Bay Area Blasters : MARK McGWIRE

Ten years and a day after Mark McGwire’s first glimpse of Yankee Stadium--baseball’s home run citadel--he is back. One memory is fresh. McGwire, up from Class AAA Tacoma, had joined the Oakland Athletics in Baltimore and sat through two games. The club moved on to New York for three games. McGwire, 22 at the time, climbed the dugout steps, and like any first-time visitor, let sepia images of history wash over him. His big heart was moved, even as his feet carried him toward an alcove beyond center field.

“The first thing I did was come look at the plaques,” McGwire says.

Two days later, Aug. 24, 1986, he notched his first big league hit, a single off Tommy John. Now he is back, posing for a picture, as the man who would be Ruth and Maris. The place is called Monument Park, and it displays bronze plaques of great Yankees players and executives. Babe Ruth’s and Mickey Mantle’s plaques hang on slabs of granite in the foreground. A plaque of Roger Maris, who holds the season record of 61 home runs, hangs on a wall in the rear. McGwire is posing next to the plaque of Maris, a man he never met but whose ghost he chases, just as Maris chased Ruth’s ghost in the summer of 1961.

“Ever wonder what Maris felt chasing Ruth?” I ask.

McGwire plays it cute. He answers with a question.

“Well, what did Mantle finish up with that year?”

The point, delicately made, is necessary. Mantle hit cleanup, behind Maris. Mantle had the greater reputation and was more feared. Pitchers chose to take their chances with Maris. They pitched to Maris because of Mantle.

McGwire, batting cleanup, is followed by Geronimo Berroa, who is having a career year and is on pace to top 40 home runs. Berroa is an abnormally streaky hitter--he has two three-home-run games and eight of his 34 home runs came in a seven-game stretch--who may be every bit as dangerous as Mantle for short periods. But reality matters less than perception. Berroa is not perceived to be as dangerous as Mantle, or more pertinently, McGwire. He is perceived, somewhat unfairly, as a hacker. Nobody is going to pitch to McGwire because of Berroa.

Take it a step further. The A’s (as well as the Baltimore Orioles and Seattle Mariners) have a shot at breaking the team home run mark of 240 held by the 1961 New York Yankees. Those Yankees had several established long-ball threats, among them Yogi Berra, Moose Skowron and Elston Howard. The A’s have just as many long-ball threats--Terry Steinbach, Jason Giambi, Scott Brosius, Ernie Young--but the perception is different. None was established as a power hitter before this season. Only Steinbach had any sort of reputation, that as a smart hitter in the clutch.

McGwire looms as the Colossus of Rhodes, at 6-foot-5, 250 pounds, bestriding a lineup of Lilliputians. There is no minimizing his effect on pitchers--each swing has upper-deck potential. Reality is that McGwire this season hits a home run once every 7.6 at-bats. Several soared so high and deep they could have counted for two. In one 162-game period spanning the ’95 and ’96 seasons, he hit 70 home runs. He also walked 147 times, a stat that may be more relevant to McGwire’s pursuit of Maris. Hittable pitches are hard to find. If there were a stat for quality-swings-per-hittable-pitch, McGwire probably would lead the majors. He simply can’t waste a good pitch. The next one, like a water hole in a desert, may be beyond the horizon.

“They aren’t pitching to him,” A’s Manager Art Howe says. “He’s getting nothing to hit. It’s sad.”

Throughout August, McGwire characterized a quest for 62 home runs as “far-fetched” unless he was at 50 on Sept. ember 1. As of Sunday, he was at 44 and appeared to be out of steam. He had gone homerless for five games when he lofted one out of Yankee Stadium in his first at-bat Sunday--a day, fittingly, on which Mantle’s red granite memorial was unveiled in Monument Park. Yet, cautions Howe, “Don’t count him out. It’s going to be tough, but if anybody can do it, he can. Because he’s unique. He’s got a tremendous approach, ready to hit every time he goes to the plate. He’s the strongest man I’ve ever been around.”

“Stronger than Ted Kluszewski?”

“Yep,” Howe says. “Stronger than Klu.”

The A’s rarely talk about home runs among themselves. They prefer to focus on the nuts and bolts of hitting, on having a sound “approach” at the plate, batting coach Denny Walling says. They aspire to discipline, consistency, patience and aggressiveness.

“I don’t like the term slugger,” Walling says.

“Why not?”

“A guy can do lots of things wrong and hit .220 and be a slugger,” Walling says. “I’d rather have a better approach and hit .260, .270, .280 and get my home runs. Have a higher on-base percentage instead of bailing and whaling and swinging for fences.”

“So slugger has a bad connotation?”

“I wouldn’t like to be called a slugger,” Walling says. “Maybe if you asked Mac he would like to be. I don’t think so. He’s got one of the best approaches I ever saw at the plate.”

McGwire is posing next to Ruth’s plaque. Ruth’s cap, as depicted in his bronze likeness, is tilted back, in the fashion of the day. A photographer asks McGwire to tilt back his cap.

“Think how many he could have hit if he had taken care of himself,” I say.

McGwire takes a different tack.

“Or if he hadn’t pitched,” he says.

There are a couple of similarities between Ruth and McGwire. Both started as pitchers. Ruth was a pitcher his first five years in the big leagues, with the Boston Red Sox. McGwire was a pitcher until his junior year at USC. Both lost valuable time as hitters, Ruth to pitching (and carousing), McGwire to injuries.

There’s no underestimating the impact of injuries on McGwire’s career. Foot and back problems limited him to 27 games in 1993 and 47 in ’94. He has missed 30 games this season. Although he may close in on 330 home runs by Oct. 1, he is unlikely to reach the top echelon at 500-plus. His sculpted gym-honed body is a house of cards, ready to collapse at the first strong wind. McGwire has contemplated retirement before a couple of rehabilitations, but each time he pushed himself through the pain and tedium, most recently in March and April. Eventually he will reach his limit.

When McGwire describes events that have shaped his character, he starts with his low point on the field, a .201 average in 1991. He mentions his divorce. But always he comes back to coping with a body he characterizes as “structurally defective.” Pain is a constant; between innings he stands in the dugout to keep his back from stiffening. Teammates describe a man stiff and hobbled arriving for morning workouts.

Living on the edge of athletic extinction, perhaps, explains his quiet joy, both in the overachieving of his young teammates and his personal success.

“I’m having the best time of my career,” he says. “I love these young guys. The coaching staff is great. And that says a lot considering the teams I’ve been on.”

Maturity in an athlete is measured in various ways; one is willingness to share with the public. Athletes who share deepen the vicarious pleasure of fans. In a TV interview at Fenway Park, McGwire is asked to describe how it feels to hit a home run. This is his reply: “When a round ball meets a round bat perfectly, there’s just a feel of . . . I don’t know if anybody but a baseball player could relate to it. It would be like a golfer hitting a 300-yard drive, a tennis player hitting a 100-mph serve, a bowler throwing a perfect strike. It’s a game where millions of Americans would love to play and only a few get to the big leagues. We’re so fortunate.”

McGwire is not going to catch Maris. He has known it for a while and has tried to dampen unreasonable expectations. One reason he won’t is that the system is stacked against modern sluggers in a way that Maris could not have envisioned. In 1961, the Yankees clinched the American League pennant on Sept. 20. That left Maris eight meaningless games to play, games in which opposing pitchers might get careless.

But there are few meaningless games anymore. Three divisional races and a wild-card berth create a greater mathematical likelihood of meaningful games against contenders in September. In Maris’ day, seven of 10 teams usually were has-beens by the final month.

Seven of Oakland’s last nine games are against the Mariners, two against the Texas Rangers. McGwire is unlikely to encounter many careless pitches, unless the Rangers have clinched.

Another factor is cultural. The onslaught of media, and the inflated value of celebrity, has changed the way players think of themselves. The reward of stardom is equaled by the ignominy of goathood. Bill Buckner’s experience--as goat of the ’86 Series he was harassed out of Massachusetts--may forewarn any pitcher who contemplates serving up No. 62.

“”The one thing I can relate it to is pitchers who pitched to Cal (Ripken) last year,” Steinbach says. “No one in his right mind wanted to hit him or knock him out of the game. Flip flop it. Who wants to be known for giving that up to Mac? He gets pitched around a lot at 43. Imagine if he gets to 55 or 57.”

The nice thing about McGwire is that although he knows 62 is “far-fetched,” he enjoys the moment. He is gracious with reporters and spends time signing autographs and chatting with fans. He understands the public’s interest in home runs is healthy in the post-strike era.

Amiability substitutes for glamour. McGwire is not charismatic in the manner of Jose Canseco or Barry Bonds, but he is appealing in a direct and honest way. One A’s beat writer describes him as “your basic California dude.” Baseball executives need only imagine Albert Belle leading the pursuit of Maris to appreciate McGwire’s ambassadorial competence.

So here he is, next to Maris’ plaque, quietly proud to brush up against history. He knows Mantle’s home run total in 1961, but he asks politely nonetheless.

“Fifty-four,” I say. “He got hurt in September.”

McGwire nods appreciatively.

“How about that--two guys going for 60 or more.”

“Everybody thought Mantle would do it,” I say.

“Well, they say Maris lost his hair, so . . . “

McGwire doesn’t complete the thought.

“Not a problem with you.”

He grins, lifts his cap and runs a hand through snarled, coppery tresses creeping long on his ears and neck.

“Well, my dad is sort of bald and losing his hair,” he says. “I hope I don’t. I’d rather wait until I get in my 50s.”

Years, he means.