Triumph and Tragedy in Mudville by Stephen Jay Gould

arguments about the general decline of pitching won’t wash. I suspect that Ruth enjoyed better prospects in his time, before the “invention” of relief pitching in several varieties of subspecialization. (At the very least, he never had to hit against himself, for Ruth was also baseball’s best left-handed pitcher.) I wonder how many dingers the Babe hit off tired starters in the late innings?
    Only one explanation makes any sense to me as an innovation that might sufficiently boost the output of the best sluggers. Several years ago, American Heritage asked me to write an article on the greatest athlete of the twentieth century. I considered the inestimable Jordan and Ali, but finally decided upon the consensus favored at midcentury (when, as a sports-addicted kid, I read everything on this subject): Jim Thorpe, who put miles of space between himself and the clumped second-to fifth-place finishers in both the pentathlon and decathlon of the 1912 Olympics, who reigned as the best player in American football, and who also performed adequately in major league baseball (whereas Jordan really couldn’t hit a curve and barely broke .200 in a full minor league season). Contemporaries invariably described Thorpe as an Adonis, whose gorgeous body bristled with strength and muscles. But if you judge a photo of Thorpe by contemporary standards of bodily perfection, you will probably recall the ninety-eight-pound weakling of those old Charles Atlas ads. Thorpe now looks scrawny and ill-developed, no match for half the guys at the local gym.
    I therefore suspect that one consistent and important thing separates then from now: scientific weight training for highly specific changes in particular muscles and groups—a regimen now rigidly followed by all serious athletes, yet completely unknown in Ruth’s time. Scientific training, by itself, does nothing, and cannot convert even a very good hitter into a home run champion. But such assiduous, specialized work, rigorously followed by those few surpassingly gifted athletes who combine the three essential attributes of bodily prowess, personal dedication, and high intelligence, can probably raise Greenberg’s 58 to McGwire’s 70.
    To Mark McGwire, a truly splendid man who deserved to savor a longer reign, we can only say that “there is…a time to get, and a time to lose: a time to keep, and a time to cast away.” You were the firstest with the mostest. We will always love you, and revere your amazing grace in that wonderful season. You and Sammy (and the ghosts of Roger and Mickey) will always be the boys of our most exquisite summers. And to Barry Bonds, who by quirks of temperament has never matched McGwire in public appeal, but who did his deed with honor, consistency, and fortitude at the most tragic of all times, may you enjoy every moment as you remember another verse in the third chapter of Ecclesiastes: “There is nothing better than that a man should rejoice in his own works; for this is his portion.” Barry, that was one helluva portion! God bless you, and God bless us every one. You gave us some lightness of being to face an unbearable time.

HEROES LARGE, SMALL, AND FALLEN

Mickey Mantle: The Man versus the Myth
    I was nine years old when the Yanks brought up Mickey Mantle in 1951. I hated him. DiMaggio was my hero, but even I could tell his skills were eroding. I longed for that centerfield job, and I knew that it would be mine if only DiMag could hang in there long enough for me to finish high school. But now, at the brink of realizing this beautiful fantasy, I faced a usurper from Commerce, Oklahoma.
    In 1952 I began to change my mind, for even a child can empathize with the victims of cruel treatment and ill fortune. One day, as the senseless booing continued to envelop Mantle (he hit .311 with twenty-three homers in his sophomore year), Yankee emcee Mel Allen broke the cardinal rule of dramatic performance by forsaking his appointed role and conversing directly