nough about the All-Stars. What about the All-Stars of All-Stars?
Ron Coomer can say he's an All-Star. Hey, he's got the uniform to prove it. Well, no offense, Ron, but if you wanted to see some serious All-Stars, you should have been at the Grand Ballroom of the Sheraton yesterday afternoon. Hank Aaron. Willie Mays. Bob Gibson. Brooks Robinson. Tom Seaver. Warren Spahn. Ernie Banks. Mike Schmidt. Bob Feller. Stan Musial. These are the kind of guys who have that Dapper O'Neil thing going on. That is to say, when it came time to see whether these guys got into Cooperstown, they didn't count the votes. They weighed 'em.
They're all in town as part of Major League Baseball's next big promotion. Effective immediately, you can vote for the Major League Baseball All-Century Team from a list of the top 100 players of all time, as chosen by the proverbial panel of experts. The final team will be announced at World Series time.
This 20th-century list includes seven active players (Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Ken Griffey, Tony Gwynn, Rickey Henderson, Mark McGwire, and Cal Ripken). It also includes 12 players who logged at least some time for the Red Sox and six who performed for the Braves. One thing every one of the 27 retired players who were on hand agreed upon was that whichever era they played in constituted the Good Old Days compared to the micromanaged mess baseball is today.
We can safely say, for example, that we will never again have the opportunity for a pair of pitching greats to compare recollections of their epic 1-0, 16-inning confrontation decided by a Mays home run. Nowadays a 16-inning scoreless game would involve about 10 pitchers. This one needed only two. Hall of Famer Juan Marichal won it. Hall of Famer Warren Spahn lost it.
''I got to the ninth inning,'' recalls Marichal, ''and I told [manager] Alvin Dark to let me go two more innings. Then it was one more and one more, and when I got to the 15th I said, `I'm 22 years old and he's 42, and I'm not coming out before he does!' Then I find out he's telling his manager [Bobby Bragan], `That little kid isn't going to beat me, so I'm going to stay in, too.'''
Mays settled things with his homer, and Spahn still isn't comfortable with that. He won 363, but the 364th would have been something to cherish.
''We had Juan in trouble several times,'' moans Spahn. ''I, for one, led off one inning with a double. But the next three men couldn't get the ball out of the infield. The more trouble Juan was in, the tougher he got. So next time we meet, I'm going to beat his ass!''
Hearing this, Aaron grabs the microphone. ''Warren,'' he says with a laugh, ''you couldn't score from second on a single. To get you in, we'd have needed two more hits to score you.''
Four days later Marichal, a.k.a. the ''Dominican Dandy,'' was back out there. ''I always pitched every fourth day,'' Marichal says. ''That was the only time in my career I was given an extra day's rest before I made my next start.''
Ah, but these guys played when men were men and no one ever heard of a pitch count. Nor did batters whine about someone pitching inside. Someone asked Frank Robinson, for example, if he would ever even think about donning the medieval armor the Mo Vaughns and others do when they stride to the plate.
''Never!'' barks Robinson, who spent more than 20 years hanging himself over the plate, daring pitchers to do something about it.
''If I put it [his elbow] out there, I should pay the price,'' he explains, ''and the price is pain. And you never let the pitcher know you're hurt.''
It wasn't all macho those-were-the-days talk, either. The Legends were as caught up in the majesty of Mark McGwire's astonishing long-ball exhibition Monday night as anyone else. ''What rockets!'' exclaimed Harmon Killebrew, the gentlemanly slugger who struck more sheer terror in the hearts of Red Sox pitchers facing him in Fenway than any other righthand batter during a good 12-year period.
Mr. Killebrew used to put some pretty good wood to baseballs himself. One adolescent recollection of a Killebrew blast evoked a frustrating memory from the great Minnesota slugger. It was a hot Sunday afternoon in June 1965. It was also Yankee Stadium Bat Day, producing a mammoth crowd of 71,244, a significant portion of which was a walk-up deal. Those sitting in the bleachers will never forget the sight of Killebrew one-hopping the 457-foot sign in Death Valley for the world's most outrageous ground-rule double.
''You remember that?'' he beams. ''I remember pulling into third base. I don't remember who the third-base umpire was, but he said the ball had bounced over the fence and I'd have to go back. I couldn't believe it. I said, `Can't I at least have a ground-rule triple?'''
These are not the kind of stories you get when you're dealing with ordinary stars, or even ordinary garden variety All-Stars. The men in our midst yesterday did what they did in italics and uppercase boldface. If the 60 players fortunate enough to be selected for last night's All-Star Game drink their milk to the bottom of the glass, look both ways before crossing, and say their prayers every night, why they, too, might grow up to be as revered and respected as the men on the Top 100 list.
And within the Top 100 there are further gradations, as one of the whippersnappers on the list readily acknowledges. Paul Molitor, the quintessentially classy ballplayer of his generation, cannot believe that by the simple expedient of alphabetical placement he found himself sitting next to Willie Mays in such a gathering. ''You can't imagine when you start out in the sandlots that 35 years later you'll be sitting there as one of the 100 greatest players,'' Molitor says. ''It's unfathomable.''
Even more star-struck is a man who is known for his haughtiness. This All-Star business has been a moving experience for Carlton Fisk, by nature the very personification of the flinty, unimpressionable New Englander. Being named to be the honorary captain of the American League was thrilling enough. But when he found out he was going to be on this ballot as one of the Top 100, he almost lost it.
''When I think of that,'' Pudge told Matt Damon, ''I get goosebumps.'' For emphasis, Damon says, Fisk stuck out his forearm. It was laden with goosebumps.
''This is the best,'' says Fisk. ''But, hey, I should make that list. I played my 12 games a year in high school. That's where I got my expertise.''
Wherever he got it, wherever they all got it, they most definitely had it. Imagine walking into a ballpark and seeing Marichal and Spahn matching zeros for 15-plus and Willie Mays - Willie Mays! - ending it with one swing. Talk about goosebumps.
