October 9, 1998

Volume 89, Number 6

The true legends of baseball
Alex Ross, guest commentary

Maris hit 61 in '61.

It has a nice ring.

Romantic.

Legendary.

Simple.

It was a record of solidarity, of unfathomable accomplishment. A young farm boy had overcome the Babe. The black and white reels exhibit Maris stepping to the plate at the end of the season tied with Ruth, pulling a high fastball to right field, and speeding around the bases.

He, Roger Maris, with one swing of the bat, had taken the record. No, he didn't defeat the Babe. He merely overcame him; nothing more. And if Ruth were there he'd laugh, pat the farm boy on the back and buy him a beer. He'd tell Maris to wait for next year, because the Babe would be back to retake his title. They'd laugh together.

That's history.|Romantic.

How life should be.

It occurred in a time when the world was churning as never before, when the ideals of the '50s suburbia life were uprooting. It's Kevin Arnold and Paul Pfiffer pedaling home, growing in a stable world where Mom cooked and Dad provided. Playing in the street, they were Joe Namath. They were Roger Maris.

But Vietnam loomed, civilization and the world was in turmoil, and desperately they clung to their foundations -- as today, on a frontier of which we know not.

Happy memories are garnered from the '50s -- Kevin shooting hoops on a summer night when a man walked the moon and kissing Winnie as thousands of boys smoked Camels and talked of prom queens, dying in jungles. The past met the future.

I like McGwire and Sosa. They're good boys and even better, gentlemen. Nothing would disappoint me like seeing Griffey hit 62. Great ballplayer, great strut. He has a beautiful swing when he connects.

But he's not Yankee pinstripes. He's Nike baseball cleats.

This is the age of Pet Rocks, D'Backs and Mariners. Home runs make the perpetually turning highlight reel on SportsCenter, not the hard single up the middle on an 0-2 curveball. Griffey is the next generation, the undetermined future.

The two 62nd home runs will likewise run perpetually. But the images on black and white television in the '60s is baseball, not commercials and highlight films. Baseball is Topps Cards with hard sticks of bubble gum and the 0-2 curveball. It's Kevin Arnold playing catch with Paul.

Romantic, indeed.

But baseball is Ruth, Mantle, Yogi, Jackson, Maris, Williams, Banks and Sandy. Not Griffey, Bonds or Belle. Ballpark dogs and programs. Not shoe contracts and luxury boxes. The Polo Grounds. Not Coors, BankOne, or the AstroDome.

In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue. In 1961, Roger Maris hit 61 homeruns. Every schoolboy has these memorized. They're dependable, resilient, immortal; or so we desire to believe. Records will continually fall and perhaps the record McGwire or Sosa sets will too. Our heroes fall.

If it were only one millionaire, perhaps it would be better on the soul. Maybe. But two. Two millionaires with numerous endorsement deals, red Beamers and white houses on hills. Two millionaires that live in weight rooms, have personal trainers to force them on task, and wine and dine in the finest of restaurants. Maris was a farm boy. His tombstone, simple and forgotten, inscribes his feat. He hit '61 in 61. He beat Babe Ruth.

Congratulations McGwire and Sosa.

Job well done.

Good bye Kevin.

Hello SportsCenter, Wheatie boxes and Nike shoes. Hello Dome Foam, Astroturf and Florida Marlins.

Welcome.

But the black and white film of Maris trotting the bases after ... a tip of the hat ... roaring applause ... Mantle slaps his back ... Yankee pinstripes disappear ...

into the dugout...

Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio?

History.

Maris hit '61 in 1961.

I'll miss it.

Alex Ross is the Viewpoint section assistant editor and is a Tulane College freshman. He can be reached here.