Hero worship

When my oldest son was a boy, he had a poster of Oakland A's slugger Jose Canseco on a wall in his bedroom. The poster displayed Canseco at the end of an enormous swing, the bat wrapped flat against his back, his torso a corkscrew, the muscles and tendons in his forearms bundled like steel cables. No baseball was present in the image. It existed only in the slight tilt of Canseco's head and the fixed look in his eyes at something far off in the cloudless sky.

For years that poster occupied that wall. Morning and night it was there, no less constant than the sun and moon. The frozen wheat fields of Grand Forks, North Dakota, where we lived at the time, are light years from the cerulean bays of northern California, yet so great was the pull of the mighty Canseco, my son wheeled firm in the orbit of the Athletics – and does even now as a man.

We need heroes. When times turn tempest, heroes give us something to hold onto. Their capacity to stand unshaken against life's scouring winds reminds us and reassures us of our own measure.

Heroes do more than inspire, however. They also serve as templates of noble behavior, as references of that which is right. From them we conceive integrity and mercy and grace, courage and humility and resolve. We conceive generosity and intelligence. We conceive honor and faith.

“Unhappy the land that has no heroes," wrote German playwright Bertolt Brecht. So America seems today.

The nation is drowning in a sea of cheats. Steroid-shooting athletes like Canseco and Olympian Marion Jones litter sport. In government lobbyists loot Washington. In industry corporations cook their books. In religion sinners masquerade as saints. Left behind in the wake of all this duplicity are dispirited spectators, jaded citizens, ruined investors and grieved believers.

We are desperate for a hero. This ache as much as anything appears to be the impetus behind the ascension of Barack Obama.

Without the benefit of pedigree or – initially – political machine, Obama has gone from unknown presidential aspirant to one within a whisper of capturing the Democratic nomination. His support has turned from ripple to tidal wave. He speaks of hope, and in the eyes of those who support him, it is hope that gleams.

McCain's valor, Huckabee's decency, Clinton's brilliance and backbone elicit their own fervor, but it is not the same. The expectations being placed upon Obama are different and greater. To millions of Americans, he is the promise of escape from the fantastic magic show that is their country – where little is left but illusion, where sleight of hand reigns supreme, where trickery is everyday trade.

Each generation has its symbols, those objects that signify the character of that generation. For those who came of age during World War II, it was war bonds. For the generation after it, it was the image of Neil Armstrong stepping onto the moon. For us, it is fine print. Make a late mortgage payment and credit card companies feel excused to raise our interest rates. Go to a physician or a hospital without prior approval and insurance companies refuse to pay. It is all so much dirty pool.

Deceit, of course, is an old affliction. The ancient Greek philosophers oft wrote of it. It blackens the pages of Shakespeare as well. Who in literature, in fact, is more conniving than the poisonous Claudius?

To find parallel to our present treachery, however, offers no comfort. We want someone – or some ones – to lead us out of this desert.

Rest assured. I am under no delusion it will be me. To catalog my transgressions would take the Library of Congress the better part of a year. Indeed, my shortcomings are rivaled by only a couple of umpires I know.

But just because I – and perhaps you – are no hero is no reason to think others cannot be and no reason to cease believing others must be. We need heroes whether we're 10 or 45. The minute we think asking for them is asking too much is the minute we settle for something less instead of demanding something more.

Baseball always has been a reflection of America. Both are expansive. Both are pastoral. Neither wishes to be bound to time. It is a bitter period in which America and its pastime find themselves. In 1988 Jose Canseco hit 40 home runs and stole 40 bases. Never in major league history had that been done. The 24-year-old Canseco had scaled a pinnacle that had proven too steep for even the greatest of the game. On hallowed ground he stood alone. A Titan among lesser gods. But it was all charade. By his own admission Canseco was juiced – pumped full of steroids and human growth hormone. What we praised as majesty was make-believe. He cheated.

So did others in baseball. Perhaps most of them in this era. Perhaps even Roger Clemens – he of the seven Cy Young Awards and 354 wins and 4,672 strikeouts – who has been accused of doing exactly that which Canseco did and who Wednesday, in a sad display of irony, proclaimed to a room full of congressmen his actions have always been honorable.

To a boy growing up on a flat North Dakota prairie years ago, a certain baseball player lit the darkness. In the end, however, it was smoke and mirrors. No actual hero existed. The boy discovered he was deceived, and he blew the candle out.

But the longing in that boy for heroes still burns – and forever will.