There's nothing left to prove.

Look at Barry Bonds. He's the next hitter. Everyone looks at Barry Bonds in the on-deck circle because we have not seen anyone like him before. He has a metal rod in his hands, moving it the way he'd move a bat, moving it slowly, waiting. Alongside him stands his baseball bat, the famous maple stick with white tape on the handle, its barrel black.

Because the barrel's end is hollowed out, saving weight, the end is blunt rather than rounded. So Bonds stands the bat upright on that end.

Coming to the plate, he carries the bat at its balance point in his left hand, as if the wood were incidental to his work. He's a lefthanded hitter, a big man, thick up top, trim to the ground. He reaches down with the bat. He taps the plate twice, measuring to the outside edge and the inside third. The message to all with eyes: "This is mine."

The poor pitcher. He sees Bonds massive, unblinking. He sees the black-barreled bat snap toward him in anticipation of the pitch. The bat comes forward two times, three times. It moves quickly in small, tight arcs. No Willie Stargell flourishes, just a suggestion of menace. The message: "Dare you."

The 2002 World Series prompted several questions, such as ...

* That screeching Rally Monkey, an escapee from a lab experiment?

* Those ThunderStix, idiot sticks?