Bonds still blind to his own faults

Why won't any Major League team sign Barry Bonds?
Could it be the federal indictment on charges of perjury and obstruction of justice hanging over his head? The balky knees? The fact that he needs multiple days off and can seldom play back-to-back days just to stay healthy? The bloated entourage? The gloomy clubhouse presence and white-hot media lights he brings? The fact that he's 43 years old?
Take your pick.
The Major League Baseball Players Union will look into the lack of offers made for Bonds, the sport's all-time home run leader, during its annual review of the free-agent market this week. Let's just hope that Bonds' name is the only reason this story has made any headlines and that its content has no validity, because I pity the team that makes the mistake of having this guy on its roster.
Tales of Bonds' difficulty in San Francisco trickled out over his 15 years with the Giants, most of which would be enough to keep other organizations away when taken as individual cases. Add them all together and Bonds is a cross between a washed-up slugger and Eliot Spitzer, a surly, uncooperative, miserable SOB for whom nobody in baseball feels bad.
Bonds' problems with the law are self-made, a product of his own arrogance and ignorance. He is accused of lying to a grand jury when presented with a mountain of physical evidence that made him the focus of the BALCO probe into performance-enhancing drugs. Does anyone want a player who could be on trial by the fall?
The alleged drug use and subsequent bulk that Bonds added has taken a heavy toll on his body. His knees are completely shot, robbing him of his ability to play left field every day. Bonds' physical condition and his advanced age handcuff a manager immediately. What if Bonds says he can't play at the last minute? He already has trouble playing day games after night games and struggles to play three consecutive games, a must for any major leaguer.
The clubhouse is also a much more crowded place when Bonds is on the scene. He demanded full access for multiple trainers, including convicted steroid dealer and personal friend Greg Anderson, and generally refused to work with club personnel. Bonds had three locker stalls to himself, a big screen television that only he could see and a recliner instead of the standard folding chair that other players were forced to sit in. Add the pack of writers that dog Bonds everywhere he goes, searching for comments on his legal situation or his achievements on the field, and space is at a premium. Nerve-endings tend to be frayed when there's that kind of commotion every single day.
None of this has to do with what Bonds does (or hasn't done lately) on the field. He did lead the majors with 132 walks last season, but his average slipped to .276 and he drove in a mere 66 runs. Are those numbers worth $19.3 million? Are they worth the $15 million that Bonds asked the Giants for before he was told that he would not return? Bonds' inflated opinion of his own worth, the underlying theme of all the coddling and special circumstances that have marked his career, is his greatest sin of them all. It's this final straw that will keep him out of baseball for good. He didn't give a damn about anybody else while he was winning his seven Most Valuable Player awards. Now he is on the outside looking in, and no one gives a damn about him.