What happens when Barry Bonds finally mashes number 756?

What happens when he unleashes one of his fierce and terrible swings, a beautiful coupling of turned hardwood and applied physics, and sends about 5 ounces of cork, rubber, wool and cowhide hurtling towards tomorrow?

What happens when the inexorable pull of gravity reasserts itself and pulls that pill back to Earth, demands that it returns to its rightful place amongst the rest of us?

What happens when the unavoidable scrum has torn itself apart and one person stands, anonymity temporarily banished, rising up with history, quite literally, in the palm of his or her hand?

What happens when everyone starts to breathe again, when their eyes retrace the parabolic flight of the ball, looking to find the new homerun king, to look upon him, to see if there's even a smile in place of the more familiar glower?

Since the start of the season, since Bonds rushed out of the gate, depositing taters in McCovery Cove like it was 2001 all over again, the question has changed from "can he?" to "when will he?"

Bonds' swing is officially dialed in. Pitchers and managers fear him again, nibbling around the strikezone like they don't really want to be there. So the record is there for the taking, for his taking.

But then what?

Aaron won't be there. He's already confirmed that if there is one place on the planet he can absolutely guarantee you he WON'T be when his record is taken, it's the ballpark in which Bonds is doing the taking. It's like the opposite of most people's summer plans, an itinerary based entirely on places NOT to go.

The commissioner, the master vacillator, the guy who introduced ties to the All-Star game, hasn't made his plans yet. He's camped out happily on the fence, where he'll remain, giddy with indecision, until the last possible moment, at which point he'll tell anyone who cares to listen that he knew all along what he was going to do, that of course he couldn't miss it, that he just didn't want to interject himself into the story and cause a distraction…

Willie Mays, Bonds' godfather, will be there, letting everyone within earshot know how proud he is, how happy he is, how good and right the moment feels.

Willie Brown, the ex-Mayor of San Francisco, will be there. The original Slick Willie has secured himself a couple guaranteed seats for all the Giants games once Barry gets within sneezing distance of the record and through the actual record-breaker.

There will pomp and there will be circumstance. There will be pontificating and there will be moralizing. There will be fireworks and there will be celebrations. Teeth will be gnashed, fists will be shaken towards the heavens, garments shall be rent asunder.

And then the tents will come down, the barkers will call it a night, the lions and tigers and bears will all get back on the train, and the whole freaking circus will disappear into the night. Poof… Gone, forever and done.

And Bonds will have the record. And he'll have it, and he'll have it, and he'll have it. And every day he has it he'll be forced to think about it while the rest of us forget and move onto other insignificances. But Barry won't ever be able to forget. He'll have the record. It'll be all his. Forever. And ever. And he'll have to live with himself.

And that's the way it should be.