Today's baseball biggies -- Ken Griffey Jr., Cal Ripken Jr., Mark McGwire -- gathered around Williams, basking in their hero's glow. Each wanted his own special moment with the last man ever to bat .400, and many, including Williams, were moved to tears. No one wanted to leave the field.

"It was kind of funny," Boston shortstop Nomar Garciaparra told the Associated Press. "When the announcer asked everybody to go back to the dugout, everybody said no. It didn't matter. What time was the first pitch? Nobody cared."

Why did Williams -- more than Yogi Berra, Sandy Koufax or Mike Schmidt, who were also on the field that night -- inspire such an emotional tribute? Look to his full-throttle energy, his stated dedication to being "the greatest hitter who ever lived" and the clear drive he had to make it so; his absolute refusal to bow to media pressure and the fact that when Williams makes a promise -- to himself or others -- you better believe he's going to follow through on it. And don't forget his nearly mythic status as one of the game's wildest characters.

This is the man who has worn a necktie only a handful of times in his 82 years, because he can't stand the things. This is a man who has had the finest Chesapeake oysters and bayou crayfish flown to his home in Hernando, Fla., because he refuses to eat second best. This is the guy who, when he was drafted in World War II (he served in the military for four and a half years), set a still-standing gunnery record in training. This is the guy who refused to ever tip his cap to Boston fans from his second season with the Red Sox onward, no matter how much they begged, and who can't let an argument go. If he doesn't like the outcome of a conversation, he'll spend a week gathering information until he decides he's ready to pounce again. This talent led Sports Illustrated to name him the last man to "hit .400 and argue 1.000."

Hitting .400, of course, is Williams' biggest claim to fame. When he hit .406 in 1941, he joined 17 other big hitters in the history books, including Rogers Hornsby, who batted .424 in 1924. And, of course, although a few talented fellows have come close, no one's done it since. Hornsby, who also made the All-Century team, gave Williams a piece of advice early in his career: Be patient; wait for your pitch. It became a Williams mantra.

Although he gained fame for his rages against the Boston press, Williams managed to remain patient at the plate and rode Hornsby's advice to six batting titles, two American League MVP awards, 18 All-Star appearances and an induction into the Hall of Fame in '66. He also used the tenet as the cornerstone for his bestselling 1970 book, "The Science of Hitting," written with John Underwood. That book may be single-handedly responsible for raising the collective batting average of generations of Americans.

Of course, Williams' killer 20/10 eyesight played a big role in his batting prowess, though he'd never admit it. When he took his physical for World War II, the examining physician called in a colleague to marvel over Williams' visual acuity. A couple of other things that didn't hurt the 6-foot-4, 198-pound string bean in his quest for greatness: He didn't drink, hated smoking and was always in by curfew. He also disliked parties; he wasn't interested in standing around "listening to a lot of bullshit," he told Esquire's Richard Ben Cramer in 1986.

But what truly brought him such a sweet swing was his devotion: He spent his whole life swinging a bat. As a child, he'd go out in the yard at night when everybody was sleeping and swing, swing, swing at an imaginary ball. His nocturnal ritual continued when he turned pro. In fact, his Red Sox road-trip roomies would often be awakened by Williams swinging a bat, a newspaper, a pillow, anything, and accidentally hitting something: a wall, a bureau, a bedpost.

Williams would also spend hours working over his bats to make sure they were precisely the proper weight (between 32 and 33 ounces). He kept his bats off the ground so they wouldn't pick up moisture and put on excess ounces. Just to be certain, he'd take them to the post office to weigh them.

Williams no doubt inherited his extreme enthusiasm from his mother, May Williams, known to all in his San Diego hometown as Salvation May. A dedicated Salvation Army missionary, she spent her days and nights in the bars and bordellos of San Diego and Tijuana, Mexico, tambourine in one hand and collection plate in the other. When Williams was a child, his mother took him on her proselytizing parades; he recalls trying to hide behind the pounding bass drum.

Salvation May's zeal would haunt Williams even after he signed with his first team after high school, San Diego's Pacific Coast League Padres. May Williams would show up at games, ask spectators for cash and point out her son on the field. Deeply embarrassed, Williams asked her to knock it off and even gave her money to stop. She took the cash and kept passing the plate at his games anyway.

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