The most hated man in America.(MY TURN: 111 percent)

You know something is amiss when you enter a ballpark and hand your ticket to the elderly lady with a face like apple pie, only to have her look at you and spit, "Babe Ruth was my hero. Not you." But then, you expect such things when you walk into Citizens Bank Park wearing a Barry Bonds jersey.

In one recent edition of Bonds on Bonds, the Giants slugger and title subject sits, pensive and defiant, and laments his upcoming trip to Philadelphia: "I don't care what athlete you are in Philly, that is the toughest place."

Oh, really, Barry? If you think it's tough being you, try being a fan of you. Trust me. I did.

Yes, I donned a Giants No. 25 jersey ($30 at Marshalls; it's next to the Terrell Owens jerseys--really) and along with my trusted friend Chico Starr (clad in a T-shirt imploring, "Stop the Witch Hunt!") ventured to a Giants game. In Philadelphia.

I'm not a Bonds fan. I'm not anti-Bonds. I just wanted to know what it is like to root for sports' most reviled player--in sports' most notoriously hostile city.

Sure enough, Bonds was booed. A lot. He was booed when he popped his head out of the dugout. He was booed when he chased a foul ball into the left field corner. He was booed in the on-deck circle.

My pregame was a bit different. I was surrounded by six walking cheesesteaks on the concourse who flashed obscene gestures at me and shouted the name of a certain body part that should not be uttered in the presence of women and children. I was about to scold the fiends until I noticed the women and children were shouting it, too.