Associated Press

Wow. Did you ever have one of those “always remember where you were” moments? Like when JFK was shot or when the Twin Towers went down? Well I had one of those yesterday. I, personally, will always remember where I was when Barry Bonds snapped his 0-21 slide and began his final charge at Henry Aaron’s ancient, obsolete former record with two monster jobs.

Right at Wrigley Field’s goddamned home plate.

I’ll remember the sights of watching two different mopes sag their shoulders as I forcibly shoved them into the record books.

I’ll remember the sound of 40,198 basically brain-dead college kids groaning or grunting or farting in unison — not once but TWICE.

I’ll remember the smell of lard-soaked hot dog and the slight fiery singe of the ball hitting my magic home run wand (my bat).

But above all, I will remember me. Barry Bonds. In all my glory. Standing at home plate a good ten seconds each to watch two towering fly balls cut through the heart of a beautiful day in a major American city, one to the right and one to the left.

Actually that Twin Towers analogy was really apt.