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HOMER ON THE RANGE...

There is nothing like a home-run race to bring out the worst in the unforgettable knights of the daily press.

The 1998 derby was a classic case in point. Whenever a McGwire or Sosa showed up with a club in his hand, there were the reporters with their cameras, mikes, lights, tape recorders, and pointy heads desperately striving to ask intelligent questions. (After the first six million questions, everything became infantile drivel.)

We tuned in on three of the post-game press conferences (after home-run 47, home-run 61, and home-run 62) and was astonished at the embarrassing quality of the questioning. After home run 62, three of the reporters asked the identical question during one three-minute interval:

"Mark, what did you say to Roger Maris's children after you jumped into their box and hugged them?" (The whole world is waiting for your answer.)

We know one thing for sure: The 1998 home-run derby put all the others to shame: Babe's No. 60, Roger Maris's No. 61, and Hank Aaron's No. 715.

It was like a production by Cecil B. DeMille, Barnum and Bailey, and Spielberg, with 76 trombones, a score by John Phillip Sousa, and a huge red-headed drum major out in front hugging and kissing people, brandishing his kid in the air, and spewing pearls of wisdom like rice at a wedding.

We had seen spectacles like it at the opera and circus, but never in baseball.

And then one day while the circus was still in town, we read something about Mark McGwire that cut through our cynicism and impressed the hell out of us...

MARK HIM A+ ...

One of society's worse faults is its denigrating attitude toward mental therapy - calling its high practitioners (psychiatrists) "shrinks" or "mind-meddlers" or worse, and looking aghast at people who resort to mental therapy for help.

It is weird. Practically anyone who has ever had surgery or been treated for a popular disease will brag about it and show the scars. But not when it comes to mental therapy. No one likes to talk about that because, of course, everyone is going to believe you are a weirdo or a mental defective.

Enter Mark McGwire. In 1991, in the middle of a mid-20 life crisis he found himself alienated from his wife and child, his career at low ebb, and his mind in turmoil.

He did the unthinkable. He called upon a therapist for help and then went on seeing him for four years. It turned his life completely around. He became outgoing, a communicator, a mature, thoughtful, and caring human being; and, oh yes, though it may just be coincidental, a great home-run hitter.

Here is what McGwire has to say about his experience: "I'm not afraid to talk about therapy. Guys tell me, 'I'll never go to therapy.' That's bull. Therapy brought so many things to my life. I can face the music now. I can face the truth."

We believe that McGwire's message carries far more inspiration than home runs can offer to all the people out there in the world living lives of quiet if not desperate disorientation.

COMMAND PERFORMANCE...

We have huddled with a lot of football coaches in our time and learned a lot from them about winning and losing, toughness, loyalty, and, yes, even fear.

Football coaches live with it every minute of every practice and game-their fear that the very next block or tackle or accidental bump could demolish their best player and ruin the season.

In no other sport are injuries so indigenous to the game, and coaches have to inure themselves to the bad bounces, bad calls, and broken bones. That's when their character is put to the test. Though churning inside, they will never allow adversity to shake up their team: "We're hurting, but we're not quitting. We'll just have to close ranks and play a little harder."

We know that a lot of coaches actually believe that football is the closest thing there is to war - as if that is a wonderful thing. Our answer always has been "Baloney. If nobody is being shot to pieces, the thing you are doing isn't anything like war."

Still... anytime you see coaches exercising the power of command for the good of the team, you can be forgiven for comparing them to good generals.

That is why we admired a football coach named Jim Fassel (N.Y. Giants). He stepped in front of the TV cameras after his first exhibition game and took full responsibility for a mistake that put his team in jeopardy for the season.

Badly in need of a runback specialist, he allowed his star cornerback to talk him into using him as the kick-off returner.

Lady Luck was brutal. On the very first kick-off of the great experiment, the cornerback blew out a knee and was lost for the season.

Let's face it. It had not been a wise decision. You don't use star cornerbacks as kick-off returners. Punts, okay, but not kick-offs.

But Fassel stood right up in the kitchen and took the heat. What a painful experience that must have been. We hope it doesn't leave any scars.