If I took away nothing else from my childhood, which is entirely
possible, it is this: you can never have too many heroes.

I wish I could say that I had a third grade teacher or a little
league coach who would have spread that worldly advice to me, but I
cannot lie, nor can I steal, or cheat, and I do attend mass
regularly, except when it interferes with major sporting events
(you think I’m kidding).

However, the tales source might be a little more disconcerting.
I learned this tale from a fellow freshman in high school who was
talking about a friend of his brothers who procured him alcohol.
This “dude” was just one of his many “heroes”.

However twisted his logic on the subject was, though, his
conclusions were, in a very Machiavellian way, well taken.

But I’ve long since given up on the idea that a professor of
mine will turn into a person whom I choose to emulate, as have I
given up on the fact that a lawyer, a politician or an athlete will
turn into a guy who will earn my respect.

It’s this realization about this last career path, the athlete,
that has me most troubled, though. For as politicians and lawyers
have long since received the wrath of most of society’s jokes,
athletes have always had their place in the hearts and minds of
individuals as having a higher character–maybe not since my birth,
but most assuredly since the birth of my parents and
grandparents.

And those athletes were heroic for becoming more than players on
the field and more than men off of it. Not all great players were
heroes, and, conversely, not all heroes were great players, but
each possessed an intangible quality that transcended the
game–while still holding it in great reverence.

Men like Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio carried themselves in a
cocksure manner and seemed to reveal to every other player on the
diamond with them that they were the best, and their peers knew it.
They never had to utter a word.

But then there were other types of heroes, like Jackie Robinson,
who, while he did compile a splendid resume, never put up the kind
of numbers of Babe Ruth or Ty Cobb, but did something far greater
for his sport by breaking down the color barrier.

And Peewee Reese was right there on the other side of that wall,
welcoming Robinson with open arms; even when others mocked.

Neither man knew the path that lay ahead of them, but they saw
the path they lay behind them.

There are other heroes, like Vince Lombardi, who made a little
town in Wisconsin the center of the football universe for almost a
decade by inspiring his men to give him everything they had and
then some.

His credo was simple: God, family, football. And at the end of
the day, when he gathered his players in their locker rooms after a
victory, and looked down at them with the look that I am almost
certain only a father can have when he is proud of his sons, he
thanked them–and then he prayed with them.

Then he stood, took a pair of scissors and cut their battered
and bloodied jerseys off their bodies, mimicking what the Romans
used to do for each other after a victorious battle, although
obviously for more practical purposes back then. But it stood for
something.

Lombardi stood for something. It seems that no athlete stands
for anything now, which is a travesty.Not to say that I haven’t had
my fair share of great teachers; I have. Nor am I saying that I
haven’t seen a plethora of great athletes. I think we live in a
time where we are seeing some of the greatest athletes ever.

But none of those athletes have been able to captivate an entire
audience and hold their attention every time they take the field
like the players of old (i.e. “Barry doesn’t have to do anything
Barry doesn’t want to do, and Barry doesn’t want to hit in the home
run derby.”)

And there will always be a Robbie Alomar out there who is ready
and willing to spit in an umpire’s face when the inevitable happens
and he disagrees with a call. Or a Latrell Sprewell, angry about
playing time, or a personnel decision or even just the quality of
deli meat on the buffet table after the game, so he chokes his
coach, gets traded and demands more money for his trouble.

When Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio got tired of the Mr. Coffee
commercials and the limelight that accompanied it, he loosened his
tie, accepted the parting gifts and walked off into the sunset.

Ted Williams hit .400, led some of the best Boston Red Sox teams
ever (if those are not contradiction in terms) and, oh yeah by the
way flew a fighter plane for his country in the second World War
AND the Korean Conflict then quietly retired to his favorite
fishing hole in a Nowhereville, FL.

But maybe I’m being too hard on them. Maybe I’m just jealous of
the men who, in their youth, were able to see Ruth call his shot
and watched Mays make the basket catch with his back to
homeplate.

I sincerely hope that I did not overlook the crowning
achievement of a hero’s career last time I went to the
ballpark.

And I am also keeping my fingers crossed that the guy who bought
me a six-pack last week won’t some day rank up there with Joe
Montana and Michael Jordan on my all-time heroes list.