I was only 14 when McGwire hit 70 home runs in 1998.
Earlier that summer I worried that I’d miss his 62nd home run while paddling a canoe on a Missouri lake, far removed from secular radio: including broadcasts.
I didn’t.
That night in September I wore a grey shirt and navy shorts as I walked in a circle around the kitchen table, nervously sweeping up blue corn chips crumbs.
Then McGwire hit that home run: 9-8-98, off Steve Trachsel.
Mike Shannon called it, voice hoarse from excitement, or awe or fatigue.
And then.
18 years later I still want to believe it happened just like I remembered.
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