Pretty soon, it'll all be over
by Matt Worley

I'm not much for baseball lore.

The statistics. The line scores. The 4-5-3. What Ty Cobb or Babe Ruth was really like. Which is the oldest team (okay, I know that, but only by accident--the Cubs). How many times the Yankees have won the World Series. How many times Billy Martin managed the Yankees. All these little details that are bandied about by sports hounds in a quest for statistical dominance. They don't mean much to me. I'm there for the game.

And I go game by game. Once a game is over, it's over. Oh sure, I'll wait through 45 minutes of Sportscenter for the ten seconds of Royals highlights, but after a day or so, I couldn't tell you what the score of the game was, who the winning pitcher was or if anything really interesting happened. There are lots of things I don't feel I have to remember.

I can't tell you the record of the Royals this year without looking at the paper. I can tell you they're either second or third in the AL central with no hope of playoff dreams. But it takes me about the entire season to learn all the names of the new guys. Same goes for the Dukes, our local AAA affiliate of the Dodgers. If you ask me about either of these teams, my inevitable answer would be, "We suck this year."

All of this does not mean I don't care. Because I do. But what I really love is the game. The competition. The strategy. The anticipation. Trying to figure out if the pitcher is gonna be a wimp and throw to first again, or if he's gonna suck up his gut and go for the gold.

My managerial style (only evidenced by my mutterings of "Go for three!" or "Get a new pitcher" while the real people do their jobs) is anything but conservative. This ranges to all sports, of course, because I have no financial stake in the outcome. I'll always go for two to win instead of one for a tie in football. I'll pull the goalie out of the net and then curse myself later. And I'll call for a double steal with two outs left--especially if a weak batter is at home. The cool thing about double steals is that the other team always falls for it. Or this is what my mind tells me when I yell at the TV or team on the field.

So with all of this in mind, I have my one statement to all those people bitching and moaning about the legacy of 61: Screw you, let us play the game.

Here's the thing. The only people who don't want McGwire or Sosa to beat Maris are old people who are afraid of dying. The death of 61 puts their own lives into perspective--namely their time is coming to an end. The rest of us are ready for new blood. For a new legend. Or legends.

I don't care who actually wins, but I'll bet on Mark McGwire. Sammy Sosa's betting on McGwire, too. Of course, all the Cubs fans are rooting for Sosa. And all the St. Louis fans are rooting for McGwire. Where I work, everyone seems to be rooting for Sosa (if they want the record broken at all--which seems like a futile wish these days) because he's not white. And they don't like that adreno-drug thing. Or some such reason. Of course, there are the women who think Sosa is better looking. And the McGwire guys who relate to being a little husky. We've all got our prejudices about the race for greater than 61.

Me? I just want it broken. I want it demolished. And I don't want an asterisk.

So when it happens this week (if it hasn't already happened by the time you read this), I will get out of my chair, salute the man and drink an entire beer. The terrific belch will be my personal punchline--and encore hail--to the new reigning home run king.

Matt Worley is now writing Zen and the Art of Watching Baseball.

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