The reaction to Pablo Sandoval’s girth upon his arrival in Fort Myers last week has been, fittingly perhaps, heavy. It’s also been ridiculous. If you hire a fat guy and hand him $95 million, what do you think he’s going to turn into? Evander Holyfield?

About the only truly honest statement about the man, his condition and the Red Sox’ knowledge of it came from president of baseball operations Dave Dombrowski. Dombrowski, manager John Farrell and owner John Henry will probably have to visit a chiropractor after bending themselves into a pretzel last week trying to convince the populace that a guy nicknamed Panda was actually as fit as a devotee of the Insanity workout, but at one point Dombrowski raised a valid point when he said: “He’s got one of those bodies — they call him Panda for a reason.”

In other words, Pablo Sandoval was fat when he was a World Series MVP for the San Francisco Giants, he was fat when he helped them win three World Series, he was fat when the Giants matched the Sox $95 million offer, and he’s fat now. Acting outraged, as so many in the media tried to be this week when they first saw the size of his gut, was as phony of the claim his body fat is 17 percent.

The media, it seems, was shocked. Shocked about what? That a fat guy at 26, 27 and 28 years old is still fat at 29?

Certainly Sandoval was a big disappointment when he put up the worst numbers of his major league career after scoring the best ones — $95 million guaranteed for five seasons — in his contract negotiation with the Sox last season. He showed up big but not during games, hitting just .245 with a .658 OPS with defensive range at third base that made Hanley Ramirez look like Willie Mays by comparison in left field. Of more concern, for the fourth straight season both Sandoval’s on-base percentage and slugging percentage sagged.

But, really, what did Red Sox management expect? That’s usually what happens to professional athletes who are habitually overweight. They fade fast, even if the number crunchers in Geekland don’t see it coming because they’re too busy coming up with an algorithm to prove they’re smarter than guys who scout with their eyes rather than a high-speed computer.

So a guy called Panda shows up looking like a panda and the reaction is “outrage?” Outrage over what? A fat guy being fat?

As often happens with the Red Sox, part of the problem is nobody stayed on message. Farrell and Dombrowski said they’d been monitoring Sandoval and were pleased with his work ethic. Fine, but his work ethic has never been his problem. It’s his food addiction that’s the problem, but that’s not his fault. Nor is it going away.

They also said they’d spoken with him at the end of last year about the need to lose weight, although Farrell later said nobody actually said “lose weight.” That was obvious.

Then Sandoval shows up and says nobody told him to lose a pound. What followed were several days of unflattering pictures of his belly protruding out of his T-shirt and a front page story in one paper offering nutritional suggestions for dietary changes. Steamed vegetables? Right!

Sandoval’s insistence that no one told him to lose weight struck me as simply the embarrassed reaction of many folks who struggle with weight control. Denial is as popular on their menu as a dozen donuts and a 32-ounce Frappuccino.

We all know someone like poor Pablo. The person who orders a salad and Diet Coke then puts 16 ounces of salad dressing on the veggies and eats half a loaf of French bread. What seems obvious is Sandoval has an eating disorder. Maybe it’s that he eats the wrong things or at the wrong times. Certainly working the 4-to-midnight shift nearly every night from April to October doesn’t help.

Sandoval claims his body fat went from 23 percent last year down to 17 percent, a number confirmed by the Red Sox. If true he would be considered fit, which he well may be. Frankly, 17 percent makes him an average American 30-year-old male. The problem is do you really want your $95 million third baseman to be an average American 30-year-old male?

Whatever the truth may be, the scorn heaped on Sandoval, while understandable, seemed utterly unfair. It was the same when the Sox brought in Manny Ramirez. As long as he was one of the best hitters of his time his odd, sometimes disinterested approach was tolerated. When he didn’t, they ran him out of town. For what? He was “Manny being Manny” from the beginning.

It’s the same with Sandoval. If he hits and fields as well as he did with the Giants, he’s Panda and it’s a lovefest. If he doesn’t, he’s fat. The truth is he’s never changed.

As Dombrowski said: “It’s not like he left Oct. 1 and we didn’t see him until he arrived. We’d been seeing him on a regular basis. And I’ll say that even from my own perspective yesterday, even when I saw him — and I saw him when he walked in — I didn’t have any concerns whatsoever. He looked the same to me.”

Yes he did. He wasn’t wearing size 32 jeans when the Sox signed him folks so why knock him now for appearing as he did the day he first arrived?

There have been any number of athletes who ate their way out of a job. Sandoval is headed toward being the next but who knows? He’s the same guy he was last year, but he’s also the same guy he was when he led the Giants to World Series victories. He had a weight problem then and he’s got one now and, unfortunately, he’ll very likely have one until it cuts his life short.

It’s legit to feel sad for him but outraged? Why?

As the great philosopher Mike Tyson once put it, “A leopard don’t change his stripes.”

Tyson may have fractured the analogy but something similar applies here. A guy called Panda is never going to be called Slim. If that bothers you, don’t blame him. Blame the geniuses on Yawkey Way who convinced themselves you lose weight as you age, especially after someone pays you enough money not to buy groceries but to buy a grocery store.