The Hero Effect

Matt Bruce

My regularly-scheduled column has been preempted by an act of heroism. Shortly after I went to Fenway Park and saw the Red Sox score 23 runs, I began a column to the effect that scoring so many runs might be better than sex. My essay-in-waiting had all sorts of bawdy references, from the phallic nature of John Rocker to the fact that I once kept in my dresser drawer a condom named Livan. Just as I got to a lame joke about Eric Gregg's massive strike zone, Troy O'Leary had to go hit a grand slam.

I've touched on the subject of baseball heroes in this space before, but never talked about how remarkable it is that certain players seem to make the big play repeatedly, above and beyond their talents. Don't scoff when I use the word "hero." It probably makes you think of ESPN's bizarre decision to use the old David Bowie song whenever someone made a half-decent play in their Division Series telecasts.

The idea of heroism is cheapened when one uses the term loosely, just as the excitement of a home run call is cheapened by radio announcers who use the words "way back! WAY BACK!" for everything from a 500-foot bomb to a warning-track out.

So we develop perspective. Even then, to the extent that baseball is important (and if it isn't, what are you doing at this site?), an ace pitcher becomes a hero when he tosses six no-hit relief innings to win the deciding game of a series. In that same situation, an outfielder who follows his grand slam with a game-winning, three-run homer becomes a hero at the plate. Especially when his ability to produce in pressure situations far exceeds what one would expect from his other numbers.

He especially becomes a hero to those fans with long memories of his finest moments. In 1995, the Red Sox and Mariners took a scoreless game into extra innings at Fenway Park. Seattle scored in the top of the tenth but O'Leary responded with a two-run homer. A year later, his two-run triple against Minnesota capped a four-run rally that began with two outs and none on in the bottom of the ninth. That comeback was the first win in a two-month hot streak that brought an underachieving team within inches of the wild card.

O'Leary delivered several game-winning hits in that stretch. He did so well in certain situations that I became conditioned to expect that big hit would be his. He did not always come through, of course. He had a miserable Division Series in 1998, poor enough that a fan behind me at one game heckled him without mercy. I did not turn around -- I wish I had -- but instead told friends to see how O'Leary would do next year.

Maybe half the fun of exalting a hero is the ego boost inherent in claiming him as your own. O'Leary may have hit the home runs, but it was I who expected him to. Everyone can predict that Pedro or Nomar will do well, but I am the one who noticed what O'Leary had been up to all these years. We all find a way to take the credit.

It is possible that the adulation of heroes distorts statistical reality. O'Leary tied a postseason record with seven RBI, a record set -- the day before, by John Valentin. I have no particular affinity for Valentin. It's quirky that he is the only player ever to both turn an unassisted triple play and hit for the cycle, yet he seems no more or less worth rooting for than Mike Stanley or Tim Wakefield or whoever. I happen to remember more big offensive plays by O'Leary, in the same way that so many fans remember particular defensive plays by Rey Ordonez or Roberto Alomar. I know better than to generalize that O'Leary is a better offensive player than he is.

And yet his timing is so impeccable that, despite my credentials as a "stathead," I have to wonder whether "clutch hitting" exists after all. With the right reference sources and patience to do the research, one could determine whether O'Leary has had more "big hits" (by whatever definition) than his teammates or fellow major leaguers. I do know that another of my heroes, Rusty Greer, has a track record. Over a three-year span in the mid-1990s, Greer was responsible for more than half of the home runs hit by Texas Rangers in their last at-bat. Still another of my heroes, Mark Grace, has had dozens of walk-off hits to go with his good looks and high on-base percentage.

In football the evidence is more pronounced. Certain quarterbacks have put up huge career totals of last-minute comebacks. Of course, this trend makes sense in football because a normal offense changes so much during the two-minute drill. (One observation from the column I scrapped was that, on their radio network, the Patriots' two-minute drill is sponsored by a condom company. Each week a lucky fan receives, among other things, "a year's supply of condoms." Now just how many is that? And should the promotion really be associated with something that lasts just two minutes? If you're doing it right, the kissing alone should...never mind.)

Anyhow, the next time O'Leary or Greer or Grace fails, I'll probably hear about it. When Chipper Jones carried the Braves on his back over the last two months, exalting the "clutch" abilities of Ryan Klesko (who rounds out my big-play quartet) would have been irrelevant. Their status in my mind has to be at least partly a result of selective memory.

Then again, what of the anti-heroes? Barry Bonds, for example, has been crucified by Bay Area media after every let-down by the Giants. After he had a couple of poor playoff series with the Pirates, his reputation became indelible. Regardless of whether his postseason reputation is deserved, it's a fact that his teams wouldn't have come close to contention without the numbers he put up. In my head I knew all of this going into last year's season-ending game between the Cubs and Giants. In my heart, I had complete confidence that he would kill the Giants' best rally with a bases-loaded groundout, just as I have complete fear that Jim Thome will hit a home run in the same type of situation.

It's possible that Bonds does poorly at exactly the point when particular detractors finally start paying attention. That is to say, it's possible that Bonds psyches himself out at the same time that conventional heroes psyche themselves (and their teammates) up. Of course, without evidence to back this up, I'm on a slippery slope. Next thing you know, I'll be telling you how important O'Leary is as "protection" for Nomar Garciaparra. Which reminds me -- I've felt a lot more awkward around women now that Livan is no longer under those socks.

about the author

Matt Bruce refuses to give his candid opinion on Shea Stadium crowd behavior, because he knows you'd only go back and bug the other Strikethree.com staffers for disapproving out-of-context quotes. Claim he's an "embarrassment" anyway at mb@strikethree.com.