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Roger Mooney

Roger Mooney covers the Tampa Bay Rays for The Tampa Tribune, TBO.com and News Channel 8. He has covered the Rays since their first season in 1998, including 11 years for the Bradenton Herald. Roger has also covered Florida, South Florida and Florida State football, the Bucs and the Lightning.

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Big Mac and Me

Posted Jan 12, 2010 by Roger Mooney

Updated Jan 12, 2010 at 12:11 AM

I remember his biceps. Big as hams.

I had never seen anything like them, and after covering the Buccaneers for a number of years, I still haven’t.

Mark McGwire walked into a cramped interview room under Joe Robbie Stadium on the afternoon of Aug. 31, 1998, a few hours before the Cardinals were to play the Marlins. He wore a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off.

His arms were cartoon-big.

So was the rest of him.

He was Paul Bunyan, dragging a baseball bat instead of an ax.

It was the first day of a three-game series with the Marlins, and per the routine that season, it was the only day McGwire would meet with the media. Unless he homered, of course.

Big Mac was sitting on 55 home runs at the time, and, as he confirmed Monday, sitting on something else, too.

The big lie.

It was in front of us then, though most of us were too blinded by the great home run chase to notice or even care.

McGwire, along with Sammy Sosa, were saving the game, remember?

The turnstiles were cranking. A melody to Bud Selig’s ears.

Every swing produced another assault on baseball’s hallowed record book.

Roger Maris didn’t stand a chance. His run to immortality – 61 in ’61 – cost the Yankee slugger his hair. McGwire’s race to pass Maris in 1998 would eventually cost McGwire much more.

McGwire is not popular among Hall of Fame voters. I’ve had a vote the past two years and have yet to cast one for one of the game’s greatest home run hitters. Not sure if I ever will.

McGwire did come clean Monday, but all he did was admit to cheating. That’s like admitting to a cop that you were speeding. Awfully sporting of you, but you still broke the law.

I’ve grown tired of debating the subject. I think we’re all a little tired of it. But McGwire’s back in the game, so get set for another round of steroid talk. Performance enhancers: Good? Bad? Who cares?

Back to those biceps. Bigger than Popeye’s forearms.

As big as Rhode Island.

A $50 cab ride to go from one side of his arm to the other.

We’re talking huge.

I found my way to the stadium’s second deck in left field. I wanted to watch McGwire take batting practice, wanted to duck the lasers he’d send that way, wanted to talk to those who arrived early to catch one of McGwire’s Ruthian drives.

That was my story that day. What was it like to be on the other end of history?

Well, almost history.

Since there was no guarantee McGwire would homer during the game, and even if he did, how would I know in advance where it would land, I took to the stands during BP.

The middle deck in left field looked like as good a landing zone as any.

Besides, the area was nearly full, which meant plenty of people to interview.

After an eternity, McGwire stepped into the batting cage, and everyone around me pressed forward, closer to the railing. After a few hacks, the big guy finally launched one our way. The ball hissed as it cut through the air. People recoiled in flat-out fear. Some ducked. One lady screamed then laughed.

The ball smacked against an empty seat. The BANG! echoed across the stadium.

A few dived for the ball.

That was how our game would be played that afternoon. Wait for the baseball to find an empty seatback and try to pick it up before being crushed.

One brave fellow caught a McGwire drive with his glove. Sort of.

He screamed as the glove was ripped off his hand.

At first I thought this would make a cool theme park attraction. Build a set of stands a couple of hundred feet from a batter and have him drive baseballs into a group of a dozen or so people. There are few things associated with baseball better than catching a foul ball or a home run at a game.

I figured fans could get the same thrill at Disney World or Busch Gardens, and in that controlled environment, stand a better chance at catching a ball than they would at Tropicana Field even on one of its more empty nights.

McGwire sent a half-dozen baseballs our way that afternoon, each more deadly than the last. Everyone around me was glad for the experience, even those who didn’t walk away with a batting practice baseball.

To be that far from home plate and that frightened by the sight of a baseball headed your way is pretty neat. There was an actual danger to the afternoon, like an amusement park ride in a Shirley Jackson story.

No home runs for McGwire that night, but he hit two the next night and two more the night after that. He left South Florida with 59, those Herculean biceps and his lie.

We want to believe our heroes are pure, that Superman was clean. That Santa Claus really does exist. Sadly, we don’t live in that world as far as sports figures are concerned. Too many have been caught trying to fly too close to the sun.

I am more than a little disappointed in McGwire and Sosa and all those who performed under the cloud of suspicion or the A-Rods, who have been outed. They destroyed the one bridge between fan and athlete – trust.

I wish for more innocent days, like that hot afternoon on the last day of August in 1998 when the legend was as big as his biceps and batting practice blasts made you dive for cover, giggling like a little kid at a baseball game.