So, this is a blog about heroes. No, not those kinds of heroes. I'm talking about the boyhood idol kind. The ones that inexplicably develop seemingly from nowhere.
I've never been one to believe in the mystical powers of fate. I don't want to accept the notion that we don't control our own destiny, that there could possibly be a fixed natural order to the universe. But as the years continue to pass, I can't come up with a better explanation as to why things turned out the way they did more than 16 years ago.
If fate truly does exist, then the definitive serendipitous moment of my childhood hinges on one bike ride -- a 20-minute jaunt in the spring of 1992 up three hills, around street traffic and through the backwoods to "Be A Sport," the local baseball card shop. There, I purchased a pack of 1992 Topps Stadium Club baseball cards. Because they looked glossy.
Before pedaling out of the store's parking lot, I devoured the plastic wrapping, and the karmic forces at work that day had supplied something special. Card No. 225. (This baseball card is from 1993 -- one year later -- but you get the idea) A snapshot from pitcher Mike Mussina's rookie season. Gray Baltimore Orioles road uniform, long-sleeve black shirt protruding from underneath, right foot planted into the pitching rubber, left foot yet to touch the mound as he delivers a pitch, a mixture of intensity and command on his face.
There are moments in life that defy logic or explanation. For me, this was one of them. On a spring afternoon in 1992, at age 7, a boyhood idol materialized.
Sixteen years later, he wrapped up his Major League pitching career with his first 20-win season. He finished his career 270-153. If he should be inducted to the Hall of Fame some day, I'd like to be there in Cooperstown, N.Y. Maybe I'll let him know I still have his baseball card.
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