When it comes to Barry Bonds, you either love him or you hate him. There’s no middle ground for this guy. He’s either seen as the greatest player of our generation or the most arrogant soul to grace a baseball diamond.

I don’t remember exactly when I started idolizing the 17-year veteran, but it was probably around the time when I was into trading baseball cards and the North Stars were still in Minnesota. You know, back when the New Kids on the Block were cool.

I remember my first trip to San Francisco and my only visit to Candlestick Park. It was freezing that night. Drinking hot chocolate at a baseball game was incongruous to me, having spent the previous 13 years of my life in the comforts of the Metrodome.

The Giants were terrible that season. They ended up with 94 losses and finished 23 games out of first place. It was late September, and the team was simply going through the motions before being rescued by the conclusion of their schedule.

With only a few games left and no chance at the post-season, the talk around San Francisco that day was that Bonds was going to sit this one out and not risk an injury. The people on the cable cars concurred with this notion, as did the random tourists my mom kept asking on my behalf as we strolled around the halls of Alcatrez.

I was in disbelief. My dream, my idol, my 2,000-mile pilgrimage had seemingly been blown away with one huge gust of the wicked San Francisco Bay winds.

We got to the game and it wasn’t the same. Sure enough, he wasn’t in the lineup. My dad had actually gotten us some pretty decent seats behind home plate, but what good were they if the only players I was going to see were the likes of Glenallen Hill and Stan Javier? I had come to see Barry.

The game trudged along slowly and, to no surprise, the Giants were down by about 4 or 5 runs. The experience at Candlestick was fun but the opportunity appeared to be wasted.

But then something started to happen. The Giants had opened up a late-inning rally and their meaningless deficit had shrunk to two runs. The No. 8 hitter had just gotten on base, and the pitcher was coming to the plate.

Like a kid waiting to open up his presents on Christmas morning, I stared towards the dugout in anticipation of who the pinch-hitter might be.

Then he appeared. Like a gladiator entering the forum of the Coliseum. His No. 25 glistening into the San Francisco night and the suddenly electric spectators on their feet.

The moment was magical for me. I probably don’t even have to tell you how this one played out. No sooner than he stepped into the batter’s box did he send a moon-shot sailing over the center field fence. He tied the score, and the Giants went on to win later in the ninth. I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen. Not only had I seen Barry Bonds in person, I witnessed one of his moments of sheer heroism.

One of the moments that I had previously only seen on Sportscenter or read about in the newspapers. It was Barry Bonds at his finest, a microcosm of his entire career.

The debate about Bonds clearly pivots around his less than charismatic character and turbulent relationship with the media. He’s considered by some to be selfish as a teammate and arrogant as a player.

He’s been labeled as a dark cloud to the sport of baseball and a catalyst to the negative images characterizing professional athletes. He’s been scorned for his scuffles with Jeff Kent and criticized for his Lazy-Boy recliner in the clubhouse.

He’s also one of the top five baseball players to ever walk the face of the earth. Bonds’ talent in today’s game is simply unparalleled, and his performance over the last two years has been nothing short of historic.

Even more impressive than the record-shattering numbers that he has posted is the adversity he has overcome.

No one pitches to this guy.

If Barry is lucky, he will maybe see 2 or 3 pitches to hit throughout the course of a game.

No player in the history of this sport has ever been as feared by opposing teams as much as Bonds has. Not Ruth, not Aaron, not DiMaggio or even Williams. No one. He was once walked with the bases loaded.

Growing up the son of an all-star right fielder and the godson of Willie Mays, Bonds has been the beneficiary of ingenious teaching and the casualty of inherited pressure. But none of that matters to Barry. Seventeen years, two teams, a handful of records and four (soon to be five) MVP awards into his career, Bonds has become much more than mature: He’s become his own man.

Overshadowed by the explosiveness of Ken Griffey Jr. throughout the ’90s, Bonds has persevered and saved the best part of his game for the end of his career.

In addition to the laundry list of awards he’s already accumulated, such as single season home runs, slugging percentage, on-base percentage and walks, he is on pace to break Hank Aaron’s career home-run mark of 755.

The 500 home-run, 500 stolen-base mark that he will eclipse next year is beyond what was believed to be humanly possible.

There is something so pure and unbelievable about the way Bonds plays the game that one cannot help but wonder if he belongs in another league. Stadiums sell out when he comes to town, and people stop what they’re doing when he comes to bat.

The Achilles heel of Bonds’ career was always his inability to perform in the post-season. That’s not so much a concern anymore. Already this post-season, Bonds has broken the home-run record with seven, despite being walked 26 times by opposing pitchers.

When his critics can no longer attack an aspect of his game they simply revert to pulling out the steroid card, which is nothing more than a cheap shot at discrediting a player’s accomplishments. With steroid testing on the block for next season, it will be interesting to see how players’ performances fluctuate.

I doubt Bonds’ production will decrease. You can’t teach the discipline he shows at the plate or the mechanics displayed in his swing.

So while he’s not the ambassador of baseball like Jordan was to basketball or Gretzky was to hockey, his performance between the foul lines speaks for itself. When all is said and done, isn’t that what really matters most?

Today’s heroes of the sport like Ted Williams, Babe Ruth and Ty Cobb weren’t exactly Boy Scouts themselves in the peak of their careers. Only time can mend the wounds that come as a price of greatness.

Barry Bonds will be heralded as one of the greatest players ever. It’s just going to take a little time before people appreciate it.

And I got to see him play.