Going Back

"Get up baby! Get up!"

....

It did get up. Up and out of Busch Stadium and into the record books.

Ten years ago Mark McGwire smashed Roger Maris' home run total of 61 with a low rising liner that could have been shot out of one of those t-shirt guns.

....

It was a hectic summer. In a flash I left my entire childhood behind. Thrown into boxes while I was away at summer camp, when I did return I came home to a house I barely recognized and a life that would never be the same.

It took two weeks to drive to St. Louis. On the way we stopped in Utah and Oklahoma City. Arriving in St. Louis was like running into a wall. Not only was this place a far cry from the crowded bustle of Northern California but the August humidity was nothing short of suffocating.

Big Mac changed all of that. Major League Baseball was still pulling itself out of the shambles of the 1994 strike-shortened season that cost the game and its fans the annual Fall Classic.

Once McGwire and Sammy Sosa started lacing baseballs into bleachers all over the National League the whole sports world stood up and noticed.

As a lifelong baseball aficionado, despite my tender age of 11, this was the perfect storm and St. Louis was the eye. At one point in August with McGwire's assault on the record book a near formality my dad and I carefully mapped out the date in which number 62 would find the Busch Stadium cheap seats.

Going to games in the interim was just surreal. The energy in the ballpark, the buzz that began to rise as soon as McGwire ascended the dugout steps, was unlike any sound I have ever witnessed. The anticipation, the eagerness to explode with the crack of the bat could not possibly be measured.

Then there was the flashbulbs. If Hollywood made a movie about this event there are no manner of special effects that could possibly emulate the feeling that every person in the stadium must be holding four cameras at once and clicking them in mass confusion.

....

We missed the record breaker by a week. Sitting down the left field line on the night of September 15th we watched number 63 clear the fence and cascade into a sea of outstrectched arms that seemed to resemble a rock concert.

I will never forget the flight of that ball from my perch in left as it bounced into the crowd and after much jubilation a collective sigh was felt the whole metro-area over. The drought was done.

McGwire had been pressing. He had gone a week without homering and Sosa showed no signs of letting up. The magic snowballed from there with McGwire pounding 70 total moonshots and Sosa a remarkable 66.

Baseball was back. It seems almost sacrilegious now to consider all the allegations around that era. We were duped. But that can never change how it made you feel.

Every homer that year seemed to be hit further than the next. Like two guys repeatedly trading baskets, neither Sosa or McGwire wanted to be outdone by the other and even McGwire who had been standoffish at best for much of his career embraced the spotlight, celebrated with Sosa and genuinely seemed to be enjoying himself.

....

Baseball needed saving. We knew that and so did Selig. We will never know how much ignorance and naivety played a role compared to simply turning a blind eye but America needs baseball and we got it back with all the passion, glory and enjoyment the game has brought for more than a century.

I have never thought baseball could top the summer of 1941. On the brink of the greatest world conflict mankind has ever known Joltin' Joe Dimaggio hit in 56 straight games and Ted Williams became the last man to hit over .400 when he finished this season with a .406 clip.

1961 brought us the Mantle/Maris assault on Ruth's record. Hallowed and historic, the drama ended with a new home run king and the asterisk that accompanied the new benchmark of 61. Roger Maris overcame remarkable odds to beat out his Yankee teammate and the ghost of the Bambino.

Yet those two tremendous summers were far ahead of my time. As a bystander to that history only in a book I had a front row seat to the events of 1998.

Tainted as they may seem to some now, with the innocence of an 11-year old they were as magical then as they are still, ingrained in my memory for a lifetime.

Somewhere between those white lines and the smell of spring grass everything just makes sense and that summer brought that spirit back for generations to come.