My grandpa took me to my first baseball game in the spring of 1986. I don’t remember many of the details since I wasn’t even a year old yet, but I know it was an A’s game and he probably had a hot dog.
Maybe Jose Canseco hit a homer that day and that’s when he became my favorite player. I rooted my little guts out for that guy from the time I could talk until I learned my times tables. As a toddler somebody gave me a Mark McGwire jersey as a gift and I always pretended it said No. 33. I didn’t realize the national anthem didn’t start, “Jose can you see…” until I hit puberty. I thought it was a special song the A’s played before home games to get Canseco pumped up.
As a I grew older, I started to wise up. Canseco was kind of a slimy dude who let home runs bounce off his head. Mark McGwire was a living myth who sent homers into oblivion. I was mistaken for not wearing that McGwire jersey proudly to preschool. The man had red woods for arms and I watched in awe as he did the impossible. I told myself to remember specifically where I was and what I was doing when he hit No. 62. There are few moments in your life you know you are watching history. I was sitting on my couch holding a tennis racket when it happened.
McGwire fizzled into retirement and I found myself a new super star. This was about the time Jason Giambi was putting up triple-crown like numbers and riding a Harley to the ball park. He was a bad ass with a heart of gold. At spring training one year he was pulled from the game early and hit the showers, only to return and sit in the stands with a bunch of kids. There I sat next to him and he signed my jersey, making sure to put the signature exactly where I wanted it. Then he said, “Thanks bud,” and shook my hand.
I still have that jersey, but a its meaning has changed a little since Giambi took the money and ran to New York, and has since admitted to doing some of that “stuff *cough* steroids *cough*.” And of course, we now know Jose had plenty of other things besides his own national anthem to pump him up, and there’s a good chance McGwire’s tree trunk biceps were grown with illegal fertilizer. Thank you BALCO for tainting about three of of my top 10 favorite memories ever.
Like a jilted lover, I’m just praying I don’t hurt again, because I can’t stop lionizing these guys. But I have learned a little. I’ve stopped looking for heroes in baseball and turned to a gentleman’s sports: tennis. I’ve been trying hard to get over Roger Federer but he keeps refusing to disappoint me. He’s on pace to become the greatest tennis player of all time if he isn’t already, but unlike other dominant super star athletes, the guy has an off switch. If I could pick one athlete to grab a beer with, it would him, followed closely by Steve Nash. Anyways, it was it outfit at Wimbledon this year that won me over completely. The only knock against him thus far is that he’s so perfect it gets boring. Here it is if you haven’t seen it, and it’s anything but boring. This cat has style.
Check out this New York Times feature for all that is great about Federer.
