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Hampton lives his dream

SHELTON E-mail: Click here Archive

By GARY SHELTON

© St. Petersburg Times, published October 21, 2000

NEW YORK -- The journey begins a thousand miles away, away from the drumbeat and the heartbeat of the big city, away from the moments and the monuments and the media that would have you believe all those other World Series were merely played to set this one up.

It begins a million dreams ago, on a dusty field called Bicentennial Park in Homosassa, with a 4-year-old standing on a pitcher's mound despite the fact the league didn't even have pitchers. It didn't matter; the batters would hit the ball off the tee, and regardless of what part of the park it went to, the kid was going to race off the mound, past the other kids picking flowers, and grab the ball and fling to home because, by golly, it mattered.

[AP photo] Mike Hampton refers to the Subway Series as "something like Florida and Florida State."

It begins a billion moments ago, it seems, if you add them up. All the pitches and the popups, all the strikes and all the struggles. All those lessons from his father, some of them louder than others, all those nights lying awake replaying a game. All those dreams that seemed common until they were coupled with a left arm that was uncommon. You couple the drive and the dedication, the talent and the tenacity, the pitches and the passion.

And that is the best way to get to Yankee Stadium.

Mike Hampton left the locker room and walked quickly down the corridor, his cleats clacking against the concrete floor. He took a quick right down the ramp, then walked up the steps as if ascending to a dream. And just like that, he was in the World Series. All it took was about a 10-second walk. Oh, and the quarter of a century travelogue that came before it.

Understand this. Hampton isn't just a great story. He's a collection of great stories. If you put baseball lore into a boxed set, Hampton could write the liner notes. His is the family story of the kid from the small town who goes to the big city to find success. His is the eternal tale of father and son leaning on each other all the way to the top. And his is the story of the plucky underdog -- and let's face it, if the Mets were a college football team, they'd be Auburn and Texas A&M and Oklahoma State and all those other stepchild programs that aren't quite the state school -- looking to its star players to lead the way.

For the Mets, Hampton is that guy. It is something of a question mark why Hampton isn't starting the Series, considering the way he dominated the Cardinals in the NLCS, considering the apparent chip-on-his-shoulder mentality he takes with him to the mound.

Think about it. In the middle of the madhouse that has become this city -- yes, even more than usual -- there stands the quiet kid who refers to the series as "something like Florida and Florida State."

What's the best way to get to Yankee Stadium? Oh, you can take Grand Central Parkway to Triboro Bridge, then to Deegan, then get off at exit 5. You could take the 59th Street Bridge. Or you could have a hard-driving father who had his handprints on your back, shoving gently, firmly, for most of your youth.

Yes, Mike Hampton drove his son hard. The younger Mike tells you the stories, and he grins to let you know how healthy he considers the relationship. Every day, he remembers his dad putting on his own glove, then walking with him to the road, or the back yard, to throw a ball. Throughout his youth, his father was his coach. In baseball. In football. In life.

"He's said before that he lived through me," Mike said, sitting at his locker in the visitors' clubhouse at Yankee Stadium. "He sacrificed a lot of his time to be with me. He's the greatest motivator I've ever been around in my life.

"Yeah, there were times it got loud. He had high expectations. He knew what kind of talent I had, and he knew how far he could push me. There are some kids who would pull away from something like that. I responded to it. If he hadn't driven me as hard he had, I don't think I would be in this position."

More and more, Hampton's position seems to be as one of the dominant pitchers in the game. Teammate Bubba Trammell calls Hampton "one of the elite pitchers in the league, certainly one of the top five."

You see him on the mound, the ball in his hand, the steel in his eye. You've seen the look, but usually, it's on a linebacker's face. A football mentality, Bobby Valentine calls it. Anger, others have said. Focus, Hampton says.

"I try not to explain it, because I don't know how to put it into words," he said. "It's nothing I do intentionally. I'm not out there putting on a show. It's just the way I am. Some people say it's one way. I say that for me, it's the only way. I don't care what you guys see. It's what works for me."

After a while, you almost pity the hitters. They can't seem to figure out what's on the other side of the glare. For that matter, neither can his team's fans. Hampton's contract is up after this season, and he has assured himself riches. But he has remained stubbornly noncommittal about what his preferences are for the future. Understand how frustrating this is for Mets fans; Hampton has pitched like a New York guy, he just hasn't announced he's running for office.

For now, it doesn't matter. Let him win a couple, let his teammates win a couple more, against the dratted Yankees, and fans will flood the streets and storm this stadium. They will cheer him, embrace him, adopt him. They will throw him wads of money and offers of love.

Gee. Maybe that is the best way to get to Yankee Stadium.

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Gary Shelton