Barry Bonds just made you folks at the National Baseball Hall of Fame an offer you can’t refuse.

He claims he won’t report to Cooperstown, not if his record-breaking 756th home run ball is enshrined with an asterisk before he, himself, is inducted.

What a deal! Take it now, Mr. And Mrs. Hall of Fame. Enter the Asterisked Ball. Exit the Bombastic Bonds. Call his bluff.

You’re bigger than Bonds. You’re bigger than any player. You represent baseball, its jewels and its blemishes. You must tell the stories that define its history. Bonds knows the Hall is still sacred ground, even if the home-run record is not. That’s why he left open the door to, well, eventually walk through its hallowed doors.

“At this time, I will not be there. That’s my emotions now. That’s how I feel now,” Bonds said Thursday. “When I decide to retire, five years from now, we’ll see where they are at that moment, we’ll see where they are at that time, and maybe I’ll reconsider.”

Let him consider opening up “Bonds of Fame.” He’s been hogging his memorabilia anyhow, in case anyone forgot how he snubbed the Hall and hoarded his artifacts from last season’s record-breaking chase.

Of course, one of those mementos got away, landing in AT&T Park’s bleachers on Aug. 7. A New York fashion designer bought home-run ball No. 756 and let the public determine its fate with an Internet vote. The consensus: Brand it with an asterisk and send it to Cooperstown.

Bonds said: “You cannot give people the freedom, the right to alter history. You can’t do it.”

Um, didn’t we just see him alter the most cherished record in baseball history when most people thought he had no right to because of his alleged use of performance-enhancing drugs?

“That’s not true. That’s not fair. … I have nothing to hide,” he said.

Ah, but he’ll hide out if the Hall of Fame dares display Exhibit A of baseball’s home-run fueled Steroid Era. That piece, indeed, represents his claim to “fame,” the ball with which he eclipsed the home-run record under a cloud of suspicion.

Bonds says you’ll “never” see him in the Hall of Fame if that asterisked ball beats him there. He says he won’t go. Cooperstown can call, but he won’t show. Then he chuckles, as if he’s above the little museum, like he’s got somewhere better to be (perhaps Anaheim, Texas, Seattle or even New York’s other home of expensive artifacts, the Yankees).

He knows the Hall will leave him a key under the mat if baseball writers grant him entry. However, there still is a federal grand jury convened.

Indicted or inducted, which do you prefer, Mr. Bonds?

He says he has a lot of games remaining. This Hall of Fame mumbo jumbo must be one of them, acting as if he’s purifying baseball from vandals.

Former New York Giants linebacker Harry Carson once wrote a letter to the Pro Football Hall of Fame demanding his name be withdrawn from consideration, so insulted was he after initially be snubbed by electors. Last year, Carson was enshrined-and get this, Barry-he showed up for the ceremony.