In a nation that forever demands bigger, more, better,
faster, Mark David McGwire is now a name -- and an
event -- to be remembered.
With his 62nd home run of 1998, a stinging line drive that
broke Roger Maris' 37-year record (which broke the
Babe Ruth's mark), the 34-year-old McGwire became the
6-4, 250-pound engine that could.
The flashbulbs of a thousand cameras exploded from the
Busch Stadium stands, forming a hometown light show as
he circled the bases triumphantly for his shortest home run
of the year.
"A shot into the corner! It might make it! There
it is -- 62,
folks!" Mike Shannon, Maris' friend, said
on KMOX-AM.
"And we have a new home run champion -- a new
Sultan
of Swat!"
McGwire's 449th career homer came in his second at-bat
of the night.
"The legend of Mark McGwire continues," the scoreboard
flashed. Security guards high-fived each other as they
chased down the smattering of jubilant fans who rushed
the field.
Across the stadium, from the most expensive boxes to the
hot-dog vendors in the outfield, they all said it: The
national pastime, an odd game in which the object is to get
back to where you started, is a contender once again.
"Now there's a reason to come back to baseball," said
Sherry Irby, a pharmacist from Florence, Alabama, who
drove all night with her husband and two young sons to
see a McGwire at-bat. They set up shop on cardboard
mats in the outfield standing-room-only section.
"Good role models are few and far between for kids,"
said her husband, Ken. "The country's been kind of in the
doldrums with the Lewinsky thing. We needed something
to cheer."
And cheer they did, for days: St. Louis fans, opposing
teams' fans, people who aren't fans at all, entranced with
the excitement of the record. They cheered from the bars
of St. Louis to the McGwire-mad left-field stands of
Busch Stadium and beyond.
The home-run race being run by McGwire and the Cubs'
Sammy Sosa, who has a healthy 58, has heralded a
resurgence of the nation's pastime, scorned by many since
its players went on strike in 1994.
"Baseball sort of lost its way. Mark McGwire is doing a
great job for the game," said Bob Edmiston, 87, who has
been attending Cardinals games since 1920. He came to
the stadium in a McGwire jersey and scarlet shorts.
Milestones are especially crucial in baseball, a game of
statistics with fans who care that so-and-so bats .306
against left-handed pitchers named Frank on partly cloudy
Tuesdays in May.
"There's something in the pursuit of records that only
baseball can deliver," said Bud Selig, the game's
commissioner.
Behind it all has been McGwire, the aw-shucks California
giant who makes $9.5 million a year and has consistently
tried to deflect the attention toward baseball itself.
He can't, of course; in a world of 64-ounce Big Gulps,
Wal-Mart Supercenters and McDonald's super-size fries,
McGwire is bigger-more-faster incarnate.
"He's really the home-run hitter of our era," said Roger
Maris Jr., who should know.
Other famous home runs have transcended baseball:
Bobby Thomson's, off Ralph Branca, that won the Giants
the 1951 pennant; Bill Mazeroski's World Series-winner
in 1960; and, of course, Babe Ruth's legendary called shot
in the 1932 World Series, in which it's said he pointed his
bat into the stands and put the ball right there.
Beyond being the national pastime, baseball -- deservedly
or not -- crosses over into the fabric of American culture
more than most sports, becoming the repository of many
an American's metaphors of innocence and timelessness.
You don't hear football players talking about "Canton"
with the reverence of Cooperstown.
"Baseball is associated with legend -- both sport and
American culture," says Bill McGill, co-editor of
Spitball, a literary baseball magazine.
It has been a legendary few days in St. Louis, one of the
oldest of baseball towns.
Thousands draw breath en masse each time McGwire
connects. Batting practice turns into a fireworks show.
Random fans catch home-run balls and hold news
conferences for the national media minutes later.
"This is something phenomenal in our lifetime," said Tony
La Russa, McGwire's manager.