The Race to Break Maris' Record

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There are two things I will always remember about the summer of 1998 — the worst heat wave in nearly 20 years that gripped most of the country and the duel between St. Louis' Mark McGwire and Chicago's Sammy Sosa to see who would break Roger Maris' 37–year–old single–season home run record.

(Maris, as baseball historians will tell you, broke Babe Ruth's single–season home run record in 1961, but he benefited from the fact that baseball seasons were 162 games by then, not 154 as they were in the Bambino's day. And for many, many years, Maris' record had an asterisk next to it in the record book because it was not achieved in 154 games.)

The home run chase made that summer of '98 memorable. Well, the heat wave did, too. It was the worst heat wave I've seen since 1980. But the McGwire–Sosa duel was truly riveting. If one had to stay inside because it was so miserably hot outside, watching SportsCenter for the latest update in the home run chase was worth one's time. And there was almost always a daily update.

In hindsight, one must wonder if the '98 home run chase would have happened at all if not for steroids.

In fact, McGwire did concede at the time that he used an over–the–counter substance that had been banned by, among others, the NFL — but not (at that time) major league baseball.

(McGwire was slipperier on his use of other substances.)

So my feeling is that the '98 season should have an asterisk next to it — or maybe it would be more appropriate to have a little syringe instead — in the record books.

But it doesn't, and it probably won't so 1998 will stand as the year that McGwire broke Maris' record. McGwire was eclipsed three years later by Barry Bonds, who has his own unanswered questions about steroid use, but 15 years ago today, McGwire was on his way to wrapping up the home run–hitting season of a lifetime.

("These long–ball extravaganzas were putting fans back in the seats," Greg Stejskal wrote recently in the New York Daily News, "but the cost was the integrity of the game.")

McGwire hit 70 home runs that year. No one before — and only one man since — hit that many home runs in a single season. (That year, in fact, Bonds hit slightly more than half as many home runs as McGwire.)

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That summer, I was working for a trade magazine that served the imprinted sportswear industry. Part of my job was attending trade shows in different parts of the country, and I recall attending a show in Chicago. Exhibitors at these shows were often regional representatives of licensed sports products, and major league baseball was a hot (pardon the expression) commodity in Chicago that summer.

At these shows, I would walk around the hall and sit down to interview exhibitors who caught my eye. As a former sports editor, I was particularly interested in these sports licenses. Major league baseball had a crippling strike a few years earlier, and there had been talk that baseball's popularity was on the decline.

The McGwire–Sosa home run derby was the first thing to breathe some life back into the sport. It was baseball's goose that laid the golden egg.

And the exhibitors were all too eager to talk about McGwire and Sosa — but none, that I can recall, had any interest in talking about steroids.

If they were concerned that I might quote them on the subject in one of my articles, they worried needlessly. I only asked because I'm a sports fan, and I like baseball (although not as much as I did when I was a boy).

Maris' record finally fell 15 years ago today, about three weeks before the scheduled end of the season. McGwire had broken the record in far fewer games than it took Maris — or Ruth, for that matter. That should have raised some red flags.

But, like the exhibitors I spoke to that summer, no one wanted to talk about steroids. Not the teams' management or coaches or players — or fans, for that matter. They wanted to talk about all the home runs, not the steroids that even a casual observer could conclude had made them possible.

The thought of steroids definitely crossed my mind in the summer of '98, but, as I say, I never found anyone who was interested in talking about that angle.

Perhaps now those people have learned that there is a frightful price to be paid for ignoring an approaching storm. It's like ignoring a persistent toothache, hoping it will go away. (In the words of writer Aldous Huxley, "Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.")

But then I remember — that's the kind who never learn from the past.

My Memory of Jack Buck

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"Go crazy, folks! Go crazy!"

Jack Buck
Oct. 14, 1985

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When I think of Jack Buck, the legendary St. Louis Cardinals radio announcer who died 10 years ago today, I think of an October day in 1985.

It was a Monday, and the Cardinals were playing my favorite baseball team, the Los Angeles Dodgers, in the National League Championship Series. It was an afternoon game, but that wasn't a problem for me in those days. I was working nights for a metro newspaper, and my regular days off were Monday and Tuesday.

The series was tied, two games to two, and I was looking forward to settling in to watch the game. I was anticipating it all the more because my best friend, Randy, had promised to drive to my apartment after his workday ended and watch the end of the game with me.

Randy was a Cardinals fan — still is, for that matter — and, although I wanted the Dodgers to win, I wanted the score to be close when Randy arrived. If the outcome was already decided when he got there, it would spoil the experience.

It could hardly have worked out any better. The score was 2–2 when he arrived, and the Cardinals were coming to bat in the bottom of the ninth. With one out and no one on base, St. Louis' switch–hitting shortstop Ozzie Smith came to the plate to face Los Angeles' right–handed ace reliever, Tom Niedenfuer.

Mind you, Smith was never a power hitter. He hit a few home runs in his career, but he had never hit a home run when batting on the left side of the plate, and I recall hearing Buck say something about that (whenever I have a choice between the TV and the radio for play by play of a game, I choose the radio) only seconds before Smith connected with Niedenfuer's pitch and drove it over the right–field wall.

I had listened to Buck on the radio many times in my life before that afternoon. Heck, I grew up in Conway, Ark., which was smack dab in the middle of Cardinals territory in those days (it may be different now, with other regional and broadcast options for baseball fans).

When I was a kid, if I wanted to listen to a baseball game on the radio, I could listen to the Cardinals — or no one. And the only televised games in those pre–cable days were NBC's games of the week on Saturday afternoons.

Also, the minor league club that was based in Little Rock — the Travelers — was part of the Cardinals farm organization. The Cardinal influence was all around me.

So I listened to the Cardinals games, and I associated Buck's voice with baseball on the radio on warm summer evenings. No other voice has ever sounded quite right to me for describing the action on a baseball field.

Buck's signature sentence when a Cardinals victory was assured was "That's a winner!" But he sounded emotionally drained after Smith's unexpected blast, and I could imagine him slumping in his seat and urging his listeners to "Go crazy, folks! Go crazy!"

I've heard old–time Dodger fans say that the baseball moment that broke their hearts was in 1951 when the Giants, after overcoming a seemingly insurmountable Dodger advantage in the standings to force a rare playoff, beat the Dodgers to claim a spot in the World Series.

That was before my time. My most painful baseball moment may have been that day in 1985 when Ozzie Smith drilled a walkoff home run to beat the Dodgers. Ultimately, the Cardinals won the league championship and went on to face the Kansas City Royals in the World Series.

But I was happy for Randy. And I was glad that we had shared that experience together. Other than the outcome, it was everything I could have wanted.

In the years ahead, we attended many Dodger–Cardinal games at Busch Stadium. And I always liked knowing that Jack Buck and I had watched the same game in the same place.

It's been many years since I went to a game in St. Louis, but the last one was when Buck was still alive and still calling games for the Cardinals.

Randy and I never took a radio with us when we went to a game so I never had the experience of listening to his play by play of a game I attended.

But I think the knowledge that Buck is no longer in the press box would make it difficult for me to feel the same about being at a game.

The Game That Wouldn't End

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Epic.

That seems to be the best word to describe what unfolded last night at Busch Stadium in the sixth game of this year's World Series.

If you didn't see it, the bottom line is that St. Louis beat Texas, 10–9, to force tonight's Game 7. That's a much higher score than one ordinarily sees in any major league baseball game, even in the American League with its designated hitter rule.

But even the knowledge that 19 runs were scored doesn't fully do justice to how all those runs were scored — to the fact that the Cardinals were a single strike away from defeat — not once but twice — and came back to win.

In the last minutes of Thursday or the earliest minutes of Friday, the Cardinals officially overcame the Rangers with a walk–off home run and made tonight's Game 7 necessary.

Joe Strauss of the St. Louis Post–Dispatch wrote, fittingly, that it was a moment that was "too complex to fully understand but too compelling to ignore."

Those are the words from the winning side — and I'm sure Cardinals fans do feel that what they saw last night really was too complex to understand but impossible to ignore. Some may be inclined to attach some sort of religious significance to what happened.

As Bernie Miklasz writes in the Post–Dispatch, "Their strength never wanes. Their will to win never fades. Until the end, this proud and resilient team believed. They knew that somehow the dream would stay alive."

Has a biblical sound to it, doesn't it? You can almost hear him exhorting the faithful to open their hymnals.

Here in north Texas, the pain of defeat is everywhere this morning. Anyone who considers himself or herself to be a sports fan surely understands how the fans here feel. Everyone has had that feeling.

Not everyone claims to have spoken directly to God, though, but Texas' Josh Hamilton does, according to Eddie Sefko of the Dallas Morning News.

Hamilton, Sefko reports, says God told him he was going to hit a home run in the 10th inning of last night's game.

"He said, 'You haven't hit one in a while and this is the time you're going to,' " Hamilton said. "But there was a period at the end of that. He didn't say, 'You're going to hit it and you're going to win.' "

OK. It's really hard to know God's reason for speaking to Hamilton and telling him that he would hit a home run that, in the end, would not win the game for his team. The Lord apparently didn't share his reason with Hamilton, but I have to wonder why he would tell a player that he would hit a home run that would ultimately mean little to anyone except that player.

Why, for that matter, would he even bother to tell Hamilton that he's going to hit a home run? He doesn't seem inclined to share more important insights with those in a position to influence economies and global conflicts.

Guess he must know what he's doing, though. After all, people are always saying that he has a plan, which suggests there must be a reason for everything that happens — even when bad things happen that devastate lives while good things, like Hamilton's dinger, ultimately mean nothing to anyone except him.

Oh, well.

If the Rangers lose this series — and they're facing Chris Carpenter, who won Game 1 in St. Louis and got a no–decision in Game 5 in Arlington — they may be sorry they used Derek Holland in a relief role last night.

I think that is a decision the Rangers may well regret.

Holland nearly threw a complete–game shutout at the Cardinals on Sunday. If Game 6 had been played on Wednesday as scheduled, Holland probably wouldn't have had enough rest to start a Game 7 on Thursday.

But, with the one–day delay, he would have been rested enough to pitch tonight. Instead, Texas manager Ron Washington chose to use him in a relief role last night, clearly in the hope that he could wrap things up in six, and stick with his original choice to start Game 7, Matt Harrison, if it went that far.

Which it has.

In his last appearance, Harrison had time to take his shower, get into his street clothes and find a bar to have a beer and watch the end of Game 3, in which Albert Pujols became only the third man to hit three home runs in a World Series game.

Strategically, it is hard for me to see why Harrison would be preferable over Holland — if it had been up to me, with Rangers leading the Series 3–2, I would have used Harrison in middle relief and save Holland for a potential — and, now, definite — Game 7.

The Cardinals haven't proved they can hit Holland. But they have proved they can hit Harrison.

Meanwhile, the Rangers have had problems with Carpenter.

I think it will be a good game, a low–scoring game, and I think the Cardinals will win it.

Let's get it on.

A New Attitude

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There is a new attitude here in north Texas these days — at least among baseball fans.

Some things haven't changed.

Diehard football fans are still living and dying — mostly dying — with the outcomes of Cowboys games.

Diehard basketball fans continue to wonder if they will get to see the Mavericks defend their NBA title this year.

There are still some diehard hockey fans around here, too. The bandwagon jumpers who followed the Stars when it was trendy — after they won a Stanley Cup more than a decade ago — have mostly jumped off now so the Stars crowds are almost entirely genuine hockey enthusiasts.

But until last year, the Texas Rangers were lovable losers who had never even caught much of a whiff of the World Series — let alone been immersed in its magical waters. For many years, if one went to a Rangers game, it was for the entertainment value alone, not because the Rangers were anything approaching legitimate contenders.

Now, I'll admit that I feel pulled by both sides when it comes to this year's World Series. I have friends who live in the St. Louis area. My goddaughter lives in the St. Louis area with her young son. But my family's roots are here in the Dallas–Fort Worth Metroplex. I have lived here for most of the last 20 years.

So I am torn. As Mark Twain replied when asked whether he preferred heaven or hell, I have friends in both places.

The Cardinals have been here many times before. In fact, no other major league team — except the Yankees — has won as many world championships as the Cardinals.

When the Rangers finally scaled that mountain last year, they and their fans celebrated winning the American League championship — and were glad merely to be in the big show.

Not too surprisingly, the Rangers went down in five games.

Now that the Rangers are back in the World Series, just getting there won't be enough. Even this area's most casual baseball fans — the ones for whom a trip to Arlington still qualifies as entertainment and not some sort of pilgrimage — know that.

Jeff Wilson of the Fort Worth Star–Telegram mentioned that difference in attitude in yesterday's column. But Wilson wrote that the difference for the players was visible on their airplane ride home from St. Louis.

The pressure they felt being down 0–2 to San Francisco when they returned to Texas for Game 3 last year was nowhere to be seen this year. These Rangers are more relaxed, more confident.

No, just being there won't be satisfactory this time. I've heard countless people around here speaking of how the momentum of the series shifted in the Rangers' favor when they rallied to win Game 2 the other night — and how home field advantage belongs to Texas now.

But the games that will be played here almost certainly will be different from the ones that we saw played in St. Louis. They will require both managers to make different kinds of strategic decisions.

And, frankly, while the first two games were thrillers, these lineups just have too much pop for either team to settle for 2–1 and 3–2 victories. A persuasive argument can be made that both teams are overdue for an offensive explosion.

As most people acknowledge, The Ballpark in Arlington is much more hitter–friendly than Busch Stadium, but that doesn't seem special to me. St. Louis has always been tough for hitters.

I went to many games in the old Busch Stadium, and it was never known as a hitters' park. Mark McGwire was probably the only genuine power hitter to play in St. Louis since the days of Stan the Man — until Albert Pujols came along.

For as long as I can remember, the Cardinals built teams around pitching and defense. On offense, they scratched out hits and were aggressive on the base paths, but, at best, their power hitters supplied 20 or 25 home runs a season.

That's not a very good description of the modern version of the Cardinals, though. Everyone already knew about Pujols, but the postseason has given the rest of the country the opportunity to become familiar with a whole roster of guys who can produce at the plate.

Bernie Miklasz of the St. Louis Post–Dispatch writes that "[t]here's no reason to believe the Cardinals will remain in the slumber mode."

In 2011, Miklasz points out, "the Cardinals averaged more road runs than every American League team. And the Cardinals will have a DH in their lineup over the next three games. So there's really no excuse for Cardinals hitters to struggle."

Except, perhaps, for the sheer resolve of the Rangers — and their devoted followers — to win it all this time.

I teach writing at the local community college, and one of my students will be at tonight's Game 3. We talked about it the other day in class. He is part of the emerging generation of Rangers followers, the ones who don't remember the long years of losing their elders endured after the old Washington Senators moved here in the early 1970s.

He remembers only the years when the Rangers have contended, even made the playoffs, but fallen short. He can't understand the frustration of people around here who have been following this ball club for four decades.

He doesn't remember the time when the Dallas Cowboys ruled the football world. The Cowboys haven't played in a Super Bowl in his memory. But he has seen the hockey team win it all and the basketball team win it all, and he wants to see the baseball team win it all, too.

He isn't alone. Then again, everyone seems to have an opinion about this series.

Joe Lemire of Sports Illustrated anticipates a jump in run production now that the Series has moved southwest about 550 miles.

The weather will be warmer, he points out — can't argue with that since today's high around here is supposed to be 84° while the high in St. Louis is expected to be 70°, but we're in the unpredictable time of year in these parts.

Perhaps you've heard of that devastating drought we've been experiencing here this year? We hardly had a drop of rain all summer, but suddenly rain has emerged as a threat in the baseball postseason. Already at Arlington they've had one playoff game delayed for a couple of hours by rain, and another game was rained out and had to be played the following day.

We may be in for more of the same tonight. The National Weather Service says there is a 50% chance of rain after the sun goes down.

If they're able to play, Gerry Fraley of the Dallas Morning News writes that St. Louis starter Kyle Lohse might struggle tonight. His previous appearances in Arlington didn't go well — but it's been more than five years since he started a game here, and he is a different pitcher now.

And, if this series goes six or seven games — and, consequently, must return to St. Louis — the outlook is for wetter, cooler weather on the days when the last two games are scheduled to be played.

We might see some high–scoring games in Arlington over the next few days — only to go back to St. Louis next week to see that offensive fire doused by a cold rain and harkening the return of the 2–1 and 3–2 scores.

Jayson Stark of ESPN.com thinks we might be on the brink of "something special." The first two games were nail–biters, he observes. If you aren't watching, you're missing out.

Let's get it on.

The Birth of a Tradition

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The year after Randy and I made our pilgrimage,
he was married and living in St. Louis. I returned
to go to a game with him and his wife, Tammy.

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It was 25 years ago today that my longtime friend Randy and I embarked on a weekend adventure that, in hindsight, is the kind of thing that can only be done when one is really young — and really stupid.

It simply cannot be done under any other circumstances.

But what can I say? We were really young and really stupid.

And that weekend was the start of a tradition that was repeated annually for five years. Maybe someday it will be revived. But I'll get back to that.

(Some folks might tell you that the only thing that has changed is that we're both 25 years older. But I digress.)

Randy and I went to school together, worked together in the summers when we were in high school. He was originally from St. Louis, but his parents moved to central Arkansas when he was a little boy and settled in my hometown.

My hometown was very small in those days, and most municipal business was handled rather simply — or maybe that's just how it seemed to me. There were three elementary schools in town, and which one you attended depended upon where you lived. Everyone attended the same middle school, junior high and high school.

I guess Randy and I must have gone to different elementary schools because I don't recall seeing him or being in a schoolroom with him until we were in middle school.

Even so, we didn't become the friends that we eventually became until we were in high school — and then we did everything together.

As close friends do, we learned just about everything there was to know about each other. One of the things I learned early on about Randy was that he desperately wanted to move back to St. Louis — and, as a matter of fact, he did — 25 years ago next month. He's still there.

But, in July 1986, he was still in Arkansas. He had gotten married a few years earlier, and he and his budding family moved around some, but, by this date 25 years ago, they were all back in central Arkansas. His marriage had ended, though, so I saw him more frequently than I had since high school, and I really thought our friendship was the same as it had always been. On the surface, I guess it was, but, while I didn't know it, he was thinking again about returning to St. Louis.

In 1985, Randy and I watched the TV coverage of the dramatic National League playoff series between his favorite team, the Cardinals, and my favorite team, the Los Angeles Dodgers. Inspired by that, we resolved to drive to St. Louis to see a couple of games between our favorite teams in person the next year.

The major leagues were structured differently 25 years ago. There were two divisions in each league, not three as there are today, and teams generally hosted the teams from the opposing division twice a year. That meant there was a pretty narrow window of opportunity for us.

In those days I was working on the sports copy desk of a metropolitan daily newspaper. One of the perks of the job was that we usually got information about schedules before just about everyone else, and I remember eagerly waiting for the release of the Cardinals' 1986 schedule.

For a time, Randy and I would begin every phone conversation the same way: "Did it come in yet?" (There was no reason to be more specific than "it.") "No."

Then, one day, the schedule arrived at the office.

In 1986, the two series in Busch Stadium were scheduled for mid–May and mid–July. I don't know why May didn't work out for us — maybe because the games were scheduled for the middle of the week.

The teams were scheduled to face each other in a four–game series between July 17 and 20. That was a Thursday–Sunday series, and, even though it was mostly on a weekend, it created some hurdles for us to clear, too. Still, it was our best option.

Randy, as I recall, couldn't get off work on a weekday. He hadn't been working at his job long enough to qualify for vacation time.

I was working nights at a morning newspaper, and my regular days off were Monday and Tuesday. I did qualify for vacation time at my job, and I must have used some. Or perhaps I used a compensatory day or two that I had on reserve for working on what should have been paid days off. As I recall, that was a somewhat common practice in those days. I don't remember the specifics.

Somehow, though, I managed to get that weekend off, and Randy and I decided to make a whirlwind trip to St. Louis to see the games on Saturday and Sunday afternoons, then we would drive back to central Arkansas, arriving sometime around midnight on Sunday.

I still had to work my usual shift on Friday night so Randy agreed to meet me at my apartment around the time I normally got home (which was roughly 1 a.m.), and we would try to get a few hours of sleep. We would get up at something like 4:30 or 5, throw on some clothes, throw our stuff in my car and hit the road.

We had it planned out so that we would arrive at the stadium in time for the first pitch on Saturday afternoon. The game was supposed to begin at 12:30, I believe. It was roughly a seven–hour drive.

It's astonishing to me when I think of it now, but it never occurred to me that something might happen along the way (it should have because, back when Randy and I were in high school, we drove to St. Louis to visit his brother and sister–in–law for Thanksgiving — and we had a flat tire on the way). I just assumed we would arrive on schedule.

Oddly enough, we nearly did. Sheer blind luck, I suppose.

We didn't quite get to our seats in time for the first pitch. In fact, it was around the second inning before we got to our seats. We might have been on schedule, though, if we hadn't stopped to pick up some beer and hot dogs.

The thing I remember vividly about that day is how unbelievably hot it was. It was every bit as hot as it has been lately. The air temperature was about 105° — and I read, in the St. Louis Post–Dispatch the next day, that the temperature of the artificial surface was over 130°.

I kid you not.

Here's something else: I seldom drink beer anymore, but that's the only time in my life that I haven't been able to finish a beer before it got too warm for me to drink it.

That Post–Dispatch article explained why I saw players for both teams sprinting off the field when it was their turn to bat — and dragging their feet when it was time to take the field. Talk about getting a hotfoot.

It also explained why the game was played so quickly. The teams combined for only three runs in a full nine–inning game that took only 2½ hours to play. (I remember that a columnist for the Post–Dispatch observed that the players played ball that day "like they were double parked.")

Tired and drained, we made our way back to my car after the game and proceeded to drive some 40 miles or so west of St. Louis — to his brother's home, where we spent the night.

I remember how blissfully cool his brother's home seemed to me, how refreshing it was to take a shower there and rid myself of the grime of the day and how grateful I was just to lie down on the cot on which I spent that Saturday night. We ate what was probably a basic summer meal that night (I don't recall what was on the menu — probably sandwiches and chips, maybe some ice cream), and I remember feeling full and satisfied as I relaxed in front of the TV with a cold drink in my hand.

We got a full night's sleep, awoke refreshed the next morning, packed my car, said goodbye to Randy's brother and sister–in–law and returned to Busch Stadium.

Temperatures at the ballpark were at least 10 degrees cooler that day. It almost felt cold by comparison — although, of course, it wasn't. This time, however, my beer was still somewhat cold when I finished it. (It might have helped that our seats were in the shade on Sunday.)

The less–brutal temperatures seemed to make the players more attentive to their work — at least the offensive part — and the teams combined for nine runs. Los Angeles scored most of them, though, so Randy and I decided to leave before the game was over and get a jump on the trip back home.

Once again, everything went according to schedule. No flat tires. No car trouble of any kind, actually. Since he had to work the next morning, Randy was supposed to get a little sleep on the drive back, but my memory is that he didn't. We talked some and listened to cassette tapes, and we pulled in to my apartment shortly before midnight. We transferred his things to his car, and he left for home.

And I went to bed.

I presume he made it to work the next day. Monday, as I said, was my usual day off so I'm sure I slept late. The only thing I remember doing the next day was my laundry.

The trip was a blast — in fact, I enjoyed it enough to repeat it four straight years after Randy moved to St. Louis. It's a great memory for me now, and sometimes I wish I could do it all again.

But so much is different now. In fact, when I think how much can change in a quarter of a century — a mere blink of an eye in the lifetime of this planet — it makes me appreciate how much there is just beneath our feet from which archaeologists can learn.

Future archaeologists won't find what is left of Busch Stadium, though, for it is gone. It has been demolished, replaced by another stadium that bears its name, but it isn't the same place.

I guess it is the place where the next generation will make its memories. I hope they have as much fun as I did.