Tears fell on May 25, 1935, at 880 River Ave. in the Bronx.
That day in Pittsburgh an old Boston Braves batsman stepped up to the plate against the Pirates at Forbes Field. Back in 1923, the old man had built a house back in the Bronx. He thought about the banners, the fa+â-ºade and its triple decks. He thought of his porch out over the right field wall. He thought of going back there someday to write a different kind of chapter in his story.
Pirates fans shouted that he was a fat, washed-up bum, and then they witnessed the last of his miracles. The lion-in-winter's eyes went from glaze to glare as the cool stare of the hunt burned in them just one more time. The hickory club in his hands caught fire with the sweeping force of three unforgettable swats, and the Sultan went to work.
The Forbes Field crowd of 10,000 couldn't drown out the three hellacious cracks of the old man's bat that day, and the last shot was a beauty. No. 714 sailed over the looming right-field grandstands of the monstrous ballpark, a feat not performed in the 10 years since the park's construction.
The Braves still lost by four runs, but nobody remembers or cares about that.
Does anyone remember Barry Bonds' last home run? Me neither. And no one will ever remember it like the Babe's. I think I forgot because of the way baseball gave Bonds everything. The league gave him a lighter bat, a ball that could pass for rubber, a lowered pitcher's mound and closer fences. Still, he managed to (allegedly) cheat, lie to his teammates and lie in court. What he did beyond the shadow of a doubt is tarnish a game with an already dubious reputation due to years of abuse by people just like him.
Who could hate Babe Ruth? He saved baseball after the Black Sox threw the 1919 World Series. He drew so many people to see Yankees games that they were forced to build baseball's first real stadium because the New York Football Giants, shamed by the Yankees' attendance numbers, evicted them from the old Polo Grounds.
Later, on the hallowed field in the house that Ruth built, two of the greatest football games of all time would be played. Johnny Unitas quarterbacked the Baltimore Colts to a sudden-death win over the New York Giants in the 1958 NFL Championship, often humbly referred to as "the greatest game ever played." In an even more storied event, Knute Rockne inspired his 1928 Notre Dame Fighting Irish to beat an undefeated Army team, asking them to "win one for the Gipper."
Homer, Shakespeare and Walt Disney couldn't conceive stories so moving and dramatic.
People called Gehrig the Ironman, but they all were back then. Nowadays, like everything else, players are cheap, plastic imitations.
Alex Rodriguez will never hit .400 for a season. The fact that he's just another trustee of modern chemistry isn't that important. What shouldn't be missed here is that he's a liar and he folds under pressure. There are no steroids that can help him there.
Paul Hornung is my favorite Notre Dame alumnus. He won the 1956 Heisman and won four championships aboard Vince Lombardi's Green Bay Packers. Hornung could run, pass, punt and kick circles around any other man on the field on any given day, and he did it on 30 minutes of sleep after being out all night drinking and womanizing. Hell, back then, a lot of guys had labor jobs during the offseason.
I don't care what anyone says. The old-timers were tough as a coffin nail compared to the candy boys of today's sports. In the glorious modern age, they whine and cry over contracts and who's getting his name on a pair of shoes. They inject steroids because the next guy did.
America needs a new kind of role model
We have faith you'll make good choices, Nate - and you're a damn sight better than that Willy kid from Buffalo.
Good Luck.
Write to John at jrfrees@bsu.edu