Why no one likes baseball's best player

Fans are pretty easy to figure out. If a team wins, they're happy. If it loses, they're ticked. Simple as that.

Same goes with players. Perform well, you're loved. But the instant you start sucking, you might as well have started wearing swastikas.

So why doesn't anyone like Barry Bonds? He's clearly good: he's already broken one of baseball's biggest records - by hitting 73 home runs in 2002 - and, any day now, will break the other by knocking his 756th career homer. But he remains as unpopular as an zit flare-up on prom night.

The answer here is simple, too. And it has nothing to do with his alleged steroid use (which, if you ever read Game of Shadows by Mark Fainaru-Wada and Lance Williams suddenly looks much less alleged and much more authentic).

It's because of his story. Well, and the fact that he's a douchebag.

Think of your favorite sports movie. Got it?

Good. Now I'll describe the plot: A (player/team/coach) is hard on (his/her/their) luck. (He/she/they) have all the talent in the world, but because of external factors (such as racial or financial background) cannot achieve (his/her/their) potential. Then, miraculously, (he/she/they) do. Roll credits.

It's the purest archetype in cinema: the underdog story you can see coming from your cheap seat in the nosebleeds but can't get enough of. Whether it's The Mighty Ducks, Rudy or even The Waterboy, the story is the same; only the names and settings differ.

If the story happens in real life, even better. No one cares about hockey, but the Miracle on Ice is one of the most famous sporting events of the last 100 years. Few care about class-less high school basketball anymore in Indiana, but Hoosiers still gives us goosebumps.

It's an easy story to write, too. A small high school in New Orleans, torn apart by Katrina, comes together to win the Louisiana state basketball title (ESPN and SI reported on it). A team's coach loses his son to suicide and then drops in the NFL Playoffs early, only to come back the next year and win the Super Bowl (See: my Indianapolis Colts). And, to be fair, a quarterback from Kuwait loses his family in the Gulf War and comes back to have a shot at the NFL (me at the Sun-Sentinel).

We love the story because it's easy to relate to. Average Joe Fan isn't big or powerful - he's got crap tickets behind a pole in section ZZZ. He wants athletes he can see himself in to get the illusion that he could be out on the field - or that the guys he's paying $30 to go see are like him. He wants to know that they're human, that they've experienced things he has. When he does and can relate to them, he pulls for them: Hey, I lost my son in an accident - I want Coach Dungy to win! Or You know, I'm not the richest guy in the world...just once I'd like to see a poor schmo like me take on the big guys and win. Thanks, Florida Marlins!

Think of the guys we like in sports: Dwyane Wade (deemed too small for the NBA). LaDanian Tomlinson (went to TCU because no one else wanted him). Yao Ming (awkward foreigner in a new land trying to live his dream). Etc.

Which brings us back to Bonds.

We can't relate to him. His daddy, Bobby, was a borderline Hall of Fame baseball player, so Barry had plenty of money growing up. His godfather was Willie Mays, so he had every sliver of encouragement and training you could ask for. Could we get over this kind of a background? Of course. Ken Griffey Jr.'s dad was a star, but enough Seattle fans still love him after he asked to be traded. But we view Barry as the rich, snotty kid who got into Yale (or Northwestern) because of his parents' money and his last name rather than his GPA.

But for whatever reason, Barry still pretends he's the victim. He throws pity parties for himself. He mopes in the corner of the locker room with his recliner and big-screen TV only he may watch. He pretends the media is making up his steroid allegations and trying to defame him because he's black.

In short, Barry Bonds is trying to make himself into a Cinderella figure - even though he's the ugliest step-sister in the room.

If he didn't have his Maradonna complex, would we like him? Maybe, maybe not. We might look past his alleged steroid use, as we have with Marion Jones or Shawne Merriman. But we can't with Bonds because we can't see ourselves in him. How can you relate to a guy who comes from a family with money, makes millions more but still thinks he's a poor, underappreciated guy?

The irony, of course, is that Bonds' tale would make a pretty decent movie. He's become the star of some twisted, Grimm Brothers take on the Cinderella story: A man who, despite the disdain of most fans, the distrust of the media and the encouragement of no one, becomes one of baseball's best players ever.

But the suffocating factors haven't been external. The cause of his crumbling hasn't been poverty, hurricanes, a small frame or an overbearing mother. It's been himself.

And that's why Bonds' tale is tragic, why he sits alone in his locker every day. Why he was voted the meanest guy in the Major Leagues in a Sports Illustrated players poll.

And that's why, if his story ever does hit the silver screen, few will pay to see it.