I didn’t spend a great deal of time yesterday pouring over the Mark McGwire story. Didn’t need to. There was more than enough sanctimonious self-righteous twaddle being hurled about should I have wanted to go that route. Which I didn’t. The most unintentionally amusing slab of sludge came from “outraged” Giants fans and radio stations hosts. You know, the same ones who spent years denying their precious Barry Bonds ever partook of anything stronger than the occasional glass of milk, and today immediately change the subject whenever it is broached?
Instead, indulge me as I tell my own Mark McGwire story.
It was the mid ’90s. McGwire was still with the A’s. My parents came out here to California from Indiana, where they moved after my Dad retired, so they could visit with friends and family. It was the weekend, and the A’s were in town. I suggested to my Dad we go to the game.
Just like we did so many times when I was a kid.
On our way to the Oakland Coliseum, amid the usual father-son banter a quieting through came to mind, one unspoken yet unavoidable. Given my Dad’s age and health, this would undoubtedly be the last game we would see together. A sobering contemplation to say the least. Nevertheless, I pushed it out of my mind as best I could. Savor the moment.
And all I wanted was my Dad to see Mark McGwire hit a home run.
He did. The A’s went on to win the game.
That day I was a kid with his Dad at a ballgame.
It was a bit ironic that a couple of years later McGwire would be traded to the Cardinals, the team of my Dad’s youth. The year before he passed away, McGwire broke the single-season home run record.
That’s my Mark McGwire memory. I’lla lways be grateful to him for that, steroids or no steroids.
So excuse me for not indulging in the sanctimonious self-righteous twaddle.
I’ll keep my memories of a kid with his Dad at a ballgame, thanks.
