Given all that, baseball's toughest trivia question is whether 2001 was one of the game's greatest years or one of its worst.

What do you say about a year in which we sat under a warming sun in McCovey Cove, waiting for history to land in our rowboats -- and also squirmed in our seats under oath at a Congressional hearing, waiting for Selig to answer a question honestly?

What do you say about a year in which the stadium where Bonds tied McGwire's record is named for a bankrupt company that apparently cooked its books?

What do you say about a year in which we plucked home run baseballs from the air and held them to our hearts only to have the commissioner order fans in Minnesota and Montreal to throw them back?

The year's schizophrenia was best exemplified by the Bonds chase. Should we have gotten more excited over the breaking of a three-year-old record? Or should we have cared at all about a millionaire hitting home runs so soon after September 11? Should we have embraced Bonds for his great career? Or given him the cold shoulder he so often turned toward the fans?

In the end, there was no clear answer. Teams repeatedly walked Bonds the final two weeks, removing all drama from a chase that slowed to the pace of owner-union labor negotiations. When Bonds finally broke the record, even he didn't know how to react.

He broke one of baseball's cherished records, but he did so in a loss that eliminated his team from the postseason. Teammates, opponents and fans applauded him, but his own father didn't bother showing up. The game was nationally televised but ended so late on the West Coast (it was the longest nine-inning game in history) that the only people who saw it must have gotten the bizarre postgame ceremony confused with a Ron Popeil infomercial. He spoke about how much the fans and the season meant to him but added that he didn't know whether he would play for the Giants next year.

And the Maris kids were nowhere in sight.

The Bonds home run story isn't complete yet, of course. Because this is 2001, there must be a discouraging coda that leaves fans shaking their heads like bobblehead dolls.

Alex Popov, the man who initially caught, then dropped Barry's record 73rd home run, is suing to get it back.

That makes for a fitting spot for the signature souvenir to a 2001 season in which the commissioner declared war on the fans -- in court, where lawyers will argue over the true ownership of a baseball.

Jim Caple is a senior writer for ESPN.com.