There’s a dive of a bar I like to frequent, just outside of Burlington, off I-85. It has a dark, seedy, atmosphere, and typically at least five 18-wheelers stationed in the parking lot. Not only is it a great place to drink watered down Bud Light and hone your bar fighting skills, but it is also an excellent place for anonymity. Between the darkness and the intoxication of most of the patrons, few people go noticed, even a guy like Barry Bonds. Since Bonds is only a baseball superstar, as opposed to a professional wrestler or bull rider, even he can blend into the crowd.

Bonds and I met here recently. He said he wanted to talk, and clear the air on a lot of the issues surrounding him. While arranging for the interview, he didn’t specifically mention steroids, but it was obvious to me that was the subject on his mind.

I could sense on the telephone that Bonds had a desire to come clean. Given the potential revelations that could flow from such a session, I offered to fly out to San Francisco to meet him.

He said that he had plenty of time on his hands, because of the knee surgeries that could sideline him for the entire season, so he had no problems with taking a trip to North Carolina.

When he walked into the bar, Bonds greeted me with a firm handshake that consequently broke four of my fingers. I have since toughened up, to the extent that only two were broken this time.

After ordering a round of drinks and some appetizers, Bonds fell silent, staring into his beer mug. He stared for awhile before speaking.

“You hear what those racist pieces of crap in the media have been saying about me?” he asked, to which I nodded.

“They’re going to drive me out of the game. The pressure, man, it’s just so much. I’m a performer, a superstar. They wouldn’t treat Michael Jackson like this.”

Barry then rambled on for a span of about an hour. He talked about the media’s conspiracy to keep him from passing “that fat cracker” Babe Ruth on the all time home runs list, and their general proclivity towards being bad people.

While Bonds talked in circles about the media’s crusade against him, I half paid attention to him, while making sure the two fistfights going on around us didn’t spill over to our table.

Finally, when he ran out of condemnations for the press, and the current slate of fisticuffs had come to an end, Barry looked at me. With a tear in his eye, he said, “I have something I need to say.”

I nodded as he took a deep breath. “I’ve been using steroids since before the 2001 season.”

Taking a sip from my beer, I raised an eyebrow, but remained silent.

This came as no surprise to me. I asked him why he decided to tell me.

“I figured you were the right guy to tell, man. You know how it goes, shooting up, I’ve seen your needles.”

I bit my tongue not to laugh, and replied, “Barry, I’m a diabetic, that’s why I keep syringes with me.”

Bonds looked at me dumbfounded. “You mean you don’t juice?”

I simply shook my head.

“That explains a lot. Diabetic, huh? I was wondering what the hell kind of stuff you could be on. I mean, look at you; you’re a scrawny little wuss. Like that Clay Aiken guy.”

At the mention of Clay Aiken’s name, several of the bar patrons turned around. Apparently, the former American Idol finalist is not a very popular man at the dive bar in Burlington.

A fight broke out that Bonds and I could not escape. The last thing I remember, before waking up two days later at a nearby hospital, was a rather large beer glass breaking on my head.

There was a note beside my bed from Bonds, saying that he’d be glad to give me a follow up interview when I felt better. He also left me a vial of clear liquid.

The note attached to the vial said: “So you can defend yourself next time.”

Yup, you guessed it… APRIL FOOLS!!! HAHA