BOSTON -- The middle part of this century produced three baseball players who stood above all others. Two were larger than life. The third merely reflected it -- the good parts.
Joe DiMaggio (1936-51) came first. No serious baseball follower ever doubted his ability, but one must ask if there would ever have been a DiMaggio mystique had he played out his career in, say, Cincinnati. It doesn't hurt your chances of attaining celebrity if you're drinking with Jimmy Cannon at Toots Shor's every other night and giving daily quotes to Red Smith. (Not to mention: How much time do you suppose Marilyn ever spent in Cincinnati?)
Next came Ted Williams (1939-60). "The Greatest Hitter Who Ever Lived"? Well, it's either Ted or The Babe, and it's a no-lose argument. Then there was The Big War and The Shift and The Korean War and a tirade here and a tirade there, all the opinions you'd ever want to print and, basically, endless pathos. When Williams said, "All this league has is me and the Yankees, and when I leave it's going to be pretty damn dull," he spoke the truth.
The third demigod played in the heartland, where the press was gentle and never probed his psyche. He never threw a bat in the stands, spit at anyone or engaged in spirited debates with writers or photographers. His career was never spiced with gossip, tainted by scandal or controversial in any way. It just was, and it was glorious. It had a happy beginning, a long, productive middle and a dignified conclusion. Indeed, his nickname says it all. He was Stan "The Man" Musial (1941-63).
In the mood for an old-fashioned, heartwarming sports story? Like to celebrate a true American hero, a Hall of Famer who has been married to the same woman for 52 years and is so beloved that there is a statue of him in front of the ballpark where his old team now plays? Then head to your video store and ask for "The Legend of Stan The Man Musial" (TMM Inc., New York). With Father's Day on the horizon, it's a perfect gift for that baseball-loving dad, grandpop or uncle in your life.
This is a straight-ahead "good news" story, the tone being set in novelist James Michener's introduction. "He is," Michener says, "an almost epic case; I can assure you of this -- that what you see is what you get."
And what you see is a Depression-bred youngster growing up in Donora, Pa., seizing baseball as a pathway out of the zinc mines. There were six children in the Lukasz Musial household, and there was little money. "But I never felt like I wanted for anything," he tells us, "because I had a baseball."
