Hailing The First Eric Davis

By Tom Callahan

New Willie Mayses are the perennial hope of baseball, which, counting McCovey and Stargell, is completely out of wondrous Willies now and is missing Henry Aaron and Roberto Clemente too. And Frank Robinson and Lou Brock. The widespread news that they have all come back as Eric Davis of the Cincinnati Reds is a prospect more wishful and bountiful than seems humanly possible just 30 games into another season.

When Davis hit two home runs one recent evening in Philadelphia, the Phillies pitcher Don Carman prescribed kryptonite. But at 6 ft. 3 in., scarcely 180 lbs., physically he is not even the most imposing of all the Davises in the major leagues (there are ten). Two days later, he hit three more homers -- one to right center, one to dead center, one to left center -- including his second grand slam of the weekend, putting him first in the National League in home runs (12), RBIs (27), runs (27), slugging (.900) and on-base (.475) percentages, game-winning hits (4) and batting average (.411), and second in stolen bases (10). If he is not launching balls over the center- field fence, he is retrieving them acrobatically or disrupting tight games on the base paths. How many ways can a man dominate a baseball game?

Davis is just 24 years old, a number eternally associated with Mays, and wears 44 on his back, Aaron's ancient monogram. His hitting stance is as bowed as a bull rider's and, like Mays, he wields his bat low. But he is more coiled and wristy even than Aaron. Davis' thumbnail sketch includes these barely credible entries: supposedly he developed those wrists dribbling basketballs endlessly on the blacktops of direst Los Angeles and was a mere eighth-round draft choice in 1980 because most of the baseball scouts were afraid to venture into the neighborhood. From the sound of it, the place had its charm. Davis, Darryl Strawberry of the Mets and Chris Brown of the Giants all took aim at the same high fence enclosing the 68th Street playground. They shot for 70th Street, and beyond.

Strawberry recalls, "We had a lot of dreams together," though Davis gently contradicts him. "Some guys have dreams," he says, "but I didn't take baseball that seriously until after I was drafted." The restraint in his voice has been painfully learned. Unchallenged in high school, Davis stole 50 bases in 50 attempts and sometimes slid only as a courtesy to the catcher. Not ^ only could he do it all, he knew it all. However, he would lose his arrogance in bush stops like Wichita and Denver, shuttling to and from the big leagues for two years. In 1984 an aging Expos player soon to be a youthful Reds manager noticed him at once. "I was playing first base in Montreal," Pete Rose says, "when he fouled a ball straight back that caught some cement or it would have gone all the way out. I thought, 'Damn.' "

Still technically a player at 46, Rose begins to cut the full figure of a manager. Although he can activate himself anytime after May 15, it is conceivable that his jersey has already been retired with him in it. "Watching good young players grow up," he says, "is the fun thing about this job." The Reds' passel of young good ones includes Outfielders Kal Daniels and Tracy Jones, Infielders Barry Larkin and Kurt Stillwell and the impeccable relief pitcher John Franco. But every man on the team, including Ramrod Dave Parker, acknowledges that Davis is special. "Someday," says Parker, "he is going to hit 50 home runs and steal 120 bases in the same year."

Making contact was his problem: striking out incessantly got him benched for five weeks last season, but Davis reappeared for the last 93 games to shred the league (.381 in July) with 27 home runs, 71 RBIs and 80 stolen bases. He started not only to invite but to heed Batting Coach Billy DeMars' counsel and also began to grow famous. "He got rid of that 'potential' tag," says Rose, who like Davis lightly noted a record nine straight strikeouts in Houston a few weeks ago because the team still won. Among all his gaudy statistics, runs scored has become Davis' favorite category. "Runs win ball games," he explains. "Eric's a grown-up kid now," says Rose, the only man in the world who can use that phrase without irony.

Davis has a delightful expression of his own. "Anyone can hit a home run," he shrugs. "The part I enjoy the most is running. They say a base runner should learn the pitchers' moves, but if I concentrate on my own moves, I think I can steal on anyone." He sounds confident, not arrogant. A stammer aggravated in the minors is dissipating daily. "The good side of being sent down was that it made me not take anything for granted. It made me work. And if you can deal with rejection, that can make you a better person."

Eric Davis, preferably. References to Mays burden him more than a little, especially at the mass press conferences that have become necessary on the road. "I'd rather not be compared to anybody," he says. "And I especially don't think it's right to be compared to Willie Mays. But sometimes it does make me feel good." They met once; nothing cataclysmic was said. Mays blithely recommended the opposite field. Not long ago, Rose says, "Eric hit the longest opposite field home run I've ever seen. I've never seen a player with more raw talent." Of course, Rose has only been looking for 25 seasons.