from the New York Times

1997

By JACK CURRY

July 13, 1997

The five-foot-high chain-link fence surrounds the backyard of the busy house on Kathleen Street in Tampa, Fla. It is designed to do what fences do. Divide one piece of property from the other. Keep the dog from escaping. Insure privacy. It is a fence, after all.

But a 13-year-old boy saw much more as he stood near the fence 16 years ago. He saw his future. So he brought out a bucket of baseballs, a bat and a batting tee and started swatting balls against the fence. His goal was to pound a ball through it, and the crunching sounds of his attempts were heard hundreds of times on countless afternoons.

The teenager became so proficient at rolling his smooth swing through the ball that, after thousands of sweet swings, he eventually achieved his goal: he hit a ball that made a new, explosive sound as it tore a hole through the fence. Tino Martinez, the relentless kid, had won.

"To this day," said Rene Martinez Jr., Tino's older brother, "there's still a hole in that fence."

Tino Martinez considers his brother's tale boring. Probably because it focuses on him. The private Martinez boasts about as often as he mud-wrestles George Steinbrenner.

"When my father knew that I wanted to be a professional player, he told me how hard I had to work," Martinez said. "He told me I had to work harder than anyone. That's when I started working really hard, hitting off the tee and doing all the little things."

The shattered fence is just one of the special stories that Rene, their younger brother, Tony, and friends discuss when they recount the legend of Tino in Tampa.

Rene played on six teams with Tino, from Pee Wee baseball to college baseball, and he marvels more about how his brother has remained so affable and humble than he does about the four splendid years with Seattle, the World Series championship ring he earned in his first season with the Yankees, his $25 million contract or the current pursuit of 50 homers. Tino Martinez promises he will never change, and it is easy to believe from a person who named his 37-foot boat "Incognito."

"I don't have to go around telling people what I can do," Martinez said. "I don't want attention. My manager and coaches know what I can do. That's enough."

Rene Martinez, 30, a bank vice president in Tampa who looks and talks just like his 29-year-old brother, said: "He is somebody who hasn't forgotten where he came from. He's remembered everything our parents taught us. He doesn't forget."

So it is necessary to traipse through Tampa to understand how Martinez navigated his way from hitting off tees in his backyard to the sort of power season that is reviving thoughts of Don Mattingly in 1985 and causing the Yankees to scour Lou Gehrig's career records to determine the next statistical mark that Martinez might eclipse.

Right now, Martinez is all about a sweet swing that he swears he has not changed, but which through Friday has produced a .303 average, a shocking 30 homers (his career high is 31) and 82 runs batted in. Has anyone mentioned Mattingly this season? Only if it was related to defense, and only briefly because Martinez is adequate at first.

"I think I heard some Tino Baseball chants the other night," David Cone said. "What a difference. He's gone from dealing with speculation about him replacing Don Mattingly to being a fixture and an MVP-type player."

Paul O'Neill's eyes widened when he was asked about Martinez.

"I don't think I've ever seen a player do what he's done," he said. "I don't know if anyone has."

But once upon a time, Martinez was back in Tampa trying to envision himself in the major leagues and leaving evidence to prove that he could do it. There was the game in which he decided to switch-hit and mimicked Mickey Mantle by homering from each side of the plate. He was 8. v There was the season in which he poked 25 homers in 24 Little League games. He was 12. There was the weight-lifting program he followed, which caused a Pied Piper effect as other kids imitated the star. He was 13.

There was the day he ruined dinner for the most successful college coaches in the country by shunning their scholarship offers to play at home for the University of Tampa, a Division II school, with Rene, who played shortstop. He was 18.

His father, Rene Martinez Sr., initially fretted about how the choice would affect his son's chance for a major league career. Lou Piniella, a family friend who would later manage Martinez with the Mariners, reassured him. "If he's good enough," Piniella said, "they'll find him anywhere."

The decision never hurt Martinez; he set school records by batting .398 with 54 home runs and 222 RBI in three seasons and became a key member of the 1988 U.S. Olympic team.

As Piniella predicted, the major league scouts found him. The Mariners made him the 14th player selected in the 1988 draft.

"Winning the World Series was great," Martinez said. "But getting to the major leagues in itself was also a great accomplishment, especially for someone like me. I was always a good hitter. But I didn't have speed or a great arm. I had to work extra hard to convince people that I could be a major leaguer."

To know Martinez is to quickly realize that his family and his disciplined approach to baseball are the two most important things in his life. Martinez's father preached about these matters as soon as Tino was old enough to listen. The sermons intensified as the middle of the three sons displayed a stroke and work ethic that caused college coaches to scurry to his games. His Little League games.

"I remember telling someone when Tino was 12 that if everything goes its course, he'll play in the big leagues," said Ken Dominguez, who coached Martinez in college. "He had a presence about him. He was special."

Once Rene Sr. realized his sons were baseball fanatics, the former high school football star studied the sport and prepared them. He took Rene and Tino to watch the Cincinnati Reds in spring training, where a 5-year-old Tino first watched George Foster take a bucket of baseballs, a bat and a batting tee and try to pound a ball through a fence.

While Rene Sr. warned Tino to ignore the attention he received once his high school career blossomed, the father constantly told the son he would make it to the majors. The words reverberated in Tino's ears. You will make it.

The father was right, but he did not witness Martinez's ascension. He died of a brain tumor on Jan. 4, 1990, at age 48. Martinez made it to the majors later that year when Seattle called him up on Aug. 20.

"I think he knows I made it," Martinez said quietly. "He always believed I would. I really believed it. I don't think he was just saying that. I really believe he meant it from inside."

Asked whether it hurt him that his father never saw him in the majors, Martinez talked faster and looked at his shoelaces.

"Yeah, it does bother me that he's not here to see it, a little," he said. "Although I know he's watching it, I wish he was here."

Before Martinez expressed too much emotion, he stopped speaking and fidgeted in his chair. It could have been a dentist's chair. As polite as Martinez is, he dislikes talking about himself and is more comfortable swinging than chatting. Mattingly advised him to "bore them to death, stay out of trouble and play hard." He has, he has and he is.

"My goal was to get fans to see I was consistent and to make them say they didn't want anybody else here," Martinez said. "I have a five-year contract, and I want to do that every year. Some people said the Yankees were crazy to give me all this money. When the five years are up, I want the front-office people to look back and say they got a bargain."

The Yankees might already be whispering it. Martinez is creeping toward Bernie Williams and Derek Jeter as the most popular Yankee, challenging Mark McGwire and Ken Griffey Jr. for power supremacy in the major leagues, giving Mattingly and Keith Hernandez competition for the distinction of the best first baseman in New York over the last 35 years, and making his brother Rene's lofty prediction of 42 homers prescient.

"I haven't done anything differently to hit these homers," said Martinez, smiling sheepishly. "It seems that every time a pitcher has made a mistake and left a ball over the middle of the plate, I hit it perfect for a homer. I don't know why. I just hit all those balls perfect."

As if they were on a tee in his backyard.