Ask me the image that stands out most in my mind and it's clear:
the handcocking back at almost idearm height; eyes sighting the catcher's
mitt like a laser-guided missile launcher; right arm windmilling over the
head. And then that whole powerful, boyish body going down on one knee
almost, so that when the rocket was hired and the target hit, there would
be a smudge of dirt on the uniform where it had Acraped the mound.
Oh, and one more image: Me. That was me up there, throwing aspirin
tablets past Boog Powell and tying him up like a power drill. I was Tom
Seaver then. I mean that seriously--part of me is Seaver; he is the
Keeper of the 12-year-old. And when I met him recently, I realized what
it is we, as men and boys, imbue our heroes with, and with what great
trust we place in them a significant part of our identities.
No slight to women, but such heroworship is, I believe, the sacred
domain of young men. Whether because boys require something extra, or are
simply more needy, we infuse our role models with the attributes of a
god. Then they become something more than role models, and we spend our
youths trying to live up to them, trying to be them.
In essence, the hero is a significant figure for boys, and, talking
to Seaver, I began to wonder why.
JM: Who was your hero?
TS: Sandy Koufax. Watching him play, seeing his concentration level
was amazing. He was so focused, so good at what he did I admired him for
that--for his concentration and determination.
JM: Are those two qualities necessary for a good ballplayer?
TS: I don't want to say you have to have them in order to be any
good. Let's put it this way, they're two factors that, without them,
you'd have a hard time becoming a great ballplayer.
JM: What's your favorite moment from the game? TS: Watching Koufax
pitch. I used to go to the games with my Dad. I learned about pitching
from watching Koufax, even when he lost. But it was more--it was seeing
someone do what they love, and do it so well. And then later on, being
able to do it myself.
We talked about the '69 World Series and when I mentioned Game 4,
he made sure to remind me that he'd won that game, 2-1.
TS: Do you remember what I did though, when I came up to
sacrifice?
JM: You...uh...struck out on three pitches.
TS: Weakly. And people still give me grief about it.
JM: It shows you the resilience of the game, though.
TS: That's true.
Actually, it shows you a lot more. It shows, for one thing, that
even Seaver struggles to be Seaver. He's comfortable talking about his
heroes but not being one himself, fending off questions that might
require him to admit such status. For another, it illustrates the
unmistakable tie between our heroes and our fathers.
I started out believing that our heroes replace our fathers; that
our need for archetypal males propels us to seek out others for
instructions on becoming a man. It's what makes us write down "fireman"
and "fighter pilot" on grade-school questionnaires about what we'd like
to be when we grow up. We still see life as the simplest of challenges
then--one-on-one encounters with a clear-cut victor and a defeated
opponent. But insurance men and advertising executives never clearly win
outright. Their victories are less glorious, more oblique and extended.
Like life. But we can't know that yet. So mortals won't do--we need
gods.
JM: Do you think kids today have enough heroes?
TS: Heroes are different today. They're more human, they have more
obvious faults. That's not a reflection on the players, it's on the way
we look at them and what we do with them.
All of this somehow begs another question: When do we stop needing
heroes? Hard to say. Only that, when Seaver retired, in 1987, I finally,
at age 27, gave up on the idea that I was going to be a starting pitcher
for the Mets.
It was all planned out, you see. Born in 1960, I was nine when the
Mets won the "miracle" series; and it was my thinking then (notice the
timing) that I would graduate college in 1982 (which I did) at about the
same time Seaver would be in his veteran years (which he was). In the
middle-'80s I would come up to pitch for the Mets, Tom would take me
under his wing, we would pitch a few years together, he would retire and
I would take over his legacy.
This was the plan. And it wasn't really until that summer, five
years ago, that I finally gave up on it. Psychologists talk of a period
in a man's adult life in which they describe a feeling of
"de-illusionment"--when youthful dreams and grown-up reality clash,
followed by a very reluctant acceptance. It is also a time when our
boyhood heroes leave the ball field and enter the ethereal realm of
mythology. They go from our hearts and hopes to our photo albums; like
old girlfriends and college roommates, they exit the present and leave us
to find our way on our own for awhile.
JM: You said the best part about getting into the Hall of Fame was
having your grandchildren see your plaque one day, and someone telling
them, "That's your grandfather. In his day, he was pretty good at what he
did."
Tags:
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