The bionic man

GROWING UP near Boston, my friends and I, all of us faithful Red Sox watchers, enjoyed speculating how far the fictional Steve Austin and his six million dollars worth of built-in performance enhancers would hit a Catfish Hunter fastball. Our jaws dropped at the mental images we conjured of melting seams aglow with flame, backlit by the stratosphere. It always took our minds awhile to free-fall back to earth.

"Colonel Austin would never use bionics in a ballgame," said Ted, our block's self-designated guru of sportsmanship. "Not even against the Yankees."

"Wouldn't be fair," agreed Randy, my tag-along kid brother.

Figuring out important stuff like right and wrong happened on the park grounds and school lots. Everything counted, and we lived and died by our stats.

Baseball was our game, played within the boundaries on an ageless field of dreams. When Charlie Hustle was still the favored nickname of Pete Rose, the word "cheater" made our flat bellies roll like a turbulent sea. We had no place on our roster for bionic men. There are kids today who feel the same way about the Giant launching missiles by the Bay.

GARY VILLANI
Fuquay-Varina, N.C.