40/40 Vision I can tell you from personal experience that strange things happen when you hit 40. Your pants size goes up even without a weight gain. Hair falls off your head and grows back in your nose. Your kids mistake photo album pictures of your father for you. You do too. Stupid things like the exact location on the dresser where you keep your wallet become religion. You forget what you did Saturday night, and not just because you want to. Can one of those things possibly be an extra five miles per hour on your fastball? Recent accomplishments by a handful of pro athletes beginning their fifth decade of life suggest exactly that. Take Randy Johnson’s perfect game. Just how difficult is it to pitch a perfect game at any age? It would be nearly impossible to pitch a perfect game against a lineup of Randy Johnsons. Stephen Hawking could break one up if he could hold the bat out over the plate long enough. We knew Roger Clemens would never lose another game after retiring. We didn’t know he would keep on winning. The 40-40 club will soon refer to quadragenarians hitting 40 dingers in a season. Barry will reach both plateaus this season if he gets another 40 official at bats. It’s not that this is an entirely new phenomenon. Ted Williams hit .388 at the age of 39. His batting eye was more accurate than QuesTec. Unfortunately, he was DH-ing 16 years before the American league adopted the rule. For Teddy Ballgame, left field was one big on deck circle. There was George Blanda, who by the way, may be making a comeback in the arena league. Blanda paved the way for the Sean Landetas and Gary Andersons of the world, but kicking isn’t quite the same as kicking ass. We’re talking about folks who still got game like Jordan before 40. Something different is in the air right now, and it’s not Mineral Ice. Playing a big-four sport past Jack Benny’s permanent age of 39 used to be primarily a sad public refusal to accept the inevitable or a way to pick up some extra equity for the kids’ college fund before being drummed out of the game completely. Or a way to reach a statistical high water mark before bowing out. Even recently, Fred McGriff has demonstrated his willingness to sign a minor league contract with any team that will have him en route to that elusive 500th home run. Then there are the almost-ex-jocks trying to set some sort of hollow record for longevity. Of course, watching Ricky Henderson hit .208 in 72 at-bats in one more big league uniform is about as emotionally satisfying as watching David Blaine spend one more day starving in a glass box. But hangers-on aside, we have entered a new era of sorts, one that is making Nolan Ryan’s exploits of the early 90s look less like a freak show every day. This phenomenon is not only boosting the morale of a generation old enough to have attended the ’64 World’s Fair in diapers, but it’s actually removing scar tissue. In this case, the wounds are from peer retirement. An early noteworthy brush with peer retirement occurred the first time the Giants’ fearless tight end Mark Bavaro called it quits in 1991 at the ripe old age of 27. Having myself lost my virginity and learned how to throw a spiral not all that long before, I suddenly found myself looking in the mirror three times a day for gray hairs. But the big blow came at the end of the ’95 baseball season, when ‘61-er and my personal idol Don Mattingly hung up his spikes at 34. Donnie, we hardly knew ye. Sure, you had a bad back that flared up like the Gaza Strip every time you swung, but did you ever stop to think that I was coming down with an early case of middle age that flared up every time you didn’t? I was this close to driving out that off-season to Evansville to look you in the eye and ask how on Earth serving drinks in a bar could compare to serving up home runs in the House That Ruth Built. Eight years and one Tino Martinez later, you’re back as the batting coach. Meanwhile, 41-year old Edgar Martinez has perfected the art of hitting a round ball with a round bat squarely. If he could get down to first in under 5.0 seconds, he could start the 40-.400 club. There are identifiable reasons why both late baby boomers and the Boomer himself are staying longer. Check the Baseball Encyclopedia for starting pitchers prior to the 1970s. Two hundred and fifty innings pitched in a season was no more special than a .250 batting average. While scary by today’s standards, 40 games started was common. Even scarier is the notion of completing 20 of them. The only pitch count in those days was balls and strikes. Truth is, today’s 40-year-old starter has an arm that’s only about 33. Twenty-nine if he’s Jamie Moyer. The difference between the trainer’s room then and the trainer’s room now is the difference between Camp X-ray and the Hyatt Regency. BENGAY and a cigarette have been replaced by acupuncture and electrolytes. And the money doesn’t hurt. The prospect of another five or ten million dollars for smacking around a horsehide could make even George W. Bush work during the month of August. Not to mention the relatively recent phenomenon of kicking back in the off-season. My dad once told me he ran into Phil Rizzuto working in a men’s clothing store during his prime. Today, a top athlete’s idea of making a living in the off-season is negotiating a deal for a line of designer windbreakers. Of course, there is a down side. For a guy like me, it’s suddenly less than plausible to complain about having to cut a few 2x4s when Roger Clemens routinely saws off bats. It’s not so easy to get out of a catch with my eleven-year-old when 37-year-old Kenny Lofton is making shoestrings. It’s hard to weasel out of taking out the garbage when Jerry Rice is talking trash to 25-year-old safeties and lighting them up downfield. Those Clairol commercials are finally coming true. They’re not getting older. They’re getting better. Like Jesse Jackson, they keep hope alive and carry the torch better than Mohammed Ali. Forget rooting for Shawn Green because he’s Jewish or Steve Karsay because he’s from Queens. I’ve moved on to rooting for athletes born before 1965. My personal fountain of youth is a box score showing Rafael Palmeiro going two for four with a home run. There is new life in my hobble. I’m benching my current weight instead of my college weight. I’m getting to the refrigerator in 3.8 and waiting for my agent to call. If my best years—or months--are ahead of me, I’d better join a league quick. And not one with the word beer in it. 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