Covering the Dodgers, I was in Pittsburgh for the major-league debut of Barry Bonds on May 30, 1986. He had an awful day. A check of the records shows Bonds went 0-for-5, with three strikeouts and a walk in the extra-inning ballgame.

No need to consult records to recall the tone of then-Pirates general manager Syd Thrift’s voice as he made a promise to the baseball world.

We had just witnessed baseball’s next superstar, Thrift vowed. He talked in that cornpone drawl about the lightning-quick bat, the raw power, the speed on the bases, the instincts tracking a fly ball.

Four years later, as Bonds was on his way to fulfilling Thrift’s prediction, a publicist from the Pirates steered me to Barry’s father, Bobby, sitting alone in the dugout on workout day during the playoffs.

Bobby wanted to get something off his chest, and mine was the closest notebook. He started talking and couldn’t stop. His needle was stuck on the injustice of sportswriters comparing him to the great Willie Mays and continuing the unfair practice by comparing Barry to his father. I told Bobby that I seemed to remember Barry had a brother who played ball.

“Yes, Bobby Jr.,” said the since-deceased Bobby Sr. “He’ll be at least as good as Barry, if not better.”

Comparing players is natural, but the chip on the father’s shoulder wouldn’t allow him to see it that way.

Fast forward six or seven years and smoke a pregame cigar with Atlanta Braves manager Bobby Cox. Tell him you think Ken Griffey Jr. is the best player in the game and watch him look at you funny.

“You can pitch to Griffey if you put it right where you want it,” Cox said, even though Griffey had better numbers at the time. “You can’t pitch to Bonds. He’ll hit it no matter where you put it.”

He said this before 1998, the year Bonds began taking steroids, according to a book by courageous, credible “Game of Shadows” authors Mark Fainaru-Wada and Lance Williams of the San Francisco Chronicle.

That’s what’s so infuriating about Bonds. He already was the best. By 1993, he had won three MVP awards and deserved one more that went to Terry Pendleton. He didn’t have to turn his body into a human laboratory rat, filling himself with poison that inflated his baseball prowess from great to freakishly phenomenal.

And don’t bother trying to defend Bonds. The inflation of the numbers kept pace with the muscles. Dangerous, yes, but the stuff works. From the appearance of it, Bonds might have been a hyper-respondent.

The juice increases power, which leads to more home runs, which makes pitchers work more carefully, which leads to favorable home-run counts. It also quickens the bat. Why do you think sprinters juice up? A quicker bat means more power, and it gives a hitter a bit longer to recognize the location of pitches.

Bonds already had earned a place in the Hall of Fame before 1998, but was not on track to shatter Hank Aaron’s record. Here’s hoping pitchers develop a conscience about preserving the history of the game and, whenever it doesn’t hurt their teams’ chances of winning, refuse to pitch to Bonds. Here’s hoping it so frustrates him he retires to wallow in martyrdom, instead of hanging on to break a better man’s record.