was there when Luis Gonzalez singled off Mariano Rivera to win the 2001 World Series. I was there for breathtaking catches and glorious moonshots and McGriff and Pudge and Todd Walker and Randy Johnson and Pedro Martinez and Tony Gwynn and Sal Fasano and Brian Lesher and Dwight Gooden and …

And …

And …

I was there, standing by Barry Bonds’ locker(s).

The topic of today’s Substack.

I know that sounds sorta weird and hyper-specific. Barry Bonds’ locker? Really? But for my money, being a late-1990s/early-2000s baseball writer and having to chronicle the exploits of one Barry Lamar Bonds, well … it was the weirdest shit ever. And by “weirdest shit ever”—I mean pure hell. Awfulness. Humiliation. Degradation. Pick a negative word, and one way or another I can affix it to Bonds and his Major League reign of terror over we, the members of the Fourth Estate. Or, to cite my pal Brian Johnson, the former Giants catcher who played with Bonds in 1997 and 1998, “He was an asshole to everyone—equally.”

Now, I could probably write an entire book on how Bonds turned into such a monumental dickwad. In fact, I did write an entire book on how Bonds turned into such a monumental dickwad. It has to do with being raised by wolves, and people eternally raving about your specialness, and watching up close as Willie Mays farted on the world, and never really caring about the wellbeing of others. When I think of Barry, the first thing that crosses my mind is a quote from Pete Diana, the former Pirates team photographer. Some 2 1/2 decades ago there had been a tragic accident in the construction of PNC Park, and a couple of workers fell to their deaths. When various teams came to town, Diana asked for signed bats and balls to auction off and raise money for the victims’ families. Jeff Bagwell signed. Randy Johnson and Curt Schilling, too. Diana knew Bonds from his days in Pittsburgh; had literally given him tons of free photographs in their Steel City time together. Yet when he asked Barry for some autographed merch, the response was, “Fuck off. No.”

Which leads to Diana’s quote, which opened my book: “Personally, I hope Barry dies.”

Not that this post is about that.

It’s not. Not really. It’s about Barry Bonds at his locker.

To begin with, I’d like to explain the setup of the San Francisco Giants’ clubhouse during the early 2000s, when Oracle Park was SBC Park … AT&T Park Pacific Bell Park. The stadium actually opened in 2000, eight years after Bonds’ arrival from Pittsburgh as a free agent (and approximately three years after he made the not-so-secret decision to inject large doses of molasses, flaxseed oil and Seattle Slew Extract into his body). At the time, the Giants’ clubhouse felt big and modern. It was spacious, clean, well-maintained; wood-paneled and wall-to-wall carpeted and featuring a bunch of comfortable leather recliners in the center. If one were a member of the media—used to the cramped quarters of, say, Shea Stadium or Wrigley Field—Pac Bell was both refreshing (for the newness) and a wee-bit disconcerting (there were more places for reporter-averse players to hide).

With the exception of certain San Francisco stars and veterans (Jeff Kent, J.T. Snow, Rich Aurilia), members of the team were presented with a singular locker and a singular chair. So, say, if one wanted to speak with Marvin Bernard or Russ Davis, he would wait for the dude to show up at his narrow locker, approach and—hopefully—talk. It wasn’t a complex system.

Except for one guy.

Because he was Barry Bonds, and because Barry Bonds got what Barry Bonds demanded, Barry Bonds had (wait for it) four lockers against the far-right wall of the clubhouse. In front of the four lockers sat a black leather recliner and a large-screen television, connected to (I believe) a PlayStation. Eternally swirling around Barry Bonds and Barry Bonds’ four lockers and Barry Bonds’ large-screen TV and Barry Bonds’ PlayStation were (cough):

• Barry Bonds’ two PR people.

• Barry Bonds’ personal massage therapist.

• Barry Bonds’ personal photographer/videographer.

• Steve.¹

And, because Barry Bonds got what Barry Bonds demanded, and because everyone who worked for the team was terrified of their star, no one with the Giants’ organization had the guts/courage/wherewithal to say, “Um, Barry …”

For example: “Um, Barry, we have a crew of publicists who handle media relations. So your two people aren’t necessary.” Or, “Um, Barry, baseball is a team sport. So maybe getting four lockers isn’t really wonderful for overall morale.” Or, “Um, Barry, once in a while it’d be sorta cool if you thanked the attendant who holds the clubhouse door open for you.” Or, “Um, Barry, the seven-inch leap in your skull size might make folks a hair suspicious.”

But—no. Never. From Peter Magowan, the managing general partner, to Larry Baer, the executive vice president, normally powerful men and women legitimately cowered in his presence. They weren’t merely scared. They were terrified. I’ve said this more than once, but the best comp for Bonds isn’t Hank Aaron or Babe Ruth or Gookie Dawkins—it’s Donald Trump. Both men learned early in life (Trump via his dad Fred, Bonds via his dad Bobby) that if you walk with importance, and ignore norms, and treat those below you like poop, and look straight ahead without blinking, you can pretty much do whatever you like.

No one will stop you.

Back when Bonds when in his prime, I served as Sports Illustrated’s No. 2 baseball writer behind the great Tom Verducci. Which meant, for the most part, Tom was dining on prime rib, I was eating $7.99 strip at Tad’s. Tom did a lot of Yankees. I did Mets. Tom did a lot of Dodgers. I did Angels. Were there a 5,000-word profile to be written of, oh, Greg Maddux, the assignment would usually go to Verducci. If we also needed three paragraphs on Hipólito Pichardo—it was all me.

That being said, for one reason or another I wound up spending a lot of time around the Giants. Maybe Tom was wise enough to want to avoid the vomit theatre that was Bonds and Kent (neither man was particularly fun to engage with), or maybe it was just SI scheduling quirkiness. Whatever the case, myriad are the days I joined the pack to approach Barry Bonds at his locker after a Giants game.

Here, step by step, is how it usually went:

Step 1: The game ends and we (the media) head down from the Pac Bell press box to the door outside the Giants’ clubhouse. Ten minutes (or so) elapses.

Step 2: The doors open. Barry is nowhere to be found.

Step 3: We talk to The Others. Benito Santiago was always pretty friendly. Snow was tremendous. Jason Schmidt couldn’t be nicer, and when Shawon Dunston and Eric Davis were on the squad, both guys were money. So you’re scribbling down the words of various voices, but you’re also keeping your eye on the empty black leather recliner.

Step 4: Bonds finally enters the room and plops down in his BarcaLounger. Only it swivels, and his back is deliberately toward you and the other 25 reporters wanting a word.

Step 5: Bonds knows we are all there. But he pretends he doesn’t know we are all there.

Step 6: Bonds says something to Steve. Like, “Hey, Steve. You like burritos?” And Steve says, “Yeah, I like burritos.” And Bonds says, “Me, too. We should have more burritos.” And Steve says, “That sounds great.” And Bonds says, “Whatever happened to Lauren Tewes?” And Steve says, “You mean Julie for the Love Boat?” And Bonds says, “Is there another Lauren Tewes?” Meanwhile, we’re listening to this. And we can’t interrupt. Because that would be displeasurable to Barry Bonds.

Step 7: A reporter asks the back of Barry Bonds’ head a question. A softball question. “So Barry, you swung the bat well tonight.” And, in reality, it’s more statement than question. But it’s an opening serve.

Step 8: Barry Bonds pretends he does not hear the question. And perhaps he does not—he’s busy looking through the magazine someone left at his locker while simultaneously wondering about Lauren Tewes’ whereabouts.

Step 9: Awkward silence as Barry Bonds flips through the magazine.

Step 10: A reporter follows with the type of question most ballplayers cannot resist. “Barry, how’d you think Zerbe² threw the ball tonight?”

Step 11: Barry Bonds is now cleaning his fingernails with the tip of a pen. He appears to not hear the Zerbe-related inquiry.

Step 12: Many of us start gazing longingly toward the other 24 players, wondering if perhaps time could be better spent in the presence of Kurt Ainsworth.

Step 13: Barry Bonds turns toward us. Not 100 percent toward us. But enough toward us.

Step 14: A reporter asks whether he felt Rudy Seánez tried hitting him on purpose with that 3-0 fastball. “That’s a stupid question,” Barry Bonds says. “Next.”

Step 15: More awkward silence.

And before long, 15 minutes have passed. Barry Bonds will halfheartedly answer a couple of inquiries (yes, the Giants are playing well. No, he doesn’t want a day off. Sure, the stretch run will be a challenge), then dismiss us like the poorly-dressed, poorly-groomed, minimally-laid army of misfit toys we, sigh, are. Through it all, he will never look us in the eye or offer even a modicum of empathy, graciousness, understanding or helpfulness.

For he is Barry Bonds, a man who cares nary an iota about our deadlines.

And we need him.

But maybe I’m misremembering.

J.T. Snow, San Francisco’s first baseman, was always a delight to deal with in the Giants’ clubhouse, and all these years later he remains one. We spoke earlier this week, and I asked whether perhaps I had misunderstood his teammate of nine seasons³. Whether there were signs I’d gotten wrong. “Well,” Snow told me, “Barry was complicated.”

On the one hand, Snow says he gets it. He befriended many of the era’s sports writers, and he saw the ugly-duckling tap dance routine we often needed to perform. “I could tell you guys weren’t thrilled,” he said. “I guess in a way it was amusing to us, but I can’t say I’d want to be in your shoes back then. The thing about Barry is the people he liked most were those who wanted nothing from him. He liked wives, girlfriends, kids, because they never asked him for stuff. Every day, it was people asking for this and that. So maybe, because the press was asking for time …”

I understand where Snow is coming from. Truly, I do. I also think, for former Giants, there’s an instinctive tick to defend Bonds’ behavior, because decent men like Snow were forced to do so for years. It’s actually a fascinating thing to look back upon: To be a member of the early-2000s Giants was to be asked about Bonds on an endless loop. Only, you couldn’t (under any circumstances) speak ill of the man. He was the meal ticket. The Show.

Also, not for nothing, he scared many teammates nearly as much as he scared us. Why, I once wrote a Bonds profile for the magazine and actually had a player—pitcher Shawn Estes—criticize his surliness. I used the quote, and a day or two after Sports Illustrated published I received a phone call from Shawn, barking at me for misquoting him. I was crestfallen (it’s a rough charge for a journalist), and years later—via Facebook—I asked Shawn about it.

He wrote this …

Um, yeah.

The two guys I always felt the worst for were the late (#RIP) Pedro Gomez, the ESPN reporter who was assigned the Bonds beat and suffered regular exasperation at the hands of a cruel man. And Henry Schulman, the San Francisco Chronicle’s Giants beat writer and one of the best in the business.

Henry, in particular, had it rough, because whenever the newspaper needed someone to ask Bonds about Balco and PED and expanding hat sizes, it wound up on his plate. So he would have to shuffle toward Bonds, knowing the superstar would recoil at the line of inquiry, and ask away. “You were always a little apprehensive walking over there because you didn't know what kind of mood he'd be in,” Schulman told me. “Even reporters who are accustomed to being shot down don't like it happening with a guy on the team you're covering.

“You're really talking about two different eras. Pre-2001, before he went for McGwire's record, and post-2001, which was an entirely different world, especially after the BALCO revelations and as he closed in on Hank Aaron's all-time record. In the before times it wasn't that big a deal approaching him after games because we usually just asked about … game stuff, a homer he hit, a big play, just like any other play. Starting in 2001, and even more so post-BALCO, it was much more tense on both sides because he knew he would get questions about the allegations. Those are obviously questions you're supposed to ask pregame, but he often even be at his locker pregame, or answer questions for several days, for that matter. So when he appeared at his locker anytime and was willing to talk, before or after games, he'd get those questions, which he usually dodged.”

It’s funny. Schulman has some fond memories of covering Bonds (“Sometimes it was worth the tension because he'd be in a talking mood and was always very quotable (in a positive sense) when he chose to be.”) as does Barry Bloom, the former MLB.com scribe who actually had a good relationship with the slugger. Back in the day, Bloom was criticized by some in the media of being too soft on Bonds; of trading in integrity for access. And as a younger writer, I certainly had that impression. But years later, Bloom bristles at the idea. “It was jealousy,” he said. “And I wasn't easy on him. Go back and look at the breath of my work. I just was not gratuitously nasty to him. I feel my job is to tell the story, not shutdown a source.”

I told Bloom I had been terrified of approaching Bonds at his locker, and was surprised that he didn’t share in the fear. He said, for the most part, the Giant was no different than Reggie Jackson and Frank Robinson in their primes. “They would try to terrorize writers so they wouldn't have to deal with them,” Bloom told me. “The guys who put up with it or laughed it off had a chance of breaking through.”

And I’m sure Barry Bloom is correct. Lord knows, he had a lot more Bonds experience than I did.

But when I look back, and think about the pettiness, the cruelty, the cheating and the lying, I wish I had been more gutsy and daring. I wish I had the courage and wherewithal to approach the locker of Barry Bonds and ask my questions with gusto. I actually wish I’d had the balls to say something along the lines of, “Bruh, you talk to us like we’re grime—but you’re a fucking cheater. It’s not even real. Fuck, look at you.”

In short, I wish the confidence I have at 51 existed when I was 31.

Alas, I was but a lemming.

Slinking off sans dignity.

Ask Jeff Pearlman a fucking question(s)

From: Blukay: I loved your Brett Favre biography. Any idea if he ever read It?: Wish I had a sexy answer for this—but I don’t. I know Favre wasn’t pleased with some of the revelations, which tends to happen when athletes find themselves dealing with journalists who don’t kiss their asses. But … did he read it? Better question: Could he read it?

From alexanderthegreat: I’ve heard you say you were a college athlete. Were you any good?: Long answer: No. Short answer: No. So coming out of high school I desperately wanted to compete in college. I was a pretty strong prep runner. Not all-world, but one of the best in tiny Putnam County. And it’s possible I could have been OK at an NAIA school. But I went to Delaware, where Jim Fischer, the men’s track and cross country coach, took walk-ons. So … I walked on. He didn’t cut, so I ran in a ton of meets, improved dramatically, earned a varsity letter in indoor track (for coming in third out of three in the 3,000) and loved every moment of it.

But was I Division I caliber? Not even close.

The Quaz Five with … Bob Harig

Bob Harig is a Sports Illustrated golf writer and the author of a new book, “Drive: The Lasting Legacy of Tiger Woods.” You can follow him on Twitter here.

1. You're the author of a new book—"Drive: The Lasting Legacy of Tiger Woods." So ... without giving too much away, what's Tiger's legacy?: I try to make the argument that his legacy is about resiliency. Or, to borrow from the title, his drive. Everyone knows by now that his record is incredible, that he won 15 majors and 82 PGA Tour events and that, even at age 48, when able, his skills are immense. He’s incredibly gifted, obviously. But he doesn’t accomplish what he did without being driven, having this inner fight that most of us just do not have. There are numerous tournament examples that I explore but one that some might find interesting occurred four years ago at the Masters that was played in the fall before no spectators due to COVID. At the 12^th hole where Tiger had basically seen the tournament change for him a year earlier in 2019 on his way to winning, he knocked three in the water and made his highest score ever as a pro: a 10. With nothing to play for in what would be his last tournament of the year, Tiger birdied five of the last six holes. Who cares? He did. And his playing partners that day, Scottie Scheffler and Shane Lowry, still rave about it.

2. Is Tiger Woods likable? I'm not a huge golf guy, and I find him barely digestible. But am I missing something?: I have found him to be likable in my interactions with him. He has a quick wit, a biting sense of humor and doesn’t mind the needle. The problem is that he rarely allows this side of himself to show. Throughout his career, he’s been immensely private and guarded. Long interviews have been rare. Most things are staged. And getting the kind of time around him where he can be normal is fleeting. Some of the younger players on the Tour who have gotten to know him revere him. He clearly has things to say. We just don’t see it or hear it much.

3. Tiger didn't open up for your book. So what are the challenges when a topic doesn't help? How do you approach?: I rely a good bit on past interviews with him but the key is to talk to everybody and anybody who was around during this time. The guys he beat. The guys who beat him. His caddies. His coaches. I do a deep dive on the spinal fusion surgery that figured to end his career and occurred just two years prior to him winning the 2019 Masters. I sought the folks who helped set it up, talked to the doctor (he broke no confidentiality rules), even found a couple of golfers that had a similar surgery, including one by the same doctor. Jack Nicklaus, the man who he’s been compared to the most, was extremely generous. It would have been great to have Tiger for even 30 minutes, but as you know, the subjects of books do not always make themselves available.

4. You write for Sports Illustrated. Serious question, with everything going down—what does that mean right now?: At this very moment, the writers and editors at SI find themselves in limbo as the corporate folks try to sort things out. Through no fault of our own, we’re simply caught in the crossfire of one company that owns SI, another that had the license to operate it and yet another that has since been awarded the license. We simply await the outcome and hope for the best for all concerned.

5. You cover golf, just as I once covered baseball. And after a while I hit the, "I don't give a damn" stage and stopped. How do you still find passion for the subject? Do you ever see a day it fades?: It certainly helps to like the game you cover. It would probably be impossible otherwise. When I wasn’t covering golf, I always followed it. That helps. So does the fact that—until relatively recently—golf was not really a transactional game. There was no free agency, trades, contract squabbles to worry about. For the most part, we cover the game, its players, the tournaments, the venues. We’re typically in warm-weather climates and dealing with those on the winning end as opposed to being the beat writer for a team that is struggling and all the negativity that comes with that. Professional golf has seen a lot of upheaval in the last two years with the emergence of a rival tour (LIV Golf) and the controversy it has created. The political aspect (Saudi Arabia’s involvement), the fact that an icon (Phil Mickelson) joined the rival side (and the Tiger is opposed to it, mostly) has created plenty of tension and more off-the-field stories than I can ever remember. And it continues. The professional golf landscape is very uncertain right now and the issue is polarizing. That makes for plenty of stories to write, but the issue can be exhausting. At some point, you’d just like to get back to the actual golf.

Bonus (rank in order--favorite to least): Gary Player, Tim Raines, Heinz Tomato Ketchup, Hootie and the Blowfish, your short game, hot chocolate, Amazon.com, Fat Joe, James Madison: 1. Gary Player—I wish I were as active as Gary Player is now at age 88. He’s also, amazingly, underrated – perhaps because he didn’t play all of his golf in America. Only three players, Jack (18), Tiger (15) and Walter Hagen (11), won more majors than Player’s 9. . .. 2. Amazon.com—as a book author, you can’t help but love the ease of use. … 3. James Madison—the school or the president? The football team was mighty impressive last fall.  And it’s hard to have an issue with one of the drafters of the Constitution, which gets a lot of attention these days. . . 4. Hot Chocolate—the ultimate creature comfort. .. 5. Hootie and the Blowfish—I appreciate the fact that Darius Rucker seeks gigs where he can play golf. . . 6. Tim Raines—perhaps now that stolen bases are a thing again, Raines will get more love for how good he was at that craft . . . 7. Fat Joe—I know you were trying to see if I was paying attention here but I do know enough to know that he’s a rapper . . . 8. Heintz Ketchup—I’m not opposed to it but something needed to go down the list. . . 9. My Short Game—terrible. My standard line: I have a great short game … off the tee.

A random old article worth revisiting …

On July 1, 1981, , Otis Pike of the ol’ Newhouse News Service wrote of the strange-but-true-but-not-really-true saga of President Jimmy Carter and a killer rabbit. Really.

The Madness of Tyler Kepner’s Grid …

So unless you’ve been living beneath a pebble beneath a rock beneath a big hunk of cheese, you’re aware of Immaculate Grid, the daily game that’s drawn thousands of nerdy sports fans (guilty!) to its ranks. And while the NBA grid, NFL grid, NHL grid and WNBA grid are all fun, this game is at its best when it comes to baseball—where the names are endless and the transactions ceaseless.

Over the past few weeks I’ve often discussed the grid with Tyler Kepner, the Athletic baseball writer. And now, for kicks, every week I’m gonna feature one of Tyler’s bonkers grid results. He’s the ultimate baseball geek (I say this with great affection), and his outputs blow my mind.

So …

Tyler thoughts …

• McWilliams started out with the Braves and my dad once caught a foul ball that was pitched by him as a Phillie.

• Joe Boever was a reliever whose last name rhymed with “saver.” I only recently realized he played for the Pirates because I saw him on the mound against the Cubs in a funny Harry Caray clip

• Jerry Royster was a longtime Brave who played in the mid-’80s for the Padres, when I really liked that team.

• Gordon Dillard didn’t pitch many big league games, but he pitched for the Phillies when I was a kid and I thought his name was kinda funny.

• Randy Milligan’s teams I remember from old baseball cards.

• Chuck McElroy was a journeyman lefty I always liked because I saw him pitch in Double A when I went to a minor league game in Reading, Pa.

• Eppa Rixey was a Hall of Fame pitcher for the Phillies and Reds. When people say the Hall should only be for household-name types, I ask if they’ve ever heard of Eppa Rixey. He has a plaque too. It’s not just for the Babe Ruth kinda guys.

• Vic Willis was an old-time Pirates pitcher who was inducted into the Hall of Fame at one of the ceremonies I attended as a fan in the mid-1990s

• Mickey Lolich was very famous as a Tiger but also pitched for San Diego at the end. He’s not in the Hall but he pitched for a long time and had a lot of strikeouts, so it was reasonable to expect that he’d have 40+ WAR.

This week’s college writer you should follow on Twitter …

Ben Raab, Yale University

Raab, a student reporter who covers faculty and academics for the Yale Daily News, did a fantastic job chronicling his school’s surprising, joyful underdog run through the first few days of the NCAA Tournament. The newspaper sent Raab to Spokane, and he produced one pro-level piece after another. Here, in NO. 13 YALE FALLS TO NO. 5 SAN DIEGO STATE IN MARCH MADNESS, ENDING HISTORICALLY STRONG SEASON, he writes …

One can follow Ben on Twitter here.

Strong work, kid.

Journalism musings for the week …

Musing 1: I can’t say I’m a regular Christianity Today reader, but big props to Russell Moore for his essay, WHY CHARACTER DOESN’T MATTER ANYMORE. It’s a gutsy take these days, what with so many self-professed Christians falling for the false messiah that is Rapist McTrump. But Moore makes a stirring argument, writing: “Ironically, some of the very people who advance the myth of a ‘Christian America,’ in which the American founders are retrofitted as conservative evangelicals, now embrace a view that both the orthodox Christians and the deist Unitarians of the founding era would, in full agreement, denounce. From The Federalist Papers to the debates around the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, virtually every Founding Father—even with all their differences on the specifics of federalism—would argue that constitutional procedures and policies alone were not enough to conserve a republic: Moral norms and expectations of some level of personal character were necessary.”

Musing 2: So Eli Motycka, a reporter for the Nashville Scene, was arrested for trespassing on the Vanderbilt campus—and the entire thing was caught on tape. Later, Aaditi Lele, Katherine Oung and Rachael Perrotta—reporters for the Vanderbilt Hustler, the school’s student newspaper—wrote more about the incident in NASHVILLE SCENE REPORTER ARRESTED ON CAMPUS, PRESS DENIED ENTRY TO KIRKLAND HALL. Basically, the Vanderbilt Divestment Coalition has been holding a sit-in, and Vandy is doing its all to keep people from covering it. Which (duh) makes people pay even more attention. Bravo to Motycka, Lele, Oung and Perrotta for bringing it.

Musing 3: Tremendous column from Maya A. Bodnick, an opinion writer for the Harvard Crimson, headlined, HARVARD SHOULD BREAK UP WITH THE HARRIS POLL. Wrote Bodnick: “Harvard is lending its name to a methodologically flawed poll that often promotes a right-wing political agenda. Every month, the Harvard-Harris Poll (a partnership between Harvard’s Center for American Political Studies, The Harris Poll, and HarrisX) administers a public opinion survey that tracks Americans’ attitudes on a wide range of political and social issues. It’s no secret that the Harvard-Harris Poll is inaccurate and misleading. A number of experts from both sides of the aisle — including statistician Nate R. Silver, Democratic pollster Geoff D. Garin ’75, Republican pollster Chris Wilson, liberal journalist Josh M.J. Marshall, and conservative law professor Ilya Somin — have criticized the survey. FiveThirtyEight, a public opinion blog that aggregates political polls, recently ranked Harris Insights & Analytics in the bottom 50 percent of American pollsters. Harvard aspires to be the top academic institution in the world — so why is the University attaching its name to a mediocre poll that has been blasted by political experts? Harvard should immediately disaffiliate from this flawed and biased survey.”

Musing 4: So the actor Anthony Mackie was trending for treating a fan like dirt, which led Junius Valentine to post this awesome Q&A moment with the star. I laughed. A lot.

Musing 5: In regards to the tragedy in Baltimore, this piece—AGING CARGO SHIPS: CHALLENGES, RISKS & RESPONSIBILITIES—is awfully enlightening and worth your time.

Musing 6: So Rob Copeland is the author of a book, “The Fund: Ray Dalio, Bridgewater Associates, and the Unraveling of a Wall Street Legend.” It’s sold well, scored good reviews. And on Twitter the other day, a reader complimented Copeland on his work while noting he took it out from the local library.

Copeland responded thusly …

And it oozes douche. Just oozes it. I say this sincerely: Someone reading one of my books is an absolute honor. I don’t care if it’s purchased, borrowed, checked out. It’s always an honor. Period.

Musing 7: The New York Post’s Mary K. Jacob wins the first-ever PEARLMAN YANG YANG FALSE EQUIVALENCY OF THE YEAR award with her article, JON STEWART FOUND TO HAVE OVERVALUED HIS NYC HOME WITH 829% AFTER LABELING TRUMP’S CIVIL CASE ‘NOT VICTIMLESS.’ It’s actually worth the read for the sheer stupidity.

Musing 8: Serious question: What alien creature crawled inside Lara Logan’s brain and converted her into a mindless crazy person?

Musing 9: Reggie Wilson, the KARE-Minnesota sports director, shouldn’t have to celebrate rocking braids on TV. But he did (and I’m glad he did), because hair is a beautiful and expressive way to show who one is, and for far too long Blacks in media have been ordered to suppress their looks. It’s always bothered me. So, bravo, Reggie. Be you.

Musing 10: The new Two Writers Slinging Yang stars Sarah D. Bunting, Tomato Nation blog guru.

Quote of the Week …

1. Steve was Steve Hoskins, Barry’s pal/gopher. They wound up enemies. But, back in the day, I just knew he was “Steve.” That’s all—just Steve.

2. Chad Zerbe—pride of Tampa’s Vivian Gaither High School. Also, now a sheriff.

3. Little-known fact: Snow played more seasons with Bonds than anyone else.