With McGwire and Sosa alone combining to produce 134 (at press time) of the beasts, there were a lot of big money balls floating about the lower atmosphere. But, making the big assumption that you could lay your grubby little mitts on one, what should you do with it? Play, pass, or do something else?

	You will be mobbed. You will be interviewed. You will be bitten and punched. You will be offered enormous riches.	The baseball sails toward you. Catch it, and everything will change. Everything. You will be mobbed. You will be interviewed. You will be bitten and punched. You will be offered enormous riches. You will be escorted by police. You will be on television, in the newspapers. You will be called greedy. You will be called a fool. You will be caught in the wild swirl of America. The baseball sails toward you, and it's a flying museum piece. It's a soaring chunk of history. It's a round, white, red-stitched winning lottery ticket. Maybe Mark McGwire hits it. Maybe Sammy Sosa hits it. Doesn't matter. This is the home run which will be remembered forever, the last home run in this magical, mystical home-run season, the number every slugger will chase for years, maybe forever. Catch it. Ah, but know that if you catch it, your life surely will never be the same. Deni Allen caught McGwire's 60th home run, or at least he won the ball in a left-field scramble, and he got his moments of glory. He gave the ball back to McGwire. "The right thing." Cameras flashed. Strangers patted him on the back. People wrote him letters. Television celebrated him. For one splendid afternoon, he hit with the St. Louis Cardinals, a little batting practice, and he whacked a ground-rule double at Busch Stadium, and was that McGwire himself smiling and pointing at Allen? Sure it was. He signed autographs. People bought him beers. He was, in the immortal words of Forrest Gump, famouser than Captain Kangaroo. Then, of course, the spotlight dwindled. McGwire hit other home runs. Nobody came around anymore. The memory of batting practice faded. Suddenly, it was just another morning, another day of work, another world of strangers. And Deni Allen started hearing about the money he turned away. How much? A hundred thousand dollars? Two hundred thousand? More? That's a lot of money. He had gotten a couple of McGwire autographs. He shook with regret. He now hopes major-league baseball will offer up some money to people who gave back their baseballs. "I was definitely drunk with excitement," he told a St. Louis reporter. "I got caught up in the whole Big Mac essence."
	Sell it. Keep it. Trade it. Hide it. There's something extraordinary in that ball.	Yes, it's a rush. It's so easy to get caught in it all. For parts of eight months, they have clubbed home runs across America, Sosa and McGwire, and their chase long ago transcended baseball. People have often compared it to Neil Armstrong walking on the moon, and that's about right. This hasn't been about sports. It has been an American celebration. They are integrity in the time of Monica. They are power when so often people feel powerless. They are good news in a newspaper filled with murders and fires and Clinton and Starr. They are old-fashioned baseball, America's pastime, barely four years after the game shut down, seemingly doomed by clueless owners and greedy ballplayers, none of whom could decide how to split the billions. They have become so familiar to us. Sosa, the joyous immigrant from the Dominican Republic. McGwire, the quiet, red-haired man from California. Sosa blows kisses to his mother. McGwire lifts his son high in the air. Across America, Miami to San Francisco, New York to Houston, criss-crossing the Midwest, everywhere, they have smashed long home runs to popping flashbulbs and adoring shrieks and something terribly close to love. So, the last home run comes at you. The big finish. Already, there's a one-million dollar offer on the table. Already, there is pleading from the Hall of Fame. Already, before the ball is even hit, there's an outcry among the purists and the entrepreneurs, politicians and economists, collectors and working stiffs, everyone knows what's best for this baseball. Sell it. Keep it. Trade it. Hide it. There's something extraordinary in that ball. Then, so much of the chase, so much of America in this impossibly bright summer, has been locked inside the baseballs which flew over fences, and the many different kinds of people who grabbed them. Sammy Sosa's 61st home run.
	That was HIS avenue, not Mark McGwire's, not the chumps who were calling talk radio to curse his name.	Location: Baseball Hall of Fame. Cost: $10,000. John Witt sold his baseball for 10 grand, and he never even thought twice about it. Why? He had just been involved in a messy divorce, he did not have a job, he had chased down Sammy Sosa's 61st home run, clawed his way to that ball, fought off the people, and this was manna from heaven. Witt could not figure out why people called him greedy. He figured that, over the years, he had chased down 1,700 balls along Waveland Avenue. That was HIS avenue, not Mark McGwire's, not Sammy Sosa's, surely not the chumps who were calling talk radio to curse his name. Why in the name of Harry Caray, may he rest in peace, would Witt just GIVE that ball to Sosa, who signed a $10 million contract? So, he sold it to a sports memorabilia dealer named Steve Ryan for the 10 large. Then, Ryan gave the ball back to Sosa, in exchange for a few autographs and some kibitzing with his two sons. "You know how cool it is that my sons got to meet Sammy?" Ryan said. McGwire's 62nd home run. Location: Baseball Hall of Fame. Cost: Free. There has been a question people have wondered: Would the Cardinals have fired part-time groundskeeper Tim Forneris if he had not given back home run No. 62? The Cardinals say no, but what does it matter? The question itself is ridiculous. Forneris could have gotten $1 million had he sold the ball. One million dollars. What's a part-time groundskeeper's job compared to a million bucks? Do people return winning lottery tickets for fear that their bosses won't look at them the same? Forneris did not keep the ball, of course. That night was pure enchantment, perhaps the most wonderful of this whole summer. McGwire hit the home run, the one which broke Roger Maris' record, then he lifted his son, Matthew, embraced Sosa, hugged all of Maris' children, rode around Busch Stadium in a red Corvette. The evening was fulfilled when Forneris, a 22-year-old kid who looks about half that, gave the ball to McGwire that very night, with the classic: "Mr. McGwire, I think I have something that belongs to you."
	Mr. McGwire, I think I have something that belongs to you.	Bam, Forneris became one of the big stars of this summer. He had a ticker-tape parade at DisneyWorld. He was on with David Letterman. He met the President. He met Wynonna, the country singer, who called him a nice, young man. He signed a thousand autographs. He received thousands of letters and phone calls, women who wanted to date him, men who buy him a drink, grandmothers who wanted to pinch his cheek. "He's just a wonderful young man," his mother, Rita Forneris, said into the cameras. People started sending Forneris money. He gave all of it to the Mark McGwire charity for abused children. "Like I told President Clinton in Florida," Steve Peeler, the Cardinals groundskeeper, told reporters, "this kid is the ambassador to baseball." A newspaper editorial called Forneris one of the world's all-time suckers. Mark McGwire's 63rd home run (and 450th in career). Location: John Grass' safe deposit box. Cost: To be determined. They rip John Grass on local radio. They destroy him in the newspapers. In so many places across St. Louis his very name triggers thoughts of greed. All John Grass wants is some money for his baseball. "Is that so wrong?" asks Grass, a groundskeeper for the Mehlville, Mo., school district. He works hard. He scratches together a living. He deserves a break. He was willing to give McGwire the ball back for the right price. He wanted many autographs, baseballs, many jerseys, many bats, hey, he has a big family. He wanted season tickets and a chance to throw out the first pitch and a few other things, and sure it sounds like a lot, but it isn't the huge price he could probably get on the open market.
	Two gloves, two jerseys, a bat, two balls, five caps, all autographed. Seven tickets for San Diego Padres playoff games.	"He said, `What do you want, a couple of autographed bats and balls?' " Grass said. "I told him, `No, I have a list.' He said, `I don't negotiate.' " So now, Grass wants something else for his baseball. Collectors say the ball is worth several hundred thousand dollars. Why should he just give it away? This is America, right? Is that so wrong? Sammy Sosa's 63rd home run. Location: En route to Sammy Sosa's mother. Cost: Two gloves, two jerseys, a bat, two balls, five caps, all autographed. Seven tickets for San Diego Padres playoff games. Baseball players, some of them, still don't get it. That night in San Diego was pure. It was heavenly. A packed stadium, a beautiful night, a national television audience, and Sammy Sosa crushed a grand slam, deep into the upper deck, his 63rd, tying him with Mark McGwire, and everybody lost control, they shrieked and screeched and stomped, and "Congratulations Sammy," flashed on the scoreboard, and one overzealous employee let off a burst of fireworks, and Padres players were angry. "Wait a minute," said Tony Gywnn, speaking for his teammates. "Are we in Chicago or what?" No, no, no, Tony, this is bigger than Chicago. It's bigger than St. Louis. So many pitchers act bitter after giving up home runs. So many managers act as if it is all some silly side show. No. Try to understand the fans. This has pierced people's hearts. Look at Fabian Perez Mercado, a bakery supervisor, kissing that 63rd baseball. His family kisses it. They had come up from Tijuana for Mexico's Independence Day just to see Sosa hit a home run. Somehow, he had come out of the scramble with the ball, and he wanted it back to Sosa. He needed to give it back to Sosa. "Viva Dominica Republic! Viva Mexico! Viva baseball!" Perez shouted. His 2-year-old son, Carlos Fabian Perez, gave the ball to Sosa, who almost started crying. "This is something that really, really breaks my heart," Sosa said. Sammy Sosa's 64th home run. Location: Vern Kuhlmeier's living room. Cost: Not for sale.
	Catching any baseball at a major-league game is a thrill. People forget that. There's nothing else quite like it.	Catching any baseball at a major-league game is a thrill. People forget that. There's nothing else quite like it. They make you give the footballs back in the NFL, soccer balls and basketballs go back too, hockey pucks are quite likely to become lodged in your ear. But baseball, it's part of what makes the game different, special. Adults and children bring their gloves, hoping to become a part of the game for a brief moment, maybe make a good enough catch that someone will yell those classic words: "Give that guy a contract." So, Vern Kuhlmeier caught a baseball, first time in his life. His grandmother had been bringing him to Cubs games since he was a little kid (50 games, his grandmother figured) and he had brought his glove along most of the time, but he never got one hit to him. Never. This time, it was hit to him. His wife, Sue, was there. His uncle. His beloved grandmother, Marie. And he caught the ball. Everybody patted him on the back. And it just so happened to be Sammy Sosa's 64th home run. "Would you like some autographs?" Cubs people asked immediately. "Well, I'd kind of like to keep the ball," Vern said. "What about tickets to opening day next year," they asked. "Well, I'd kind of like to keep the ball," Vern said. On and on, they asked, they pushed, they bribed, they threatened, they said he would never get the chance to meet Sammy Sosa unless he promised to give up the baseball. Vern Kuhlmeier, who lives in Dakota, Ill., who works for Kelly Tires, who has loved the Cubs all of his life, said he would kind of like to keep the ball. "I just want it for a little while," he said. "I told them I wouldn't sell it. If I got rid of it, I would give it to Sammy. I'll tell you, they wanted that ball pretty bad." Hank Aaron's 755th home run. Location: Safe deposit box, Albuquerque, N.M.
	The possibilities to make money from a dingy 22-year-old baseball are endless.	Cost: Something more than $30,000. Well, look who has popped up. Richard Arndt is offering to sell back Hank Aaron's last home run. He was a member of the grounds crew in 1976, and he chased down the ball, not unlike Tim Forneris. But, unlike Forneris, he didn't give it back. Arndt said he was fired after he asked to personally return the ball to Aaron. There are other stories. Anyway, Arndt has already been offered $30,000 from Aaron and his wife. He said no. He has offered the Brewers a chance to offer more. If they don't come through, he might go to Ted Turner. There's an auction house looking to sell the ball. The possibilities to make money from a dingy 22-year-old baseball are endless. Mark McGwire's 66th home run (first time). Location: Safe deposit box. Cost: To be determined. The story has it all. It begins with Allen Riesbeck, from Dubuque, Iowa, who was partly paralyzed 37 years ago after he was hit by a car. He said McGwire's 66th home run hit in the palm. He and his wheelchair were being pushed by other fans at the time. The ball bounced to Michael Chapes, a gym teacher in Waterford, Wis., who reached out his glove and caught it. And then, at that very moment, an 18-year-old kid from Queens, N.Y. named Johnny Luna, who travels along with friends and an adult from Astoria in some sort of bizarre Oliver Twist quest to catch historic baseballs, jumped over some people and took the ball away. Meanwhile, on the field, a hot-dog umpire named Bob Davidson decided to call off the home run altogether. He insisted he had the perfect view and that Chapes had reached over the yellow line, meaning it was fan interference and not a homer. Every replay would show something different. Every person in the ballpark, including the three involved in the great ball fight, saw something different. But Davidson's call stood, and here's what followed: Riesbeck got nothing. Chapes got thrown out of the park, fined $518 for interfering with play and stripped of the ball.
	"Could this guy be more St. Louis?"	"The only thing missing is to see Bud Selig letting the air out of his tires when he goes to the parking lot," Chapes lawyer, Tom Boyd, said. Johnny Luna brought the ball to Faganesque ringleader and bridge painter Gerald Diglio, who immediately promised to get a big payday. "We didn't come down here to give anything to McGwire," Diglio said. "He never came to Astoria to give us anything. We came to catch the ball and sell it for the highest price." McGwire's 66th home run (second time). Location: Mark McGwire's possession. Cost: Hugs. From the back of the room, a reporter smirked and said: "Could this guy be more St. Louis?" Doug Chapman was standing there with his wife, Marilyn, their 11-year-old son, Brian, and you could almost hear the "Brady Bunch," theme playing in the background. Norman Rockwell should have been in the back painting. Square? You betcha. But Chapman was giving the ball back to McGwire, no question about that. "My son says it's the right thing to do," Chapman said. He caught the 66th ball with an old softball glove. Then, Marilyn, covered him. They had decided as a family long before that if they lucked out and caught a ball, they would give it back to Mark McGwire. After all, he had given them so much. "My wife just wants a big hug from Mark," Chapman said. He and his wife run a business, National Kitchen And Bath. They never considered taking the money. They never considered doing anything but returning the baseball. "My hand is sore from holding the ball since the fifth inning," Chapman said. "I can't imagine the pressure Mark McGwire must feel."
	related... Was this race about race? He Did It! 62 for McGwire	Sosa's 66th home run. Location: Unknown. Cost: Unknown. He walked out of the Astrodome, a shady figure who refused to give out his name. He clutched the baseball. He did not speak of the American celebration. He did not talk about how the home run chase was healing America. He did not talk about right and wrong. "Do you plan to give the ball to Sosa," he was asked as he made his escape. "No," he said. Mark McGwire hit his 67th home run on Saturday, then his 68th, both into a mess of arms and shrieks and red shirts in the left-field stands. One of those could be the magic baseball. Then, that last home run might get hit today, the last day of the season, because it has been that kind of chase. "We're two guys doing what nobody's ever done in this game," McGwire said, and that about sums up. It's all unprecedented. Nobody knows how to act or what to say or whether or not to give back the baseball. Today, the greatest two-man show in baseball history, maybe sports history, comes to its crashing crescendo. Everyone in America will be watching the ball.