SCOTTSDALE, Ariz. — Barry Bonds propped up his feet on an aluminum bench and gazed out upon a vacant back field with its expanse of grass and chalked foul lines.



He spent all morning throwing batting practice and watching swings in the indoor cage, but early work had ended. The adjacent stadium swelled with Giants fans for an exhibition game against the Chicago White Sox. From the other side of a chain-link gate, a crowd of 9,721 hummed and broke into occasional peals of muffled applause.



Bonds was close enough to hear the sun-soaked masses, yet he sat shrouded in solitude. It was just him, and me, and those foul lines.



“I feel like a ghost,” he said, his eyes locked on some distant point. “A ghost in a big empty house, just rattling around.”



And then: “A death sentence. That’s what they’ve given me.”



A bit later: “My heart, it’s broken. Really broken.”



Bonds is...