Zoetrope: All-Story Extra

"Iron John" McGinty lights a cigar with a fifty-dollar bill. His appetites are prodigious, his dissolute habits notorious. When the team travels, he stays in a separate hotel, and sometimes the call girls are there by noon. When he leaves they stay and watch the game from his room, the meter running, as it were. They drink his tequila and watch his huge arms waving that huge bat, his eyes big and hungry. To those eyes the ball itself looks huge, and when his bat gets hold of the whole thing, everybody knows it. The camera jerks up to the roof of the stadium and pans wildly, but it's gone, too far, too high.

Iron John clubs three homers in a single game on May 1st, and the inevitable talk begins, the talk of records, and chases, with weird undertones of communal longing and healing, often framed in absurd religious metaphors that nobody examines, because it's just a game.
A fan retrieves one of the home run balls for Iron John, who signs it and gives it back. Then they get to talking about local nightclubs and then they go out drinking together, and when the fan wakes up on his couch the next morning, Iron John is in bed with his wife. They all eat waffles together and read the paper.

Iron John has announced he's dedicating every homer this season to his mother, who died in the spring, just before the first game.

IRON JOHN: BASEBALL'S SAVIOR? read the headlines. But Iron John knows that baseball—tied as it is to America's self-image—has fallen and risen again and again in its dignity and shame, and has needed to be saved almost every year, although the fans tend to be remarkably unclear about from what it needs to be saved. He knows that fans egged on by jealous and overweight scribes have for a hundred years complained about players making too much money, for a hundred years have called the players selfish and lazy, even though—and he keeps this to himself, though it hurts him to do so—the players are the worker. He knows how deluded and ironic it is that fans' complaints have always mirrored the views of the owners, the management.
He's the worker. But every so often one of the workers is chosen to play messiah.

On May 23rd he hits two more in a rain-shortened victory. The team's chartered flight takes off into the storm, and they spend three hours vibrating with turbulence. This irritates Iron John enormously, because it makes the in-flight Gene Hackman film hiccup, and it keeps knocking his headphones off.

    By the end of May he already has a record-pace 33 homers, and they decide he has to meet the journalists in a special press conference after every game.
    But no amount of hounding will ever make Iron John speak his mind. "It's a team effort," he says, after driving in all nine runs in a 9-8 victory marred by four of his teammates' errors. "It doesn't matter unless we win," he says every time he homers but they lose, even though the team is languishing in fourth place and the fans only come to see his homers. In truth he only comes to see his homers. He lives for it, the long arc, the great roar, the reverence of fans both hometown and alien, the flashbulbs, his arms like marble or granite, his mythic stature, the way the writers say his tight curly hair makes him look like a Greek God. Or when they compare him to some kind of hero of legend, Ulysses, or maybe Icarus.
    He knows this is what he lives for—not 'a win for the team'—but he will never say it.
    He realizes this makes him more an abstraction than a human being.

The team's PR woman leaves messages on his machine. "You need to do some charity work," she says, not trying to conceal her impatience. "I can get you the honorary chair of this cancer thing."

    He hits his 40th and 41st home runs on June 30th, which leaves him 'on a pace' for 83 home runs. Columnists debate at length the meaning of the phrase 'on a pace' despite the fact that they and everyone else understand it perfectly. "But if he breaks his leg tomorrow," writes one commentator, "he's not on that pace anymore, is he?"
    Iron John pictures beating the man with his big bat.
    Instead, Iron John goes a-whorin'. But he can't get it together. He's still thinking about that broken leg.
    He's in the famed Witt brothel in St. Louis with a local girl named Lou.
    "Babe Ruth slept here," she whispers, rubbing his big shoulders.
    "Ty Cobb slept here," she whispers, rubbing his big neck.
    "Christy Mathewson—"
    He pushes her away. "Don't even start about Christy Mathewson," he snarls. "That man was a saint."
    Back at the hotel he calls his blonde trophy wife. He asks: "How are the little blonde trophy children?"
    "You've done quite well for yourself," she says dryly, not paying much attention. "You should be proud."
    She's been to college, and the few times he's met her he's learned a lot from her. He's not sure who his wife is dating now. She's an actress, and may be a lesbian, their marriage arranged by their agents, leaving Iron John unfettered to indulge his prodigious and oft-rumored voracities. But that night he dreams his wife is fucking Wade Boggs. He dreams his wife is fucking Cal Ripken, and Brady Anderson. This wakes him up.
    Brady Anderson? He reaches for the phone.
    There are many women aroused by the home run chase. It just happens that his wife is not among them.

    On the flight to the All-Star Game, Iron John finds himself in coach. It's absurd, because he's far too famous and wealthy and physically oversized for coach.
    People are stealing looks at him. The old woman on his right thinks she deserves the armrest.
    He tries to shut his eyes and doze, but the plane stinks of burning rubber.
    When they land, he sees the tarmac has been cleared of all other planes, and they taxi past a dozen fire trucks and ambulances lined up, their engines running, ready to go. Their searchlights hurt his eyes.

At night, drifting off to sleep, as a visualization of sorts, a sleeping aid perhaps, he often imagines himself performing mundane tasks at an everyday job. He's a forklift operator at a warehouse, and he has to put the big boxes where they belong. He's a telephone operator, and he connects people, gives them the information they ask for. He knows that elsewhere other men and boys are busy imagining the opposite, that they're him. But as with them, his fantasies soothe him, and give him hope, that perhaps some day he can be something besides what he is.

Iron John knows that his FB/GB ratio is an absurd 3.8, his OPS vs. RHP is 1.350, and his batting average with RISP is .382. He also knows that the latter stat is not predicative. Almost alone among ballplayers, he knows baseball's dark secret, that there is no such thing as a clutch hitter. This has been proven repeatedly by geeks with computers. But he hit a crucial and legendary home run in game six of the World Series three years ago, unlike so many of the greats who came before, so many who never made it that far or never performed once they did, and so announcers will forever pronounce him a clutch hitter, and so he keeps his mouth shut.

In the media guide his hobbies are listed as hunting and fishing, like most of the other players. He performs neither activity. The PR woman had refused to write down reading and drinking.

    On the radio Iron John hears a story about some elaborate baseball league Jack Kerouac maintained on paper, in his imagination.
    "I always knew he was a pansy," Iron John thinks. "Sloppy-ass stream-of-consciousness fantasy-baseball jerk-off wannabe."
    But when some journalists discussing the story ask him about Kerouac, he dutifully responds: "Who's that?"

    The PR woman keeps calling, and he finally picks up the phone. "You gotta do some charity," she starts in. "More than just giving money"—she hears him curse her through the phone—"although everyone of course appreciates your money, don't get your tights in a wad, Superman. But you gotta show up somewhere."
    "Christ, woman," he says, "wait until the offseason, at least."
    "I've got a gig for you in December. Orlando, kids, leukemia."
    "I hate Orlando." He hears her sighing. "I'm telling you, don't even call me until after the season."
    "You don't answer your phone in the offseason."
    He doesn't disagree.
    "You hate helping people," she pronounces flatly.
    "Listen," he says. "I'll surprise you someday, and help somebody, just for show."
    That night, in his bed, he imagines he's a crossing guard, a fireman, a surgeon.

Detroit, July 13th, #44. He looks to the home plate camera, points skyward, and says, Hi, Mom.
That night on the plane, he wakens from a nightmare (high winds, dark night, a big empty warehouse) to find his teammates staring at him, their ashen faces conveying something like concern, or distaste.

    Somebody brings him a bald little boy in a wheeled hospital bed. They push the cot right down the passage to the door of the locker room, tubes growing from the boy's nose and arms. Iron John signs a bat and then clutches the boy's hand tightly, all the while thinking jesus fucking christ.
    "Hit a homer for me tonight, Iron John," the boy says.
    There's no journalists around, and Iron John, who's never been comfortable with sick people, inadvertently speaks his mind. "It doesn't really work like that, kid."
    The boy is dumbfounded. He looks to his mother, who's looking glazed and possibly even tipsy, and then the boy repeats the line he's been practicing: "Hit a homer for me tonight, Iron John."
    But now Iron John has gotten himself into a dither. "But what if they don't give me any pitches to hit," he squeaks. "What if they know I'm trying to hit a homer for a little boy and they throw everything a foot outside? What if they just walk me every time?" Now he feels himself panting; he's imagining a world where he might not ever hit another home run.
    The mother pats her son's shoulder. She's dreamily studying the grime of the park, the hot dog wrappers and gum of a thousand games, as she says: "I'm sure if he hits a home run tonight, honey, he'll have done it for you."
    Iron John gasps air gratefully, and considers kissing her.

    And in fact this night Dodger hurler Mo Lidell gives him less than nothing to hit: leading off the bottom of the second he first brushes Iron John back with a fastball inside, and then plunks him on the thigh with a change-up. Iron John drops his bat and glares; Lidell comes off the mound, shedding his glove and waving his arms in the air ("You want a piece of me?"); both teams leap from their benches to the edge of the field; the umpire and the catcher move to intervene.
    Some definitions of manliness require that Iron John charge the pitcher and get suspended for five or six games. But Iron John is already walking toward first base, dusting his hands and shaking his head. "What great restraint," the announcer gushes. "You better believe he's not thinking of any home run record right now. He's only thinking about how his team needs him in the lineup for every game. He's that kind of selfless player."
    Standing on first base, Iron John thinks: No way I'm giving up any home run chances. I'll pay somebody later to have this fucker beaten with tire irons.
    The pitcher squawks and paces in circles, his catcher standing close by.
    Later, on second base, Iron John rethinks the part about the tire irons. He's never had anybody beaten with tire irons, in fact he's basically opposed to having people beaten with tire irons; what was he thinking?

It's the steroids, of course, the goddamned steroids, making his throat itch, his voice hoarse. Yesterday a dog came up and licked his leg and he burst into tears. That's steroids.
But he continues to endanger his health because he feels it's his duty, to maximize his god-given talent, he owes it to the nation, to sick little boys everywhere, it would in fact be immoral to spurn the contributions of modern medicine—

    At night, as he falls into sleep, he dreams of other legends, other streaks. In the hypnagogic state, he signs ten thousand autographs and brings the country together, like Cal Ripken did. He goes to meet Joe DiMaggio, who leers, "I fucked Marilyn Monroe."
    This upsets Iron John, throws him off track, and he tries again.
    "I loved Marilyn Monroe," DiMaggio scowls.
    "You treated her like shit," Iron John growls, rolling over. "And this isn't about love."

Iron John has read somewhere that Muhammad Ali would abstain from sex for days before a fight, that he felt ejaculation would drain his power. This is simply not an option for Iron John. Sometimes at night, with the woman or women sleeping beside him, or already gone, he lies there and tries to imagine it, this saving up of power. Could he, Iron John, will himself to become even more powerful? Iron John pictures the big man, Iron John, striding down the boulevard, declining the advances of the pretty girls, walking erect, his chest swelling—

Iron John is 'old school.' The old writers who work the locker-room beat never tire of writing that, a little bit of hip-hop to spice up their columns: Iron John is 'old school.' They talk about how his muscles come not from hours spent in modern weight-rooms, but from old Charles Atlas exercises. Muscle vs. muscle, resistance. Man vs. himself, Iron John vs. Iron John: Gaze at your reflection in the mirror, imagine a new you with the muscles you want, clutch your left wrist firmly with your right hand, then fight yourself. Try to get away. You're not going anywhere, Iron John.

    The PR woman says, at least do goddamned Oprah.
    She says, show your sensitive side, big man.
    That night, the team's charter has to land in sixty-mile-an-hour winds. Iron John, watching the wing flapping up and down as the runway approaches, thinks, I suppose this could kill me, and, Of course I have a sensitive side!

    The woman from Oprah's office asks him questions. They're high up in a sunny conference room, in soft padded chrome chairs. There's a pitcher of ice water and a tumbler glass if he needs it.
    She's ready to take notes. "Do you miss your kids when you're on the road?"
    "Yes," he says.
    She stares, tapping her pencil, although he's sure he got the answer right.
    He shifts his big body and the little chair creaks.
    She says, "Why don't you tell us about them."
    I get it now, he thinks, and then he gives her the speech about the kids.
    She seems strangely unmoved. She asks other questions, and he gives the answers.
    "Tell me about something that's challenged you, changed you, a choice you've had to make recently that's had consequences."
    He opens his mouth and shuts it. He really wants to get this one right. He thinks of the boy in the hospital bed, about Lidell and the tire irons, about his mother—
    "Every pitcher is a different challenge," he says. "I learn from every at-bat."
    She puts her pencil away and rises and shakes his big hand and says, thanks for coming in.

He stares in the mirror at his own naked form, visualizing a new him with the muscles he wants. The woman's questions come back to him. What does it mean to be a man? How do you feel when people call you a hero?
And he thinks, I'd give her the same answers every time. I only know these answers.

    Falling off to sleep, the girl of the night sent away in a taxi, he pictures himself on Oprah: "Iron John's Journey of Self-Discovery."
    "I've learned a lot about myself recently,' he says, with obvious humility. "I'm not as strong as I think I am." There's scattered applause and he bows his head gratefully to the ladies in the audience. "In fact, I'm weak. Prone to error, to sin, sins of omission as well as sins of the flesh. Wicked excess—"
    Even in his fantasies the crowd grows restless, ashamed for him, and they cut to a commercial.

    Before the game he finds himself browsing the Volunteers Wanted listings in the paper. Hospice? But he hates sick people. Soup line? He hates soup.
    Then he hits two more home runs.
    "Do you wish your mother could see this?" the reporters ask.
    My fucking mother! he thinks. The last time he saw her, she struck at his face with her bony old fists, clawed at his hair, shrieked at him You are the devil! She'd been like that throughout the extended illness, and he would never tell anyone that he didn't blame the Alzheimer's. It didn't seem that different from how she was growing up. Deep in his black heart he believed she'd always had an evil nature, and she'd infected him, and he'd never tell how when she finally died he jumped up and down, laughing and clapping like a little boy.

Home run #63, August 20th, San Francisco: "That was for my mother."

Peter Jennings and Barbara Walters and everyone else in America say, what can stop him now, how many can he hit, is this the greatest feat in history, are we seeing the emergence of a true hero for our times—
Dan Rather says: Iron John. What makes him tick?

    That night, his hooker is dressing by the light of CNN while he sleepily imagines Larry King interviewing him: he's holding hands with Marilyn Monroe, they're announcing their engagement, she's looking at him with love, or something like it, but then he hears the hooker squeak. There's been a terrible earthquake in Mexico, they're showing a map with circles on it, there's some town at the center, Santa Something, and she says, "My parents." And then she's gone.
    He can't sleep at all. They're showing ruined buildings on the edge of Mexico City, hundreds of miles from the epicenter.
    He thinks: damn that PR woman.
    And he never does sleep.

    The next day he finds himself on a little plane with eight Red Cross workers. The youngest one, a golden-haired boy, clutches his airsick bag and keeps buckling and unbuckling his seatbelt, trying to breathe.
    "Iron John," the pilot is laughing. The pilot keeps shaking his head and looking over his shoulder and saying, "I can't believe it's Iron John!"
    For a long time they listen to the drone and sputter of the old propellers.
    The pilot says, "But hey. Why are you here? Don't you have a game today?"
    And then the controls are shuddering in his hands. He's fighting them. Iron John can see the tendons flexing in the pilot's neck and shoulders, man versus beast.
    The pilot says, quietly, "Shit," as the plane turns over, and then begins its plunge.
    Iron John sees city and sky.
    Iron John sees the young man with the airsick bag, sees his head hit the ceiling, sees his neck fold wrongly sideways.
    Iron John thinks: This poor fucker's family.
    Iron John thinks: Those poor fuckers in the earthquake.
    He checks his seat belt and shuts his eyes and sighs, a big, disappointed sigh.
    Iron John thinks, I could have been great.