The Race to 62
Watching one of the highlights of the PED era of the late 1990s
Say what you will about the steroid era of the 80s and 90s—and I will have plenty to say about it later—watching those Herculean hitters smash the ball over the fence sure made the game exciting. And it was never more exciting than in the 1998 season when the twin titans of Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa were in hot pursuit of Roger Maris’s single season home run record.
In the years leading up to that record-breaking season, the league leaders’ home run totals were inching their way toward that magical number of 61. Then in early September of 1998, it looked like someone was actually going to break the record; the only question was who was going to hit number 62 first, Mark McGwire or Sammy Sosa?
I spent the summer of 1998 working at a summer camp, so I wasn’t able to keep up with the season as a whole nor the home run derby taking place. It was not until about the second week of September—right when things were heating up—that I had rejoined civilization and was finally able to keep tabs on this pursuit of history.
On Tuesday, September 8, 1998, Mark McGwire won the race to 62.
For several days before that, I had been in Laughlin, Nevada, with some of my friends from camp. We spent our days on the lake: swimming, jet skiing, inner tubing, or sunning ourselves on the beach. We spent our evenings at the hotel: hot tubbing, or gambling and enjoying free drinks in the casino. Over the several nights we were there, I won $80 at the blackjack table, enough for one month’s car payment on my 1993 Geo Metro.
September 8 in Laughlin was an especially hot day. After hours in the sun and in the lake and on the beach, the first thing I wanted to do when I got back to the hotel was take a long hot shower. The first thing my friend and roommate wanted to do was turn on the ballgame. Mark McGwire and the St. Louis Cardinals were playing Sammy Sosa and the Chicago Cubs in a nationally televised game.
It was the bottom of the fourth inning and McGwire was due to bat. The hot water from the showerhead rinsed the last of the soap and sunscreen and sand from my body before I would wash my hair. This moment of zen was interrupted by my friend shouting through the bathroom door, “Get out here. McGwire’s up and he’s going to hit it out.”
Getting out of the shower was the last thing I wanted to do. I mean, what were the chances he would actually break the record in that at-bat?
But if he did hit it out and break the record, and I had decided to stay in the shower… what a shameful story that would be. When the “where were you when…” conversations came up, did I really want to admit that I was in the shower while McGwire’s record-breaking home run was being broadcast on the television in the next room?
Screw it, I thought. I turned off the water in time to hear, “Dude, hurry up!” coming from the other side of the bathroom door.
With no time to dry off, I grabbed a hand towel from the sink and went out into the hotel room proper, doing my best to cover myself with the hand towel. Dripping wet, I stood there watching the screen as McGwire stood in the batter’s box.
On the next pitch, McGwire hit a hard line drive toward the left field fence. All 4.3 million television viewers held their breath in unison, waiting to see if the line drive would clear the fence.
The crowd at Busch Stadium erupted in cheers and applause; the ball barely made it over the fence, but it was a home run nonetheless. It quickly became obvious that we were not the only guests at that hotel watching the game as we could hear muffled cheers coming from rooms above us and below us and down the hall from us.
In our hotel room, my friend and I instinctively high-fived and then hugged. What else do you do when you witness history?
In our shared elation, I was brought back to the immediacy of the moment as the air conditioning kicked on. A brief chill reminded me that I was still dripping wet from my interrupted shower.
We watched Mark McGwire take his victory lap around the bases and then lift his son into the air in celebration.
After witnessing baseball history and standing naked in the middle of my hotel room for an awkwardly long period of time, I went back into the bathroom to finish my shower.
And this is just one of the effects of the rampant steroid use in the late 90s:
Baseball had sort of fallen off my radar during my college years. I had long since given up on my junior high dreams of one day playing in the Major Leagues, and was busy taking classes at the local community college and trying to figure out what the hell I wanted to do with my life. In junior high and high school, I spent much of my summer watching games on television—but only when I had the house to myself—or listening to games on the radio in my room. But in college, I spent my summers working and living at various camps where there were no televisions and radio reception was pretty bad. I had simply lost interest in the game for a while.
But this renewed buzz and excitement—driven by steroid-powered bats—piqued my interest. I, too, got caught up in the hype of the race to 62… to the point that I was willing to stand naked and dripping wet in a Laughlin hotel room to witness that historic moment.