WORTH HIS WEIGHT : Fans Knock His Girth, but Gwynn Keeps Hitting

YUMA, Ariz. —  Tony Gwynn was sprawled on the couch in his cramped hotel room. The Nintendo game was hooked to his TV set. Golf clubs rested in a corner. A bicycle was stashed behind the desk.

Nowhere to be found were empty pizza boxes. No beer was stashed in the refrigerator; no bags of potato chips littered the floor.

There was only a half-empty can of soda pop, one of the few times in the past four months Gwynn has succumbed to temptation.

“I could bring anyone in here,” Gwynn said, “and nobody would believe it. I think they think I just lay around all night, and see how much I can stuff in my mouth before I go to bed. They think I eat four meals a day, don’t care what I eat, what I weigh, or how I look.

“It hurts, because I’ve never worked so hard in my life this off-season to get my weight down, and look at me.”

Gwynn’s not sure, but he might have gained two pounds since the end of last season.

He checked in at 219 pounds last week before reporting to spring training.

Gwynn, one of the most prolific hitters in baseball history with four batting titles and a .328 career average, is fighting the same battle as many Americans--his weight.

“It wasn’t so bad before,” Gwynn said, “but it seems like everyone these days are on health kicks. That’s all they talk about. So they sit in the stands, and say, ‘Hey, look at that gut.’ Then, of course, the name-calling starts.

“I get sick of it.”

Gwynn’s weight attracted more attention last season than ever. No one uttered a word about his girth when he hit .359 the first half of the season. Few brought it up when his slump began July 12 in New York while facing Frank Viola and David Cone on back-to-back nights.

But his weight became a popular topic when his batting average dipped .330. He was having shin splints, and his left knee started to ache. Finally, he started missing games because of knee problems, and eventually underwent arthroscopic surgery Sept. 18, which ended his season.

Padre doctors say Gwynn’s knee had virtually nothing to do with his weight. It simply was deterioration of cartilage.

It didn’t matter. Gwynn’s weight became the chic subject on sports talk shows, in bars, wherever fans gathered.

“It really started burning me up,” Gwynn said. “I got my surgery, started my rehab, and then in November, I decided it was time to do something about it.”

Gwynn completely changed his diet. He had fish, chicken and salads seven days a week. He didn’t touch a can of soda pop. Beer wasn’t even in the house.

“I was even able to take the kids to McDonald’s without getting myself a Big Mac,” Gwynn said. “I mean, I love fast food, but all of that was out.”

It was only the beginning. Gwynn began working out with weights for the first time in his career. His wife, Alicia, bought him a tennis ball machine to run from side-to-side on their back yard court. She gave him a bicycle for Christmas.

“It was unbelievable,” said John Boggs, Gwynn’s agent and best friend. “We took a lot of flights together over the winter, and he even stayed away from airline food. All he did was drink water. Look at me, I was the perfect example not what to eat on the road, but Tony didn’t cave into that temptation.

“It’s why it’s such a sensitive issue.”

Gwynn, of course, has heard sniping about his weight since he was a point guard at San Diego State. But at his heaviest, in 1989, he won his fourth batting title with a .336 average.

“The thing that gets me,” said Gwynn, “is that people think I can hit 80 points higher if I lose 30 pounds. Come on, I’ve been pudgy my whole career, and I’ll always be that way. I’ve never been the most svelte athlete in the world. They call me, ‘Pudge, Snack Bar, Bowling Ball,’ everything in the world.

“But the bottom line is, ‘Can you produce?’ Look at my numbers and see for yourself. I don’t think too many people can do what I’ve done.

“I may have not lost any weight, but I’m stronger than I’ve ever been before. I’ve never felt better. I wanted to make sure my legs were strong this year, and hopefully I’ve accomplished that.

Indeed, they do look much bigger.

“Call them more cut,” Gwynn said. “You know, the words muscle-guys use.”

The phone rang. Gwynn talked for a few minutes, hung up the receiver and shut his eyes, shaking his head.

“Why do these things always seem to happen to me?” Gwynn said.

A fellow in New York wanted to know whether he could meet Gwynn when the Padres came to town. Maybe have a little lunch, and, perhaps, get a ball autographed for his son.

The man New York happened to be the brother of Gwynn’s former agent--the same one who helped send him into bankruptcy four years ago.

Gwynn didn’t have the heart to refuse.

“Tony doesn’t trust people nearly like he did,” said Alicia Gwynn, “but he still has trouble saying, ‘No.’ That’s the hardest thing for him, and people try to take advantage of that.”

Said Padre catcher Dann Bilardello: “The guy’s amazing. He gives so much of his time, you wonder how he has any time for himself. People can talk all they want about what a great ballplayer he is, but as great a player as he is, he’s even a better person.”

Gwynn won’t even use his name for preferential treatment. He stands in line like anyone else at restaurants and airport counters, hiding his identity until being recognized.

“There have been times where we’ve taken flights that are real crowded, so I try to get upgrades,” Boggs said. “I’ll say, ‘Tony, go to the counter and tell them who you are. They’d be happy to accommodate us.’

“He tells me, ‘Boggsy, give it a rest, will you?’ It embarrasses him that people think he’s someone special. He talks about the superstars in baseball, like he’s in awe of them, and he never includes himself.”

This winter, the Gwynn family drove cross-country in their van to Mobile, Ala., to visit relatives. One afternoon they decided to look at a home that was for sale.

“There was a 15-, maybe 16-year-old boy in one of the houses we looked at,” Alicia said. “We went up to his room, and he had all these baseball cards of all the superstars, Jose Canseco, Roger Clemens, Rickey Henderson. The realtor then introduces Tony to the boy and says, ‘You probably don’t know who this is, but he’s a baseball player too. His name is Tony Gwynn.’

“Well, I’ve never seen anything like it. The boy said, ‘Oh, my God! Mr. Gwynn! You’re a four-time batting champion.’ I mean, I thought this boy was going to hyperventilate. He was actually turning blue because he wasn’t getting any air.

“He then ran to the phone to call his friend. ‘Mr. Gwynn is at my house. It’s Mr. Gwynn, the four-time batting champion. I swear to God it’s him.’

“It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. I had to go outside because I was cracking up. The boy even got a picture of him and Tony so that his friends would believe him.

“When we got outside, (9-year-old) Anthony says, ‘Mom, did you see how he was reacting? He’s just Dad.’

“I said, ‘To you he’s Dad. To others, he’s a famous man.’ ”

Even in the Padre clubhouse, particularly in spring training, Gwynn cannot play the role of famous man. The newcomers and minor-leaguers study him. They want to say hello, but they are intimidated.

“It’s crazy,” Gwynn said. “The other day I said, ‘Good morning,’ to Luis Lopez and Jose Valentin, and you just see it in their eyes. It’s like, ‘Wow, he talked to me.’ ”

Fame is almost impossible for Gwynn, a man who regards himself as just another person with real-life problems, to understand. He curses every time the smog drifts down from Los Angeles, knowing it will trigger his son’s asthma. His heart aches when his son called him this week and invited him to his Little League opener, only to be informed that Dad has a commitment at spring training. He winces when he can’t see his 6-year-old daughter, Anisha, perform in dance classes.

Who is Gwynn to believe that he’s better than anyone else? After all, when he was introduced to Chicago White Sox catcher Carlton Fisk this winter, Gwynn called him “Mr. Fisk.”

Such humility runs contrary to Gwynn’s accomplishments: He is one of only six players this century who have batted at least .309 in eight consecutive seasons; last season, he became the first player since 1980 to have at least 500 at-bats and strike out fewer than 20 times; he has a career .335 batting average--highest in baseball--in late-inning pressure situations.

Not even batting titles consume him.

“I know it sounds crazy, but what happened last year was actually a blessing to him,” Boggs said, “It finally made people realize that he isn’t obsessed with batting titles. By not winning, it proved a point.”

Gwynn could have won his fifth batting title last year. He played with a sore left knee for the final two months of the season, and his batting average plummeted. He was batting .325 in September, with a comfortable lead in the batting race, when doctors told him he should quit playing.

After all, there was nothing to gain by playing. The Padres were in essence out of the race, and Gwynn didn’t need to impress anybody. Even friends suggested he shut himself down.

But with the Padres still mathematically alive and with fans still paying money to watch, Gwynn persevered.

He tried it for another week, but the knee only worsened. The Padres fell out of the race. And on Sept. 18, he finally underwent surgery, his batting average at .317, only .002 behind leader Terry Pendleton.

“I went to a restaurant the other night, and this guy told me he lost $5 on me because he bet I’d win a batting title,” Gwynn said. “Why do people do that? It’s like when people talk about me, they have to bring up batting titles. I could care less about batting titles. I really don’t care if I ever win another one.

“What I want, more than anything else, is that ring.”

Gwynn looks around the clubhouse. The nameplates are gone. The faces are new. Only Ed Whitson and Craig Lefferts were teammates of Gwynn in the National League pennant season of 1984, and they each left once before returning to San Diego.

Difficult as it is for Gwynn to believe, this is his 10th anniversary season. On July 19, he becomes a 10-and-5 man--10 years of major league service and at least five with the same club. Team cannot trade 10-and-5 players without their permission.

“I can’t wait,” Gwynn said. “There’s been different rumors over the years. I even heard one a few weeks ago where I was going to Chicago for Ryne Sandberg. But once that date comes, I won’t have to worry about it, because I won’t be going anywhere.

“Now, they may ask my permission, but I’m not leaving.

“Just like Jack Clark used to say, ‘I’m Mr. Padre.’ ”

San Diego will always be home to Gwynn. He wants to raise his family in San Diego, grow old in San Diego. But first, he wants to win in San Diego.

“This is the first time I’ve really felt like a veteran,” Gwynn, 32, said. “They call me old man now. You know you’re getting old when your son starts asking you to videotape his swing at Little League games. The game’s changed, because the focus is money now. You hear so many guys talk about it. It’s become a business instead of a game.

“I remember when Robbie Alomar first came into the clubhouse when he was 17 years old. He asked me for a pair of shoes and glove. My God, now he’s already making more money than me.

“Maybe I’m old-fashioned, because all I think about is winning. I know people will say, ‘Well, that’s easy for you to say, you’re sitting on a three-year deal for $12.25 million.’ But really, you can make all the money you want, but there’s nothing like winning.

“I know it might be easier to win someplace else, but if we take it in the shorts year after year, I’ll be part of it. I’ll be here as long as it takes. I just want to be here when we’re back on top.”

All else is in place this spring: Gwynn returns to the No. 3 spot in the lineup--there was talk of Gwynn hitting second before the Padres acquired Kurt Stillwell. And Gwynn remains among the league leaders in optimism; he figures the Padres will have a strong season and make fools of the prognosticators.

“Of course, I thought we’d come back after that 12-42 start in 1987 under Larry Bowa, too,” he said.

The only change this season is that Gwynn grudgingly will take a couple days off each month. At least, that is the plan.

“We’re not going to play him every single inning in every game this year,” Padre Manager Greg Riddoch said. “We want him the whole season. It’s just too much to play every game. I’ve already talked to him about it, and he agreed.”

Said Gwynn: “Hey, I’ll let them win during the spring. I won’t play every game. But when the season starts, well, we might be talking again.”

Gwynn laughed.

“The big thing for me is that I feel absolutely great,” he said. “I’m stronger. I’m healthier. I’m ready to see what my conditioning program did for me.

“I may not look like Charles Atlas, but I bet he couldn’t hit like me, either.”