Being a great hitter and a national icon never seemed to be that much fun for Mark McGwire, so it's no surprise that being a struggling, ailing hitter and a past-tense icon held no allure whatsoever -- no matter how much money was involved.

McGwire's reasons behind his decision to retire were classy and dignified. He couldn't earn the money, so he wouldn't take it.

Simple enough -- but McGwire isn't as utterly selfless as some might persuade you to believe. When the subject is McGwire, the myth-making soil is as fertile as ever.

This was a smart decision, the right decision, and a decision based as much on self-preservation as anything else. Did you see him during the playoffs? Did you see the look on his face when he walked back to the dugout after missing another mediocre fastball by three feet and a few mph? After all he's accomplished, there's no amount of money that could make that feel good.

McGwire probably realized he couldn't survive another year like that one. He could have hung out till the 2002 All-Star break and hit the 17 homers he needed for 600. He could have Ripken-ized his exit with a well-timed retirement address, to be followed by a memorial tour of National League ballparks.

He could have gone that route, with the attendant goodwill and who-cares-what-he's-hitting, but remember: Even the good times were never that good for McGwire. His conscience wouldn't allow it. Much like Randy Johnson, who figures to someday retire in the same fashion, McGwire carries the burden of responsibility -- his own, his teammates', his community's, whoever else's -- on his back like a cartoon anvil.

McGwire is not someone who enjoys ancillary aspects of fame. He had a jaw-clenching relationship with the world's amateur psychologists and a claustrophobe's love of crowds. Another year like last year would have turned him into a sideshow, a barnstorming icon expected to wave and smile and tip his helmet to the crowd after yet another strikeout.

His retirement comes at the perfect time, accelerated by a confluence of circumstances -- his declining skills, the Cardinals' apparent ascendance, and the coincident free-agency of his friend Jason Giambi. He can help his team, his friend and himself.

His last act as a player was to put his bat back in the rack so that Kerry Robinson, a rookie, could pinch-hit. And bunt, of all things, in a playoff game.

On Sunday, McGwire made sure that vision is merely a fleeting glimpse in our memory, a recollection that exemplifies the wisdom of his decision. He couldn't fool himself, so he decided not to try.

Sure, it's a decision that can be legitimately construed as selfless. But those who understood how McGwire was built, how the good times were never really that good, will view it as one part selflessness mixed with two parts self-preservation.

Tim Keown is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at tim.keown@espnmag.com.