Sullivan | Tony Gwynn was a pure hitter, a pure joy

Tony Gwynn was a pure hitter and a pure joy. He hit .338 in his Hall of Fame career with the San Diego Padres, and nearly 1.000 between at-bats.

His laugh was a high-pitched cackle, audible in adjoining zip codes, infectious but also inclusive. To be in his presence was to feel a gravitational pull to come closer, to listen more intently, to look on greatness in a package as approachable as a teddy bear.

Mr. Padre was a singularly tough out and a strikingly tender personality, a ballplayer who evoked such strong affection that the friends and family of Doug Hazlett sprinkled the deceased teacher's ashes in Cooperstown on the day of Gwynn's 2007 Hall of Fame induction.

When Gwynn learned of that gesture, he asked where the ashes had been spread so that he might pay his respects. Even as he was being exalted, Tony Gwynn never lost his humility.

To speak of him today in the past tense is painful. To write about his death is to walk a tightrope between hagiography and mawkish sentiment.

To think that cancer could finally sneak something past him is to imagine a lengthy at-bat full of hard fouls and perspiration.

Consider: Hall of Famer Greg Maddux faced Gwynn 107 times, walked him intentionally seven times, and never struck him out. Gwynn won eight batting titles by putting the bat on the ball with more consistency and precision than any of his contemporaries, by being among the first hitters to take advantage of video technology and by grinding out quality at-bats in lopsided games in long-lost pennant races.

"The best chance you had against Tony was if he had never seen you before," Louisville Bats manager Jim Riggleman said Monday. "Once he faced you a few times, he was going to get you."

Riggleman managed Gwynn in 1992-94 in San Diego, and may have inadvertently cost him the distinction of being the Padres' first player to hit for the cycle. On June 10, 1993 Riggleman replaced Gwynn in the seventh inning of a 14-2 blowout of the Los Angeles Dodgers after the right fielder had recorded a home run, a double and a triple in his three previous at-bats.

Stung by an earlier allegation of selfishness, lodged by teammate Jack Clark, Gwynn chose to remain silent rather than contest Riggleman's decision. Riggleman says he was unaware that Gwynn needed only a single to complete the cycle, but he was careful to calculate the percentages as Gwynn flirted with the .400 mark in the final days before the 1994 players' strike.

On the last Tuesday of that truncated campaign, Gwynn raised his average to .393 prior to an eighth-inning plate appearance in a 2-2 game in Houston. With runners at first and second and no outs, Gwynn asked Riggleman if he should attempt a sacrifice bunt in keeping with conventional baseball strategy. Riggleman, recognizing his star's historic opportunity and dwindling at-bats, told him to swing away.

Gwynn grounded into a double play and finished the shortened season at .394.

"I never saw Tony make a mistake on the field," Riggleman said. "I never saw him make a base-running mistake, throw to the wrong base, miss a cutoff man. He always did the right thing. He had it all. ...

"I was his manager, but I felt I learned more from him than he ever got from me."

Gwynn was not unaware of his abilities, but neither was he plagued by an inflated sense of his own importance. During his college coaching career at San Diego State, he was sometimes spotted driving a cart, dragging the infield. When told that an extensive poll of Hall of Fame voters showed him with a higher approval rating than Babe Ruth or Willie Mays prior to the release of the election results, he was both proud and perplexed.

"I was a good player," he said, "but I knew my place. I was not a game-changer. I was not a dominant player."

Despite Gwynn's extensive experience, there was always a certain innocence about him. He was relieved to learn that his Hall of Fame voting percentage (.976) did not exceed the standard set by Tom Seaver and that the Cooperstown museum observed no formal distinction between its sluggers and its table-setters.

"I saw Kirby Puckett at this batting champions show a couple of years ago," Gwynn recalled. "He said, 'Tony, I can't wait until you get in because we have a seat at the singles hitters table with Rod Carew and Paul Molitor and Wade Boggs.' It kind of reassured me. I (didn't) really know where I fit."

Happily, immortality is forever.

Tim Sullivan can be reached at (502) 582-4650, by email at tsullivan@courier-journal.com, and on Twitter @TimSullivan714.