A Krispy Kreme doughnut cake. Mmmmm ...

Alright, I'm freakin' tired of everyone talking about Barry Bonds like he's the greatest athlete in the history of mankind. He may be the greatest athlete to wear a diamond cross in his ear, or he may be the greatest athlete to play half-hearted defense, or he may be the greatest athlete to blow off fans, but he's not The Greatest.

First of all, there's the whole argument that you cannot compare eras. Babe Ruth hit 714 home runs in the 20s and 30s, and he was a fat, sex-loving drunk who died young of cancer and spoke through a voicebox at the end of his life after basically smoking a hole through his trachea. Bonds was a wiry, fast outfielder when he broke into baseball in the 80s. Now he's a muscular power hitter with no neck. And you think he got that way by eating his Wheaties and working out? Pass the creatine, please. At the very least.

The reason he's been walked so much in the past two years is because the Giants built a Little League ballpark for him on the bay in San Francisco (it's only 315 feet to right field, the shortest in the majors) and teams are afraid to pitch to him. They walk him twice a game, leading to inflated on-base percentage and batting average figures and deflated strikeout totals.

Until this season, Bonds had performed horribly in the postseason. He'd hit maybe two home runs and batted about .120. I can think of at least for of those home runs that came late in a game with the Giants relatively far behind � that is, he's not hitting them all in the most pressure-filled situations.

Don't get me wrong (the two of you still reading), Bonds is an outstanding player, one of the best in the game today, a superstar.

He's just not the Greatest Hitter Who Ever Lived, and there are so many kiss-ass ESPN reporters and print journalists who are hoping Bonds someday calls them by name.