Far from the heat of the pennant race, in a ballpark where spectators were too busy checking e-mail or sipping a beer to notice, San Francisco Giants rookie Scott McClain took the longest, sweetest home run trot of his 36-year-old life.
“I would’ve liked to slow it down to walk, so I could remember every step,” said McClain, who definitely took the long way home, through 15 seasons of 4 a.m. wake-up calls in the minor leagues, a detour to Japan and so much rejection he could build a house from pink slips.
At 107 days past his 36th birthday, McClain blasted a 2-2 pitch over the left-field fence at Coors Field on Wednesday afternoon, and was rewarded with his first homer in the major leagues.
With a middle-age paunch and flecks of gray in his receding hairline, when McClain later was handed the souvenir and quietly dropped the ball in his equipment bag, he looked nothing like Kevin Costner in “Bull Durham.”
But maybe that’s the real beauty of baseball.
Those cinematic, too-good-to- be-scripted moments sneak up when you least expect it.
“There were definitely times when I thought this would never happen for me,” said McClain, holding a can of light beer, because champagne would be silly to celebrate the career highlight of a working-class hero whose No. 1 achievement has been rolling out of bed every morning, looking for a new reason to believe his day would come.
What kept McClain going, when 362 homers in the minors and Japan were not enough to convince Baltimore or Tampa Bay or Colorado or the Chicago Cubs or Oakland to give him so much as a sip of coffee and a stale doughnut in the major leagues?
“Hardheadedness,” said McClain, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Or maybe not knowing what to do with myself if there was no more baseball.”
Across the clubhouse, veteran outfielder Dave Roberts shook his head in amazement at his teammate’s stubborn fortitude, knowing full well that he and McClain were both born in May 1972. With more than 2,500 games in the big leagues for five franchises, Roberts is the very definition of journeyman.
“But he makes me look like Cal Ripken Jr.,” said Roberts, giving a respectful nod to McClain.
The instant McClain reached the dugout steps after finally jacking one out in the Show should be preserved in a frame by any fan who has fallen out of love with the game, sick from watching Barry Bonds arrogantly drop his bat to admire a dinger or weary from seeing the New York Yankees try to buy another pennant.
Rather than mobbing McClain, San Francisco players acted as if absolutely nothing of importance had occurred.
“The old silent treatment,” explained Roberts, grinning at the pure inspirational genius of grown men acting like adolescent boys to show how much they really care. “We wanted to make it a memorable experience for him. And I think we accomplished our mission.”
“I’ve given the silent treatment to a teammate a few times myself,” said McClain, never so happy to take the brunt of a joke in his life. “So I guess it all comes back to you in this game.”
Did any of the Giants get misty-eyed?
“No way,” said outfielder Randy Winn.
Sentimental tears? Are you kidding? There is no crying in baseball, even if McClain was the oldest position player to hit his first big-league homer since Bob Thurman smacked one at age 37 for Cincinnati in 1955.
Although his voice was dripping with sarcasm, there was an element of truth beneath his tough-guy exterior when McClain told Winn: “Glad you had the pleasure of seeing me do this.”
You see, Winn and McClain go back together a decade, through the bus rides and organizational politics. Ten years ago, they were roomies in the minors. And get this: The team they played for was the Durham Bulls.
When he dug in in the batter’s box during the sixth inning, McClain had a total of 50 at-bats in the majors 18 years after being drafted in the 22nd round by the Orioles.
So this seems as good a place as any to recall how Costner’s character evaluated his own career in “Bull Durham.”
“I’m the player to be named later,” said Crash Davis, the catcher who never let a little thing like a broken heart stop him from loving the game.
Sometimes, baseball is way cooler than any movie could ever be. And here’s your proof:
As McClain, always the player to be named later, watched his homer sail over the fence, he did not think of redemption, justice or the movie rights to his life story.
“Man,” said McClain, who chased his dream forever, ignoring being told “no” too many times to count, before finally touching ’em all in a major-league game. “I still enjoy the feeling of hitting a home run.”
The crack of a bat is a sound that never grows old.
Mark Kiszla: 303-954-1053 or mkiszla@denverpost.com
