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AMERICA'S Sweetheart Life may seem an idyll for Steve Garvey and his new wife, Candace (left), but baseball's Mr. Clean is the butt of jokes about his sex life, and he says he is broke

STEVE GARVEY LINES UP HIS COLOGNES BY THE AMOUNT UNUSED. He
arranges his Polo shirts by pastel. He'll keep vacuuming a clean
carpet just to admire the parallel patterns he makes. His shirts are
monogrammed. When he was a batboy, the bats rested trademarks out,
knobs up, in the order of the day's starting lineup. He would save
his allowance to buy Ban-Lon shirts. (He had 16 in varying colors.)
He would sometimes re-iron his mother's ironing, just to get it
exactly right. As a player, he would sweep the dugout steps. When he
joined the San Diego Padres, he suggested a reorganization of the bat
and helmet racks. Much tidier. In his closet in his pink-and-pink
house in Del Mar, Calif., all the shirts are on hangers, facing left.
There are no blue jeans. On the floor, the shoes are treed and the
toes all point outward. Muss his hair, go to jail. You can bounce a
quarter off his bed.
So how come his life is such a mess?
For most of his nearly 41 years Garvey lived at the corner of
Straight and Narrow. He played football at Michigan State. Graduated
with a B average. Signed with his boyhood idols, the Dodgers. Married
the prettiest girl in school and had two daughters Norman Rockwell
might have painted. Was a 10-time All-Star. Played in five World
Series and 1,207 straight games, the National League record for
reliability. And when the Dodgers said he was too old, he took his
button-down swing and won the Padres a pennant. And when he retired
last year, he was crouched and ready for life after baseball. He
owned a business. His main office was a $15,000-a-month layout on La
Jolla Village Drive. In compulsorily hip Southern California, he was
hopelessly square: -jawed, -shouldered, -dealing and -thinking.
Tom Lasorda, who coached and managed Garvey for 10 years on the
Dodgers and two in the minors, once said, ''If he ever came to date
my daughter, I'd lock the door and not let him out.'' Garvey signed
autographs until his smile ached. When he lived in Calabasas, outside
L.A., he welcomed the kids who came to his house for autographs, one
time with a plate of cookies. He was involved in more charities than
any carpool of Dodgers. The Multiple Sclerosis Society, Special
Olympics and the Starlight Foundation each gave him awards for
distinguished service. Lindsay, Calif., named a junior high school
after him, trading in Abraham Lincoln. Once, on Nun's Day at Dodger
Stadium, a quadriplegic child asked him to get a hit for her. He got
five, and knocked in five runs and scored five times. He was headed
for Cooperstown and probably Washington. He was a role model's role
model, a dinosaur somebody uncrated from the 1950s and couldn't get
back in the box. ''I try to walk around as if a little boy or a
little girl was following me,'' he once said.
Well, boys and girls, stick this in your lunchboxes: Garvey
currently is on one side or the other of four lawsuits, having
settled two others since Oct. 6. He keeps at least five lawyers in
suspenders. In the space of eight months, he had affairs with three
women at once, impregnated two and married a fourth. A judge jailed
his former wife for contempt of court for not letting him see his
kids, and a psychiatrist testified that the kids, who say they don't
want to see Garvey, are suffering from ''parental alienation
syndrome.'' He's up to his chiseled chin in debt, into the scary
seven figures. Two former business associates have sued him. Other
than that, it has been all apple pie and porch swings.
''Some people have a mid-life crisis,'' he says. ''I had a
mid-life disaster.''

The one thing you didn't want to see when you were 10-year-old
Steve Garvey was the porch light on and your mother's car in the
driveway. That meant your invalid grandmother had needed help and you
hadn't tended to her, and now you were in trouble. A whack would be
forthcoming.
He called her Nanny, and she lived with the Garvey family in
Tampa. A tire had flown off a truck years before and knocked her down
from behind, leaving both her arms paralyzed. Nanny was good-hearted,
but she needed help. And since Steve's mother, Millie, worked all day
in an insurance office and his dad, Joe, was a bus driver and Steve
was an only child, there was nobody around to help her but him. So
Steve would get home from school, clean the house, start dinner and
even help her go to the bathroom. How was she going to do it? She
couldn't lift her skirt very well and, of course, she couldn't wipe,
so he did it for her.
Says Garvey, ''I remember the first time, kind of looking at her
and saying to her, 'Do you want me to help you?' and her saying,
'Would you, please?' You didn't have to say too many words after
that. You got over the embarrassment.''
When a kid grows up with responsibilities like that, he grows up
fast. And his parents kept a strict house, one where you said
''yessir'' and ''no ma'am'' and pulled your weight and then some. He
had to play near the house, to keep the porch light in view, so he
learned how to be alone. He would play make-believe baseball games --
tossing up small grapefruits from the trees next door and hitting
them -- between his beloved Dodgers and the Yankees. And if the
Dodgers lost, then they lost. None of this ''Wait a minute, ladies
and gentlemen, the umpire has changed his mind!'' He would make
himself run sprints as punishment for the Dodgers' losing.
Punishment was important. Punishment was necessary. ''Mom would
slap me, but that's what I needed,'' he says. She was nothing if not
demanding, and you did things her way. One time he gave her a dirty
look, and his burly 6 ft. 2 in. father hit him hard across the face.
Never, ever, show disrespect to your mother. To your grandmother. To
women. And so he strove to please everyone. His room was museum-neat.
He went to church more often than his parents did; he even went to
weekday masses. He was an elementary school crossing guard.
And so what you had was a 10-year-old going on 28, a short kid
with amazingly wide shoulders. ''I had more responsibilities than two
and three kids,'' he says. And so he became different. If he broke a
window playing baseball, he wouldn't make like Carl Lewis and dash.
He would march right up to the house and begin arranging a payment
plan.
''I can't remember Steve ever giving us any trouble, ever,'' says
his father. Garvey never wore his hair over his ears. Never rebelled.
He was 19 years old in tie-dyed 1968, wearing color-coordinated Hagar
slacks and monogrammed sweaters. He hated to dance, because dancing
in the late '60s was about losing control. His dormitory room at
Michigan State was so neat it made the eyes of a resident adviser
mist. He says he was a virgin until college. ''I guess I just wasn't
the kind of guy that liked to fog up the back windows,'' he says.
''I had important things I wanted to do.''
Even Garvey's games were controlled. ''Controlled aggression,'' as
he used to put it. His was a most mechanical swing, not fluid like
Will Clark's, but purposeful and driving. He stood like a statue,
with his head high, chin forward and Popeye arms held away from his
body. One writer said he ran as though not to wrinkle his shirt. In
batting practice he kept track of his line drives. He was knocked
down six times in 1980 and six times he got back up and got hits. He
kept track.
Such was his dedication that during his remarkable consecutive
game streak, he played at various times with a hyperextended elbow,
22 stitches in his chin, a pulled hamstring, a bruised heel, a
migraine, the flu, a 103 degrees fever and a toenail so impacted they
had to drill a hole in it to relieve the pressure. Garvey felt a
responsibility to be there, every day, for the fans. This is a man
who played an entire season at first base without an error. Emotions
won't get you to 200 hits.
He would not cut loose. And around professional athletes, that
immediately made him a flake. Or suspect. He once caught some of his
Dodger teammates giving each other high fives when he got thrown out
trying to bunt. One Dodger was quoted as saying, ''You know what?
Steve Garvey doesn't have a friend on this team.'' He and Don Sutton
once brawled on the clubhouse floor.
But how could Garvey be one of the guys? He couldn't act young,
like his teammates. This is a man who calls waitresses by their name
tags. He rode on the coaches' bus, not the players'. He wasn't good
at leering at women and cutting up with the boys. Wouldn't be
responsible. Besides, one hotfoot could mess up a perfectly good pair
of shoelaces. ''I just never liked to sit in the ) back of the plane
and see who could throw up into a trash can, that's all,'' he says.
And so went the rest of his life, too. At 22 he married Cynthia
Truhan, a prospective medical-school student, who dropped that
ambition to be at Steve's side as he pursued his baseball career. The
two of them had few friends among his teammates and their wives.
Steve was more comfortable around people like Lasorda, his elder by
21 years. Why bother cultivating friendships with his contemporaries?
He had mail to answer, business contacts to cement, a moral
obligation to be at every Cub Scout banquet and Kiwanis dinner.
He believed in doing the Right Thing. His parents smoked, but he
never did. His teammates swore, but he never did. Cyndy says that
when he was having trouble throwing in his first years as a Dodger,
people would call and scream insults at him. He would listen to
everything they had to say and then hang up. Punishment is important.
Yet in 1983, when he broke the National League record for consecutive
games, he took a $15,000 ad in the Los Angeles Times to thank the
fans.
But maybe sometimes he has confused responsibility to family with
responsibility to fans. Recently he sat outside a Los Angeles
courtroom where his visitation rights suit was being heard, happily
signing autographs. Cyndy says he once sent his daughter Whitney a
birthday card that read, ''Happy Birthday, Best Wishes from Steve
Garvey.'' He can be crying and the level of his voice doesn't change.
Once he apologized to his daughters with tears in his eyes for having
lied about his love life. Later Krisha, the elder of the two,
testified in court that ''he didn't seem sincere.''
As the marriage went on, it became obvious that to find two people
more opposite than Cyndy and Steve would take six episodes of Love
Connection. The guy Cyndy left Garvey for was composer Marvin
Hamlisch. Go figure.
Steve was Lake Placid. Cyndy was Fire Island. He ignores slights.
She fights back. When she tried to have a conversation with him, he
often remained silent. So she was subconsciously driven to doing more
and more outrageous things to try to squeeze a reaction out of him.
Boy, did she try.
Says Steve, when Cyndy found out she was pregnant with their
second daughter only a year after the first was born, she picked up a
knife from a kitchen counter and came at him with it. ''Never
happened,'' says Cyndy. Says Steve, ''All I know is she took six
steps towards me, and I was up the stairs in three.''
The one time Hamlisch came to their house, he and Steve went into
the den and two hours later, Cyndy was Hamlisch's. ''He gave me
away,'' Cyndy says. ''Unbelievable!'' Says Steve, ''It felt like a
big relief to me.'' Cyndy claims that Hamlisch later said, ''You
know, I've won a Tony, a Pulitzer and an Academy Award, but that was
the easiest prize I ever won.'' Cyndy took the kids and left for New
York.
At one point, when Cyndy had come back to Los Angeles, she
discovered an appointment book at Steve's office containing entries
made by his secretary, Judy Ross. The entries said things like
''Steve and me in San Francisco'' and ''Steve and me skiing.''
Slightly miffed, Cyndy picked up a baseball bat and started getting
good wood on the walls, pictures, vases and clocks. ''She was in
there with the baseball bat and a pair of scissors,'' says Ross.
''When she left, the scissors were stuck in my appointment book.''
What has transpired since then is a venomous dispute between Steve
and Cyndy in which their two daughters, now 13 and 15, have been the
main victims. Once, Garvey says, Cyndy called him in Houston and left
the message: ''Tell him Krisha's been run over by a truck.'' Cyndy
now says someone, not she, must have been playing a joke, but Garvey
wasn't laughing then. He spent the next two hours frantically calling
hospitals near their home.
The girls did not appear at the Padres' Steve Garvey Night on
April 16, 1988. Cyndy says they didn't want to ''ride around in a
convertible.'' She refused to let the kids see him in San Diego as
long as he was living with Ross. When Garvey and his parents showed
up at the girls' T-ball game, Cyndy admits she shoved Millie Garvey.
''I was getting my kids' lunch ready,'' Cyndy says. ''And she spit on
me.''
Once Cyndy arrived at a Dodger Stadium luncheon honoring Garvey's
mother and screamed obscenities at Steve for 20 minutes in front of
club officials and reporters. She left only after security guards
were summoned.
This year Cyndy, now Cynthia Truhan again, published The Secret
Life of Cyndy Garvey, written with Andy Meisler, in which she details
a childhood of verbal and physical abuse by her father and takes a
Cuisinart to Steve's halo:
-- She wrote that Garvey mimicked her migraine headache symptoms
to get out of the Army. Steve now says he had migraines off and on
until he was 35 and ''there's no way you can memorize them ((the
symptoms)). I may have asked . her about them, wondering if I had the
same thing she did.'' Even if the migraines were real, letters Garvey
wrote to Cyndy in late 1970 from Fort Jackson, S.C., where he was
stationed for basic training, do appear to support Cyndy's contention
that Garvey was angling for a medical discharge. In one of the
letters, he said, ''Well, plan 'escape' is being plotted in the SPG
'Brain' center and it looks good! If I could get five good letters I
think it will work!'' Another letter said, ''I also got to Dr. Woods
and he is sending a letter for me concerning the mig. headaches. He
said he would take care of me so let's hope so.''
-- She wrote that while at Michigan State she would take tests and
write papers for Steve, who was supposed to do the work by
correspondence while he was away, playing minor league ball. Steve
denies it.
-- She wrote that Steve became the National League All-Star first
baseman in 1974 as the result of a write-in campaign in which he, she
and a few family friends spent weeks filling ballots for him. Steve
denies it. ''I think he was voted in by the people,'' says Cyndy's
brother, Chris, who was there. ''But we are some of the people who
helped him out.''
On the Oprah-Phil-Larry tour for her book, Cyndy described her
former husband as, randomly, a sociopath, a pathological liar,
fraudulent, immoral, dishonest, cold, aloof and asexual. (Asexual?)
Yet she still has his love letters.
Cyndy has become so enraged at Steve that at various times she has
kicked a dent in his car, ripped his shirt, slapped his face and
slapped his accountant's face. Cyndy denies only the last. She said
on Donahue that she hadn't received a dime of child support or
alimony. Steve forthwith produced canceled checks. She wrote in her
book that Steve had been ordered by the court to undergo psychiatric
counseling. Actually, the court ordered Steve and the two daughters
to go through the standard evaluation process in a visitation-rights
case. ''My ex-wife has one purpose in life,'' says Garvey. ''To bring
her ex-husband down.''
Be that as it may, events of the fall and winter of 1988-89 showed
that Garvey was doing a pretty good job of it himself.

Bumper sticker: HONK IF YOU'RE CARRYING STEVE GARVEY'S BABY. Bob
Hope: ''I haven't seen so many gorgeous girls since I spent Father's
Day with Steve Garvey.'' Letter in the L.A. Times: ''It's been a long
time since Steve Garvey went two for two.'' T-shirt: STEVE GARVEY IS
NOT MY PADRE.
, Once in a while even Garvey will laugh at it all. One day,
after hugging a woman, he said to her, ''Uh-oh, that was a long one.
You're going to have twins.''
Not that it has been a lot of laughs for the women involved, or,
for that matter, for him. It probably has ruined his prospects for
the political career he was hoping to have. As a result of the
revelations about his sex life, he lost a cable TV baseball-for-kids
show to Reggie Jackson, and he resigned his position on the board of
trustees at the University of San Diego, a Catholic school, after the
local bishop called him a sociopath. There were so many jokes about
him on this year's Academy Awards show that his daughters turned off
the TV. And when ads bearing his picture began appearing on the sides
of San Diego buses, plugging his morning radio talk show, somebody
wrote ''Creep'' across his face on one of them.
Steve Garvey? Creep?
-- August 1987: Garvey, who has been involved for a year with 5
ft. 4 in., doe-eyed, Atlanta-based CNN assignment editor Rebecka
Mendenhall, gets serious. But he doesn't get around to mentioning
Mendenhall to longtime girlfriend Ross. Or Ross to Mendenhall. Ross
says, ''I'd pick him up at the airport and say, 'I thought you were
coming in from Dallas.' And he'd say, 'Oh, no, we had to go to
Atlanta to meet with Coke.' ''
Who wouldn't believe a man as romantic as Garvey? He would find
out what a woman's favorite song was, frame the sheet music and give
it to her. If it was her 34th birthday, he would send 34 roses. He
wrote love poems. Margo Adams told Penthouse that Garvey was a nicer
guy and a better lover than Wade Boggs. He took his women to the La
Jolla Polo shop and outfitted them in his favorite clothes. When
Mendenhall was hospitalized last July, he slept in the lounge chair
next to the bed, holding her hand. He may have been a rake, but he
was their rake.
-- January 1988: Garvey, who became a free agent when the Padres
refused to re-sign him after the '87 season, retires from baseball.
He subsequently campaigns unsuccessfully to become president of the
team.
-- July 1988: Garvey finds out that San Diego medical products
sales representative Cheryl Ann Moulton is pregnant with his child.
They had been dating for six months. ''The first date was much more
fun than I thought it would be, so we went out again,'' says Garvey.
''And then four or five other times we never left her apartment.
''I was led to believe she was taking responsibility for birth
control. If you want to become pregnant, you just don't use
whatever you're using. I have to feel that she probably did ((want to
become pregnant)).''
Even though a DNA test last winter proved that Garvey was the
father of Moulton's baby, he waited until last month, when a San
Diego Superior Court ordered him to make child-support payments, to
begin helping her out. Garvey has expressed no interest in seeing his
now nine-month-old daughter, and Moulton has refused comment.
-- August 1988: Garvey convinces Ross, who has found out about
Mendenhall, that it's nothing serious. He juggles the two of them
deftly. At 8 p.m., San Diego time, he would call Mendenhall in
Atlanta and tuck her in. ''Then he'd spend the night at my house,''
says Ross.
-- Nov. 25, 1988: Garvey gets down on one knee and says to
Mendenhall, ''Darling, will you marry me?'' Mendenhall doesn't have
to answer; her kisses do. Not that he wants to marry her, of course.
''She gave me an ultimatum. I thought I would grow into loving her,''
he says.
They decide to get married on April 1. ''There's some irony in
that, isn't there?'' says Mendenhall. (More irony. Mendenhall gave
birth to a son on Friday, Oct. 13.)
-- Christmas 1988: Four women in Garvey's life -- Ross,
Mendenhall, Krisha and Whitney -- all get the same gift: gold pins
from Tiffany's in the shape of three X's -- for kisses. ''How was I
supposed to know they'd all gang up and compare notes?'' Garvey says.

-- New Year's Day, 1989: On the way to his ski condo in Deer
Valley, Utah, he tells Krisha and Whitney that he's engaged to
Mendenhall. When Krisha calls Cyndy to tell her, Cyndy begins
screaming. Mendenhall, who was with Steve when Krisha called, says
Cyndy was upset because Steve was taking on new obligations while he
still owed her $25,000.
-- Jan. 3, 1989: Garvey puts Mendenhall on a plane to Atlanta and
then, according to Ross, tells Ross that he has broken up with
Mendenhall. Says Ross, ''He told me, 'You're the one I see myself
married to.' ''
-- Jan. 4, 1989: Garvey's engagement is announced to the press,
but according to Mendenhall, Garvey had already called her to say
they would have to delay the wedding. The reason: Cyndy, he said, was
pressuring him to pay her $25,000 she said he owed her for legal
expenses. Later the same day they talk again and this time Garvey
tells Mendenhall that another woman (Moulton) has phoned him, saying
she is pregnant with his child. Garvey says he told Mendenhall,
''Marriage just isn't for me,'' and broke the engagement. According
to Mendenhall, all he said was he wanted to ''push the wedding back a
little.''
Meanwhile, Ross is growing skeptical. ''He did interviews that day
describing how he'd proposed to her,'' she says. ''. . . I couldn't
believe he could be so callous.''
-- Jan. 5, 1989: Mendenhall flies to San Diego because, she now
says, she was worried about Moulton and the $25,000, and she wanted
to comfort Garvey. Garvey says she came to talk him out of breaking
up. They had sex the next night. Again, Garvey told SI, he thought
she was in charge of the birth control. ''She did the same things she
always did,'' he says. ''She walked into the bathroom beforehand.
What am I going to do, follow her?''
Mendenhall's paternity and breach-of-promise suit against Garvey
says he was ''fully cognizant'' that she hadn't made the usual birth
control preparations. In documents prepared for a U.S. District Court
in Atlanta, Garvey now says they did not have sex on Jan. 6.
-- Jan. 8, 1989: Garvey puts Mendenhall on the plane for Atlanta.
''We both did a lot of crying,'' she says. ''He said to me, 'We'll be
married. I just need time.' '' Garvey says he broke off the
engagement for good before she left. ''People can listen but not
hear,'' he says.
-- Jan. 13, 1989: At his annual Ski Classic in Deer Valley -- to
benefit the Utah Special Olympics -- Garvey falls in love with
blonde, blue-green-eyed, 30-year-old Candace Thomas, a former high
school cheerleader. Over the next two weeks, they dance together at
the Bush Inauguration, take in the Super Bowl and become engaged the
night of the game. Thomas has been divorced twice, and her daughters
from the first marriage now live with her and Garvey.
-- Jan. 23, 1989: Mendenhall, having heard nothing from Garvey for
13 days, thinks she has worried herself sick. She has lost nine
pounds and can't sleep. No wonder. She's pregnant.
Garvey and Mendenhall talk. She says that's when he broke off the
engagement. Both agree he said he would take care of the baby.
-- Jan. 24, 1989: Garvey calls Ross and tells her about Thomas.
''He wanted me to be happy for him,'' says Ross. ''Can you believe
it? . . . I don't know how he dealt with all of us in the course of a
year. The man's got great stamina.''
And when the whole gloppy mess goes public, his daughters are so
humiliated they refuse to see him, according to Cyndy. Steve contends
that she had brainwashed them.
At least 60 times in 1989, according to a suit Steve filed against
Cyndy, he was supposed to meet with his daughters as part of the
custody agreement and wasn't able to because Cyndy had impeded him.
For the court-ordered counseling sessions, for instance, he would
drive two hours from San Diego to Los Angeles, wait around for an
hour, then drive back home. There he was behind the wheel of the
$50,000 Mercedes the Padres had given him on Steve Garvey Night,
driving down the dark freeway, Mr. Control, crying.
And if you think those drives were bad, you should have been with
him on Sept. 15, after what he heard in Department No. 9 of the
Superior Court for Los Angeles County. That's where lawyers
questioned his daughter, Krisha:
Q: Do you want to see your father?
A: I don't want to see him.
Q: Are you willing to?
A: No. . . .
Q: Do you love your father?
A: No.
Q: Did you ever love your father?
A: When I was little.
After testifying for 90 minutes, she walked, head held high, over
to where her mother sat at the defendant's table, put her head on
Cyndy's shoulder and sobbed. Two weeks later the court ruled in
Steve's favor, declaring Cyndy in contempt for violating a court
order that gave Steve the right to see Krisha and Whitney. Cyndy was
in handcuffs as she was led off to serve the first five days of a
130-day sentence. Now this was getting ridiculous. The hostess of the
cable show, Motherworks, headed for the slammer? She was freed a day
later, after her lawyers obtained a stay of execution, and on Nov. 1
the remainder of her sentence was suspended pending her compliance
with the court's visitation order.
''He thinks he's won,'' Cyndy says. ''But he has lost everything.''
Not that there was much left to lose. After 17 years in major
league baseball, Garvey says he is broke. The $10 million or so that
he earned as a player is nowhere to be found, and he owes the
government more than $500,000 in back taxes. His sports marketing
firm, Garvey Marketing Group (GMG), which until recently had space in
a San Diego office complex, now operates out of his home. He owes his
former landlord $172,000 in rent. He has sold his white BMW and his
Deer Valley condominium, and he has cashed in two life insurance
policies to pay bills. He makes $9,300 a month as host of the radio
talk show, but he owes more than half that amount in monthly child
support and alimony payments.
For several years GMG has been in the business of staging charity
sports events under the tax-exempt umbrella of the Steve Garvey
Foundation. Tax forms filed by the foundation with the California
attorney general's Registry of Charitable Trusts for the years ending
Jan. 31, 1987, '88 and '89 reveal some remarkably unsuccessful
fund-raising. For instance, at the '87 Steve Garvey Celebrity Ski
Classic in Deer Valley, an auction was held to benefit Utah Special
Olympics. Several big-ticket items -- two pairs of American Airline
tickets to anywhere, Rossignol skis, Fila skiwear, and several
weekends at the Stein Eriksen Lodge in Deer Valley, all of them
donated -- were sold to the highest bidders. The total revenue from
the auction, as reported to the IRS on the foundation's Form 990 for
the period from Feb. 1, 1986, to Jan. 31, 1987, was $4,315. After
expenses of $3,119 had been deducted, all that was left was $1,196.
''Utah Special Olympics ran the auction and kept the money,'' says
Jim Harper, who is Garvey's accountant and the chief financial
officer of the Steve Garvey Foundation. ''The revenue ((reported))
didn't include income from the auction.'' Nevertheless, line 9a of
Part I of the foundation's Form 990 says, alongside Gross Revenue,
''AUCTION $4,315'' plain as day. Jim Murphy, executive director of
Utah Special Olympics from 1984 to '87, who helped supervise the
auction, says, ''The majority of people wrote checks to the Steve
Garvey Foundation. . . . For the most part all the money went through
their books.''
Between Jan. 1, 1987, and Jan. 31, '88, GMG organized five charity
events -- two celebrity golf tournaments, two celebrity ski events
and a party/golf extravaganza at Super Bowl XXII in San Diego. The
total amount of money raised by all these events, according again to
the foundation's Form 990, was $174,790. The expenses incurred in
raising that money were $150,076. That left net proceeds of $24,714,
of which $13,763 had been donated to charities by the end of '88.
''I've seen more money raised ((for charity)) at backyard
carnivals,'' said a former Garvey associate.
What Garvey has become in the American hurly-burly is everything
he never wanted to be: a divorced husband, an unloved father, an
unadmired teammate, a sinning Christian, a lying man of honor, a
failed businessman, a control freak out of control. Not very
responsible. Not very tidy.
Maybe somewhere along the line Garvey figured out that 1950s
ethics don't make it in '80s America. Maybe trying to stay above it
all isn't worth it. Maybe nobody's wings are that strong. Or maybe
it's just that nobody trusts a baseball player with a uniform that
clean.
Says Garvey, ''I guess I make people mad. There's an inherent
skepticism in the world. . . . I was an idealist. I thought, 'I'll go
out and help everyone. Why wouldn't they like me?' When I signed with
the Dodgers, I was sure that was the only team I'd ever play for.
When I got married, I was sure it would be to one woman the rest of
my life. . . .''
Or maybe what happened is that they took Garvey's childhood away
before he was done with it. Maybe it is too much to care for an
invalid and go to school and do your chores and keep your room
surgically clean and watch what faces you make and be 10 years old
all at the same time. And maybe when you're forced to be that
responsible on the outside, you resent it, and you become someone
else on the inside.
Maybe we have found Steve Garvey out, and maybe it's best this
way. Maybe, for better or worse, he can be himself now. The porch
light is out for good.

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