McGwire madness

Sporting News, The, August 31, 1998 by Bill Plaschke

MILWAUKEE (September 18)--What is that ringing? It can't be the alarm, I didn't set one. It can't, be my imagination, I'm not sure I have one. What is that ring ... oh, it's the telephone. At 5:45 a.m.?

Hello?

"Hey, Big Mac-man, Mr. Baba Rutharina, the dinger singer, howya doin'?"

"Who is this?"

"Good morning, Mark McGwire, this is Ike and Pike of the Milwaukee Talkee Morning Show. You are only one home run away from breaking the single-season record and we have a question: What do you get when you cross a priest and a ..."

Click.

I roll back into bed and silently curse our public relations staff. Yes, I agreed that with all the furor over my home run chase, I should stay in hotels under a pseudonym.

But next time, maybe we try something more discreet than "Roger Maris."

Noon-I roll out of bed, put on my Fredbird slippers, and assess the situation.

Yes, I am Mark McGwire. Yes, I have 61 home runs. And yes, tonight at that dump known as Milwaukee County Stadium, I will have my first chance to make history.

The mere thought makes me hungry, so I order milk from room service and pour a bowl of creatine loops. Afterward I eat the bowl and brush my teeth with the spoon.

1 p.m.--I want to walk around town to relax before the game, but I don't want everyone hassling me, so I dress like a Wisconsin native. I throw on some cutoff jeans, a tight white top reading, "I Threw Up On Bourbon Street And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt," black socks, sandals and horn-rimmed glasses.

I get one block, and people are already chasing me back to the hotel.

"Look, look," the Milwaukeeans cry. "It's Bud Selig."

3 p.m.--I change clothes, take a back elevator, slip into a cab, and head to a nearby hospital where I visit a sick little boy named Jimmy.

I sign a few baseballs and pose with him for the TV cameras when our publicity guy walks into the room and asks if I want to leave now to do an interview with Roy Firestone.

At the same time, the Jimmy kid has begun blathering something about me hitting a home run for him tonight.

"Yes, yes, you bet I will, I promise," I tell the publicity guy, because I love Roy Firestone.

5 p.m.--I arrive at the ballpark early and easily win a batting practice home run contest against a caged animal.

7:17 p.m.--I step to the plate for my first at-bat, and the strangest thing happens. Milwaukee's starting pitcher calls for the trainer. A sore arm. He's out. In comes a reliever who throws two warmup pitches and calls for the same trainer. Sore arm, he's out.

The Brewers' entire bullpen is suddenly struck with a variety of injuries before the right fielder comes in to pitch.

He throws strike one. He throws strike two. Now I've got a sore arm from waiting around.

I call timeout, back out of the batter's box and, facing left field, I point my right arm directly in front of me, just like the doctor prescribed. I hold it stiffly there for several seconds, stretching the muscles.

I hear a murmur building throughout the crowd and think, `That's strange. Haven't they ever seen anybody stretch out before?'

I step into the box and hit Burnitz's pitch a mile high.

It soars so high above the left fielder that he collapses from dizziness. The ball rolls into a corner.

I am rounding second base when I see that the center fielder has collided with a fan who climbed out of the stands and was chasing the ball while yelling, "Five-hundred grand, right now, cash on the barrelhead." So I keep running ... and running ... and running.

Next thing I know, I am sliding across home plate and the place is roaring and I've done it. Home run No. 62. History.

But then why I am so confused?

Fans are shouting, "You called your shot, you called your shot."

I'm thinking, Called what?

Then they are shouting, "You hit it for Jimmy, you hit it for Jimmy."

And I'm thinking, Jimmy who?

At least I have the ball, I think, turning just in time to see the relay throw sail over the head of the catcher and into the paws of the caged animal.

Bill Plaschke, a columnist for the Los Angeles Times, writes a monthly column for THE SPORTING NEWS. For more, go to ww. latimes, com/home/sports/plaschke.