Story from an usher at Fenway Park

And it was from this vantage point that I first spied Bonds. Never before had I seen such a beehive in front of the visitors dugout. Not for the arrival of Ichiro and his deliciously anticipated matchup with Daisuke Matsuzaka. Not for the return of Trot Nixon, a dirt dog and longtime fan favorite during his years in a Red Sox uniform. No, Bonds eclipsed them all, striding onto the field amid popping flashbulbs and jeers.

I had assumed he would head directly to the batting cage. But instead, he headed to the outfield, standing alone in the long shadow the left-field light pole cast across the field. While his teammates, gathered in groups of two and three, chatted, and snagged balls that dropped nearby, no one approached Bonds. He stood both in the limelight and in the shadows, a solitary figure in a sea of activity.

When he made his way to the batting cage, the dynamic didn't change. Even in the close quarters of home plate, Bonds remained isolated from his teammates. In those 20 minutes, away from the cameras and scrutiny of fans, I saw for myself the harsh reality of Bonds's everyday life. For all the home runs and the accolades, his pursuit (and now possession) of baseball's most treasured record seemed utterly devoid of joy, a terribly lonesome journey by a man I now pitied more than scorned.