Mound Olympus

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."

TS: Mm-hmm. I mean, that's what it's all about. A career is all ups and downs, but it's the sum total of the thing that's important. That's life. We all work that way. And you can't just look at the bad and say it's all bad. Because it isn't. One thing I've learned, you have to look at the whole picture, not just a tiny part. You do that in a game, in a season—and in a career, in your life. That's the most important lesson. You can't go through life being 25-7 every year.

JM: What stays with you most about your career?

T.C. That I loved what I did. I loved pitching. I loved the game.

Insights like these are why Seaver remains such a hero, and why he was voted into the Hall this year (he goes in August 2) with the largest percentage ever. It is also why a generation of 3O+-year-old men, in the "middle innings" of their lives, still look to him as a role model, still try to be more like him.

Ironically, I expected to be disappointed by him, in real life and off the mound. I was ready for it. And then it didn't happen. What I did feel, meeting Tom Seaver--who talked of Hodges and Koocman and Game 4 and 1969—was a little of what I felt at 12-years-old again: tenta five, drink with possibility.

Heroes don't replace our fathers because they're inadequate. They're not. What they are is human—what we all become and learn to accept for ourselves as grown-up men. (And, ultimately, what we'll he to our sons, when the Dwight Goodens and Roger Clemens assume the status of a retired Seaver and it becomes our turn to fall, temporarily at least, short in their young eyes.) PerhaDs not ever until that mazic #41 is retired with formality on a foreboding outfield wall surrounding the playing fields of our youth.

And when that happens, as it must, we lose something, and gain something, in the process. We jettison that 12-yearold boy who we thought would last forever. And we hope, in years to come, to replay that endless, timeless wish, that age-old fantasy of standing on the mound, arm cocked, eyes beaded, one I knew scrapping the dirt

Once there was a time when I thought I could never be happy with anything less than the Hall of Fame. Me and Tom. But it's easy, when you grow up and find your gods become mortals, to live among the mortals yourself. The trick is, when your gods stay gods, to still live with the mortals, to number yourself among them, and be okay with that. Meeting your god and finding out that he really is a god--what you feared all along--is more terrifying. And more rewarding.

PHOTO (COLOR): Baseball Player

by James Mauro