It was the Summer of 1994 and our national pastime was lying sick on a rusted hospital gurney. Baseball looked pale and diseased. Its EKG was nearly flat, evidence of an ailing heart and a dying sport.
Pampered, millionaire ball players and jaded, billionaire owners were vying to taint, if not erase, the legacy of Cobb and Ruth, Koufax and Aaron, Ryan and Mays. The youth of our nation were slowly turning their attention toward the NBA, middle-aged men were heading off to the beach and not the ballpark, and this writer was simply tired of the business surrounding the game.
Enter Mark McGwire.
It is the Summer of 1998 and baseball has received a desperately needed dose of adrenaline. It came in the form of a small but potent pill that has been named everything from the long ball to the grand salami. The home run and, more to the point, the chase to break the single season record home-run record by Roger Maris has prompted many fans to forget the greed, to fill the stadiums, and to resuscitate the game of baseball.
For avid baseball fans any televised Cardinals game is must-see-TV. When #25 steps to the plate, ticket-holders, forgetting their loyalty to whatever team they support, rise to their feet and cheer; the anticipation in the air is almost palpable.
On September 8, 1998 at 9:18 p.m. EST the wait to surpass Roger Maris' fabled 61 ended. A two-out fastball in the 4th inning was delivered from the mound by Chicago Cub Steve Traschel. Mac took one swift cut and the ball traveled a non-Ruthian 341 feet, his shortest of the season, but the most phenomenal of his career.
Busch Stadium in St. Louis, the former home of legends Stan Musial, Enos Slaughter and Ozzie Smith held witness to satiated fans cheering McGwire's visibly elated and emotional romp around the diamond. Upon touching homeplate McGwire immediately hugged his son, pointed to his father, and, in a sign of historical respect, embraced the Maris family.
And, lurking in the shadows, newfound friend and homerun rival Sammy Sosa, who has 58 homers of his own, shared a mutual embrace of sportsmanship and respect with the new home run king.
Number 62 has made cynics of our national pastime escape their pessimistic cocoons, grease up their worn leather mits, and play a game of catch with their sons.
Despite the apathy that seems to pervade the Oberlin College campus, it is certain that we live in a golden-age of professional sports. Fifty years from now, I will be telling my grandchildren not of Monica Lewinsky, Omar Bin-Laden, or Allen Greenspan, but of Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretzky, Jerry Rice, and, of course, baseball's current hero and messiah, Mark McGwire.
Copyright © 1998, The Oberlin Review.
Volume 127, Number 2, September 11, 1998
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