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McGwire, 34, is the only player in history to rack up 400 home runs in fewer at bats than Ruth. And the home runs are just as big--at well over 500 ft., several ought to count as a homer and a double. His blasts are cathartic in their destruction, and the damage is sanctified giddily: the St. Louis Post-Dispatch sign he cracked with a 545-ft. homer at Busch Stadium proudly wears a giant Band-Aid, and a replacement front-porch handrail outside Wrigley Field goes unpainted to commemorate a stadium-clearing batting practice shot.
Like Ruth, who got his nickname for being so much younger than his teammates, McGwire was a phenom. At eight years old, in his first Little League at bat, against a 12-year-old pitcher, he smacked one over the fence. And like Ruth, who was a dominating pitcher, McGwire was the best righthander on his sophomore U.S.C. team, allowing fewer runs than teammate Randy Johnson, who has since won a Cy Young award.
Even more than Ruth, McGwire symbolizes stark simplicity. He is a redhead of the kind we haven't seen in centuries--not a pasty Thomas Jefferson or a cutesy Ron Howard, but a scary Redbeard. In his red Cardinal uniform, with red Oakley sunglasses and his bright red goatee, McGwire is more frightening than Carrot Top. McGwire, more than Ruth, strips the game bare. Cro-Magnon man didn't court the media or haggle over free-agent contracts, and neither does Big Mac. He comes to the plate to the tune of the Guns 'N' Roses war dance Welcome to the Jungle. After a home run, he jogs around the bases with his head down, and he takes a curtain call only when the fans won't let up. He has spent almost his entire pro career working for tactician-manager Tony LaRussa (who makes decisions based on numbers crunched in his dugout Macintosh Powerbook), but McGwire doesn't need the coach's signs. His job is hit rock with stick. He is more elemental than even Ruth or Cobb. He is refusing, for now, to sit down with most media, even charming, likable media who dressed really nicely to meet him last week.
Not that it would really matter if he weren't a nice guy--Mike Tyson captivates--but McGwire happens to be Oprah-fied in all the right ways. He missed the opportunity to hit 50 homers in his rookie season in order to be present at his son's birth. After a batting slump and a divorce from his first wife, who had been a college girlfriend, he started therapy, and he has stayed with it. His three-year, $30 million contract stipulates that that his son Matthew, now 10, who is often the Cardinal bat boy, gets a seat on the team plane.
If you really want to find out what someone is like, you ask their exes. McGwire gets along so well with his ex-wife that he has her over for parties. He's still close with ex-girlfriend Ali Dickson, who helped him build his charitable foundation. Last year, at a press conference announcing he'd be giving $1 million a year to child-abuse charities, he wept: he's got that gentle giant thing down. His vision is so bad (20/500) that his 1990 first baseman's Gold Glove award for defensive play sits in the office of his optometrist. He cried during Driving Miss Daisy. You want to hug this guy. Or at least get your arms as far around him as they'll go.