Now he belongs to the ages

Mark McGwire's towering feat united the country in admiration -- and brought baseball back from its lowest point.

By Steve Kettmann

Sep 9, 1998 | The real magnitude of what Mark McGwire has accomplished this memorable year won't become clear for another month or so. McGwire has given us all a whole passel of delicious images to replay this offseason and beyond: the pumping of the fist and the raised-arm gestures of exhilaration this last week that showed the world what some of us had already known about McGwire, that deep down he played the game with passion, even if he was awkward about expressing it; the dazed, drunken stumble down the first-base line, still in shock that No. 62 had been a buzz-bomb liner just over the left-field fence, not a prodigious, Ruthian clout of the variety that had helped get America excited about the long ball again; that grinning, embarrassed hop back toward first base after he had missed it the first time, like a Little Leaguer still not sure how the drill goes; and then, of course, cable-armed hugs, not just for son Matthew, not just for fellow slugger Sammy Sosa, whom he lifted at one point with one arm as if he were holding a bag of groceries, not just for teammates and coaches and everyone else who crossed his path that magical night, but for all of us.

The thrill the record-setting homer unleashed was universal, starting at the Busch Stadium epicenter and rolling in every direction like some California-into-the-Pacific monster quake. The party was for everyone. But the accomplishment had a more pointed purpose: It was for baseball.

McGwire hung in there over the difficult years of his career not because of raw ambition, or greed, but because he wanted to be a part of the game he loved. Well, he's a part of it now, all right, his face etched into the Mount Rushmore skyline of baseball giants. McGwire has earned this status as a baseball great, worked harder than any outsider would believe. But the true meaning of his achievement won't become evident until a month from now. That's when the surge of interest he has unleashed this summer rolls over into the fall and breathes new life into baseball's sacred yearly rite, the World Series. McGwire's heroics have set the stage for a rebirth of baseball not just as pleasant use of a vacant lot, a bat and a ball, but as something more -- a national religion of sorts, a national pastime that can unite eggheads and sloe-eyed teens and great-grandmothers and yes, even the besieged inhabitants of the White House.

"People say it's bringing the country together," McGwire said this week. "So be it."

The idea of penance has been kicking around a lot lately, as the self-appointed moral guardians of the nation fill the airwaves and news columns with endless fatuous indignation over the petty acts of a sometimes-squirrelly president. Well, baseball had to do some penance, too. It had to suffer a little, get off its high horse, to convince fans that it deserved to be taken back into their hearts after the nauseating betrayal, the unforgivable profanity of a canceled World Series. Baseball has served that penance, it has come roaring back, and McGwire serves as the perfect symbol of all that.

The best thing about McGwire is that he is what he is. He lifted his son Matthew high in the air at home plate just after he tied Roger Maris' record, and he lifted him even higher in the air the next night, just after he surpassed Maris. It was the greatest, the most unforgettable consecration of the parent-child bond baseball ever produced, and it had not a sliver of phoniness to it, unlike so much of the media-devoured gestures of other star athletes. McGwire up until this week was never considered a charmer, but he has been a loving father. Dedicated, even. And yes, a role model to other men trying to be good fathers even after a divorce.

PHOTO: AP/WIDE WORLD
Top: St. Louis Cardinals slugger Mark McGwire lifts his son Matthew at home plate after hitting his 62nd home run of the season, breaking Roger Maris' 37-year-old single-season record.

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