By Dennis Gundersen

It was the summer of 1961 and I recall it so well.  I was a 9-year-old boy, not even a baseball fan, but my Dad most certainly was.  A rabid one.  You know, the kind who’s obsessed with his particular sports hero and can’t stop talking about him. That was my Dad.  The object of his undying affection was Babe Ruth.  And the object of his utter contempt was Roger Maris.

Every baseball fan, not just my Dad, knew that Babe Ruth held the single-season home run record, with what seemed to be The Unbreakable 60, a record that had stood since 1927.  No one even seriously entertained the idea that such a record could be exceeded.  A scant few mighty batters had attained homers in the 50s in the decades since that Murderer’s Row lineup of the ’27 Yanks, but no one was expected to ever rival the Babe’s stellar 60.

Especially not some Johnny-come-lately like Roger Maris.  Commencing his career with the Cleveland Indians, and then traded into the obscurity of the Kansas City Athletics, Maris had only recently been acquired by the New York Yankees.  In the 50s and 60s, the Yanks had a new fair-haired country boy for their hero: Mickey Mantle.  And in that famous, hot New York summer of 1961, it was clear by August that Ruth’s stupendous 60 was being challenged – and might even be broken – not just by one man, but possibly by two: both Mantle and Maris.

Back to my Dad.  He didn’t want either of them to rival his beloved Babe Ruth.  In Dad’s sight, no one in all of humanity was worthy to even tie Ruth’s cleats; but while my Dad might begrudgingly admit that Mantle was a worthy heir and a standout player, Maris wouldn’t have been deemed worthy to wash Ruth’s dirty socks.  He had never hit more than 39 homers in a year before!  He was batting in the mere .260s!   Ruth would hit 45 homers or more every year while batting .340 or better!  Who is this pathetic challenger, Maris?  He doesn’t belong on the same turf.

The New York press clearly felt much the same way.  They fawned over Mantle and his awesome, muscular power; his boyish good looks and “Aww, shucks” personality with that country boy grin.  But Maris was private, reclusive, and when the press would ask him those vacuous “How do you feel?’ questions that they so habitually put on batters and pitchers in the locker room after a game, Maris often had little or nothing to say.  He didn’t enjoy the attention and would rather be left alone to relax with his teammates than to face a dozen men with microphones shoving each other out of the way to get to him.

So they branded Maris “snooty.”   Stuck-up.  Thinks he’s too good for us.  He probably doesn’t even like New York!  He must resent Mantle for being in the home run race with him.  What, does he think he’s better than Mantle and his storied, spectacular career?  Or could he dare to think himself better than the fabled, incomparable Ruth?  Yes, he must be that arrogant.  And my father’s zealous, defensive love for Babe Ruth made it easy for him to latch onto the New York press’s dislike for Maris.

Fast forward to 2022.  Another New York Yankee, Aaron Judge, as of today – September 19 – has reached homer # 59.  He has 16 more games in this season to play, so it’s very likely Judge is going to pass 61 homers and keep on going, probably to 65 or more.  No one hints at any resentment for it, because it won’t even be close to a major league record anymore. Even Maris has long since been surpassed, by Mark McGwire’s 70 and Barry Bonds’ 73, some years ago.  The ghost of 60 being an unattainable mark has long since passed into oblivion.  All seem happy to root Aaron Judge on, as his total of over 61 – assuming he does it – will be a new American League high, as well as the most ever by a Yankee.

Judge is easy to like.  He’s outgoing, he smiles, he’s a good interview, comfortable in his own skin and with the press.  Roger Maris wasn’t very much like him.

But what the New York press never shared with us in those days and was kept under wraps until much later is that Roger Maris was a nicer, more loyal, faithful family man than Babe Ruth or Mickey Mantle ever dreamed of being.  Both of those champions were unfaithful to their wives.  Both lived for worldly lusts.  And it makes my heart sad to admit this, as The Mick was my favorite player, as he was for many.  He was lovable.  The Mick earned the respect of fans, for his going-all-out play on the field, through injuries or whatever else was afflicting him, and there was plenty of it.  But he admitted late in life, after his playing years were over: “Don’t make a role model out of me.  I’m no role model.  Don’t live the way I did.”  I’m thankful at the strong evidence that he died a saved man, forgiven his sins by the grace of Christ, largely owing to the faithful witness of his teammate second-baseman Bobby Richardson.

But to get to the core point of this post.  Maris was judged with hostility over assumptions that were never true.  If others thought a .260 batter, hitting more home runs than Babe Ruth in one season, held high thoughts of himself over it, that was a very mistaken assumption.  Roger hadn’t shown any haughtiness about it to anyone.  He was just doing his job to hit the ball as hard as he could each time he stepped up to the plate.  The lesson from observing the life of Roger Maris is, let’s be people who judge righteous judgments (no pun on the name of the current contender, notwithstanding).

May the memory of Roger Maris show us that things are not always as advertised by the world.  Those who love the world (see 1 John 2:15) fail at rendering righteous judgments almost all the time.  After all, consider: Maris is the man who, within two years of breaking the Babe’s fabled record 60, declared that accomplishing it was the worst thing to ever happen to him.  He wished he’d never reached that milestone, for he never could have imagined that, for playing his very best on the field and giving the team his all, he’d be maligned, resented, even hated by many fans, for no good reason.  Perhaps by a majority of New York fans at the time.  Because to them, he didn’t seem worthy.  To people who ignored every other feature of his rather plain and disciplined, decent life, and who assumed he was cocky about it, when anything but was the case.  They – the press, and unfortunately, millions of baseball fans – were the cocky ones, for leaping to conclusions about the motives and thoughts of a man.

Remember, if you’re going to form righteous and sound views and judge well, you’re going to have to break ranks with the world.  Those who love the world and the things of the world make lousy judgments.  They did it with Maris and they’re still doing it.  Their moral compass is broken and their standards are twisted.  They’ll resent those they have reason to respect and honor, and they’ll admire, even love those whom they have reason to suspect, even distrust.

Whether or not Aaron Judge is ever treated this way in regard to the number of baseballs he smacks over a fence isn’t particularly important.  He – like the rest of us – lives in a fallen world which not only makes majors of minors, and minors of majors, but even calls evil good and good evil.  Rendering many incapable of loving either God as they should or loving their neighbor, and instead even holding a good man in contempt.  May we learn to judge righteous judgments.