Looking Out for a Hero...Whatever That Is

One night at the 'Sco, some amiable young woman mentioned that she read my column and proceeded to describe me as "her hero." I was flattered to say the least, though I was more than aware that the term was used in jest.

But the exchange got me thinking. What is it about one sports figure (or sportswriter for that matter) that elevates them above all others? I'm not just talking about fan base. Even Albert Belle, the biggest jerk in baseball, has fans. Babe Ruth had a ton of fans, but he was a hero to the kids he visited in hospitals. What makes an athlete worthy of a follower who will stand by them through bad seasons, injuries and scandals? What makes someone a hero in the eyes of a particular fan, young or old?

Eschewing philosophical debates for a moment and concentrating instead on the world of sports, you should probably start with success. Jordan, Junior, the Babe, the Great One and Sweetness all garnered their fans the old fashioned way - by being damn good at what they did.

But stats aren't the only things that get attention. Finding a way to stand out from the crowd - whether that crowd be composed of benchwarmers or superstars. Kurt Rambis, Bill Laimbeer and Dennis Rodman made this an art form, albeit in very different ways. Rambis, a former Los Angeles Laker, used his thick glasses and a fake moustache to gain an international following; Laimbeer, a former Detroit Piston, used his elbows. Meanwhile, Rodman cultivated a rabid fan base and raised plenty of hell in NBA cities around the country with his colorful hair, his bizarre behavior and his ability to rebound.

Like I said before though, there's more to being a hero than having fans, no matter how you get those fans. I'd say that something is exactly what transforms third-string athletes and superstars alike into hometown heroes: accessibility and humility.

There's an anecdote about Michael Jordan that is particularly telling. Throughout his career in Chicago, M.J. would always take a particular route back to his house after home games. He'd stop at a certain corner, and there, waiting for him each time, would be four Chicago teens. Jordan would get out and talk with them for a half-hour or so. Just talk. On the surface, it may not seem like such a big deal. After all, Jordan was merely granting a little of his time to a few kids whom he barely knew. But think about it. The most popular athlete in America, a man whose attention was desired by every sportswriter and advertising executive on the planet, was taking time out of his busy schedule to chat with a few inner-city teens who needed a positive role model in their lives. To them, those conversations probably meant the world.

Other athletes gained their reputations as heroes differently. Sammy Sosa and the late Roberto Clemente did it by giving something back to the people who used to be like them, the people who were unable to escape poverty and hardship on the strength of their bats and gloves. Clemente, a native Puerto Rican, personally delivered food and clothing to earthquake victims in El Salvador until a fatal plane cut short his time on earth; meanwhile, Sosa provided financial aid to hurricane victims in his own home, the Dominican Republic. In both cases, superstar athletes who had struggled against destitution for most of their lives returned to their native lands in an effort to make a positive difference.

Such valor and compassion is truly remarkable, but men like Clemente and Sosa are few and far between. Plenty of athletes donate a portion of their astronomical salaries to charity, a practice strongly encouraged by their agents, employers and public relations directors. (Although I hesitate to be cynical, I feel obliged to point out that many sports franchises offer their players lucrative contract incentives to act as positive role models within their local communities.) Some, like Anaheim Angels slugger Mo Vaughn, hire assistants to found and operate their own charitable organizations, becoming hometown heroes in the process. But too many athletes actively choose to distance themselves from their communities and their fans. Despite his fame and popularity, Charles Barkley never tried to be a hero to anyone, nor did he ever censor his thoughts or his behavior for the benefit of the media. "I am not a role model," he was fond of saying. "I am a professional athlete."

Barkley stayed true to his word, of course. Whether he was spitting on court-side fans or hurling his more vocal critics through night club windows, the Round Mound of Rebound never missed an opportunity to rebel against all the folks who wished he would just be pleasant, respectful and responsible. But give Barkley some credit. By the time he retired, he had outgrown that kind of youthful petulance, and he never prided himself on his rude, crude and socially unacceptable behavior. The same cannot said for notorious louts like Belle and Latrell Sprewell. For that matter, Ty Cobb, who might just be the greatest hitter of all time, was also one of the most despicable wretches ever to don a uniform. He was a hero to no one - except for Pete Rose, which is perversely appropriate, and assorted members of the Ku Klux Klan.

But what's the point? What makes a hero? Charity work? A bad dye job? An entire career spent in the same city, with the same team? Really, there is no answer to that question. Different people have different values, and heroes are appraised by different standards. But one thing is certain: for most people, professional sports are little more than a distraction, not a viable avenue for employment. They provide a brief respite from the anxieties of the workplace and the harsh realities of family life. So who cares if pro athletes will never find a cure for cancer, facilitate a Pink Floyd reunion or solve the ills of the world? For whatever reasons, they bring us fleeting joy - even if those reasons involve something as trivial as a timely hit or a thunderous dunk. Personally, I think it's a good thing.