The Good Father

Bichette turned with a grin and said, "No, he's going to hit it over your head!"

And to think McGwire has built this Taj Mahal out of popsicle sticks and chewing gum. No other great home run hitter has seen so few decent pitches. With 141 bases on balls, including 27 intentional passes, through Sunday, McGwire was not only on pace to break Ruth's season record of 170 walks, but he also had an outside chance to break Willie McCovey's record of 45 intentional walks. (Maris, by the way, had zero in 1961.) This season the San Francisco Giants intentionally walked him with nobody on. Then there are the de facto intentional walks. "I guarantee you, 30 percent of the walks he draws aren't listed as intentional, but they might as well be," says McKay, who's the Cardinals' first base coach as well as BP pitcher. "They throw him the first pitch six inches outside, just to see if he'll nibble. But he's got the best eye in baseball, so he never does. Then they just go ahead and throw three more balls and get it over with."

As soon as he sees that the pitcher has no more intention of throwing McGwire a strike than tossing him a lamb shank, McKay, as a subtle protest, saunters over from his coaching box and practically stands on first base, awaiting McGwire's arrival. Says Cardinals manager Tony La Russa, "If they'd just pitch to Mark, he could hit 80." The problem is McGwire actually looks for the walk. Of his 55 home runs through last weekend, only one was on a 3-and-1 count, none on 3 and 0. "We tell him, be more selfish," says La Russa, "but he won't."

Scientists have figured it out. McGwire is missing the stud-jock-ego chromosome (in Latin: chromus Albertbellius). Always has been. One day after the mass of reporters left his locker, one of the remaining journalists said, just to make him feel a little better, "Hey, Michael Jordan goes through this every day."

"Yeah," McGwire said, "but he's really good."

This isn't new. As a boy, McGwire would stash his trophies in the back of his closet, not on top of his dresser. They embarrassed him. On the form for the media guide at USC, he left the space next to ATHLETIC HONORS blank. If you had just flown in from the planet Zoron to spend the night at his house on the beach in Orange County, Calif., you'd need a few hints to figure out what he does for a living. There's nothing baseball-related in it. No trophies. No bats. No framed jerseys. He has either given everything away, 01 it's in storage. Most sports stars have double lockers to handle the overflow of mail, gifts, freebies and reporters. He's got a single. The man doesn't even own his rookie card. No interest.

One day when Mark was a boy, Ginger and John were trying to get him and his four brothers ready for church. Mark still wasn't dressed. "Where are your shoes?" Ginger asked.

"I gave 'em to Stan," he said sheepishly-Stan was his friend. "He needed 'em."

McGwire drove Ginger and John nuts with that kind of stuff. He'd give away his baseball gloves, his shirts, a sweater once. These days, he's still giving, only a little bigger. He donates a million dollars a year to a fund for sexually abused children. Now strangers walk up to him and tell him stomach-turning stories of sexual abuse. Says McGwire, "Sometimes I'm just speechless."

All this free and open discussion of secrets, troubles and emotions is fairly new to him. You didn't do it in the McGwire family when he was growing up. Besides, who had time to talk when there was only so much time to eat? All five boys ended up at least 6'3" and 220. They were all killer athletes—Dan was a quarterback at San Diego State and later played for the Seahawks and the Dolphins, Mike played high school soccer and golf, Bob was a standout for the Citrus (Glendora, Calif.) Community College golf team. Then there was Jay, the baby. "Jay was the most talented of all the boys," says Ginger. "He was more coordinated than Mark at any age." Jay was an unhittable pitcher, a deadly shooter in basketball, a welt-raising linebacker. "He was better than me," says Mark, a star pitcher and golfer in high school. "I always told him that."