CRYSTAL RIVER, Fla. -- Ted Williams, Beantown's ever cranky but much beloved "Splendid Splinter'' and baseball's last .400 hitter, died July 5.

	Ted Williams is the last major leaguer to hit .400 in a season.

The Boston Red Sox treasure, who made good on his goal to be known as the greatest hitter of all time, was 83.

The Hall of Famer was pronounced dead of cardiac arrest at 8:49 a.m. ET at Citrus Memorial Hospital in Inverness, spokeswoman Rebecca Martin said. He had suffered a series of strokes and congestive heart failure in recent years.

With a powerful left-handed swing, Williams was destined for Cooperstown.

Williams had 145 RBI as a Red Sox rookie in 1939 and closed out his career -- fittingly -- by hitting a home run at Fenway Park in his final major league at-bat in 1960.

Williams was a two-time MVP who twice won the Triple Crown. He hit .344 lifetime with 521 home runs -- despite twice interrupting his career to serve as a Marine Corps pilot in World War II and the Korean War.

"Ted was like John Wayne,'' Hall of Famer Joe Morgan said. "He was a man's man.''

Williams' greatest achievement came in 1941 when he batted .406, getting six hits in a doubleheader on the final day of the season.

As word of his death spread, baseball paused to remember one of its true heroes.

Groundskeepers at Fenway Park mowed his No. 9 into the left-field spot where he used play. The American flag in center field was lowered to half-staff in Boston and across the major leagues.

The Red Sox and Detroit Tigers lined up along the baselines, their hats off and their heads bowed, for a moment of silence before Friday night's game. A solo trumpeter stood in left field and played "Taps'' while a Marine Corps honor guard -- a nod to Williams' military service -- carried the American flag.

At the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y., a wreath was placed around his plaque and a flower arrangement was put around his statue.

"With the passing of Ted Williams, America has lost a baseball legend,'' said President Bush, a former baseball owner. "Whether serving the country in the armed forces or excelling on the baseball diamond, Ted Williams demonstrated unique talent and love of country.''

	Williams flew combat missions for the Marines in the Korean War.

Former senator and astronaut John Glenn had Williams as his wingman on combat missions in Korea.

"There was no one more dedicated to this country and more proud to serve his country than Ted Williams,'' Glenn said.

Williams contended his eyesight was so keen he could pick up individual stitches on a pitched ball and could see the exact moment his bat connected with it.

He also asserted he could smell the burning wood of his bat when he fouled a ball straight back, just missing solid contact.

"I think he was the best hitter that baseball has had,'' said Hall of Famer Bobby Doerr, who played with Williams for 10 seasons.

"He wanted to be the greatest hitter of all time, and he worked hard at that, but he was also a great teammate. He patted everyone on the back,'' Doerr said from Junction City, Ore.

Williams was a perfectionist who worked tirelessly at his craft and had no tolerance for those less dedicated. He was single-minded and stubborn, a player who reduced the game to its simplest elements: batter vs. pitcher, one trying to outsmart the other. In those instances, he usually won.

"When Ted was a young man, he often said it was his goal that people would say of him: 'There goes the greatest hitter who ever lived.' Ted fulfilled that dream,'' baseball commissioner Bud Selig said.

Tall and thin, gaunt almost, Williams hardly possessed the traditional profile of a slugger. Yet he was probably the best hitter of his time -- and one with a chip on his shoulder.

Often involved in feuds both public and private during his career, Williams mellowed later in life.

The best example came in his reaction to an emotional ovation from the crowd at the 1999 All-Star game at Fenway Park, Williams' longtime playground.

After a roster of Hall of Famers was introduced, Williams rode a golf cart to the pitcher's mound, where he threw out the first ball. Suddenly, he was surrounded by a panorama of stars, past and present, who reacted like a bunch of youngsters crowding their idol for an autograph.

For a long time, they just hovered around him, many with tears in their eyes.

Then, San Diego's Tony Gwynn gently helped a misty-eyed Williams to his feet and steadied him as Williams threw to Carlton Fisk, another Boston star.

The crowd roared.

"Wasn't it great!'' Williams said. "I can only describe it as great. It didn't surprise me all that much because I know how these fans are here in Boston. They love this game as much as any players and Boston's lucky to have the faithful Red Sox fans. They're the best.''

On Friday night, Gwynn recalled his friend.

"There is no doubt in my mind that Ted is the greatest hitter baseball has ever known, especially considering his service to our country. Given back those five seasons in his prime, Ted's number would be untouchable,'' he said.

It wasn't always that way for Williams. Revered as a slugger, he also was remembered for snubbing Fenway fans, refusing to tip his hat when he hit the ultimate walk-off home run in his final at-bat at age 42.

"Gods do not answer letters,'' John Updike once wrote in a profile of Williams, who sealed that image in 1941 with an 11th-hour show of courage.

Going into the final day of the season, Williams was batting .3996. Rounded off, that would be .400, and Red Sox manager Joe Cronin suggested he sit out the day's doubleheader to clinch that golden number.

Williams refused. Instead, he played both games, went 6-for-8 and lifted his season average to .406. No one has approached .400 since.

"He killed the ball, just killed it,'' said Pete Suder, who played shortstop for the Philadelphia Athletics that day. "He hit one into the loudspeaker horns. He hit another one over the fence.''

That year, Williams also led the league with 37 homers, 145 bases on balls and a .735 slugging percentage. Despite all those gaudy statistics, the American League MVP award went to Joe DiMaggio, who had a record 56-game hitting streak.

The next year, Williams won the Triple Crown, leading the league with 36 home runs, 137 RBI and a .356 average. But the MVP award went to Yankees second baseman Joe Gordon (.322, 18, 103).

The same thing happened in 1947, when Williams won his second Triple Crown by hitting .343 with 32 homers and 114 RBI, but lost the MVP vote again to DiMaggio (.315, 20, 97).

By then, Williams' relationship with the writers, particularly in Boston, had deteriorated badly. One writer left him off the MVP ballot entirely in 1947, costing him the award.

Williams and DiMaggio were fierce competitors. Once in the fog of a cocktail party, they were nearly traded for each other so that the lefty-swinging Williams could benefit from the cozy right-field stands at Yankee Stadium and the right-handed DiMaggio could target the Green Monster at Fenway Park. The next morning, clearer heads prevailed and the deal was called off.

"He was the best pure hitter I ever saw. He was feared,'' the late DiMaggio said in 1991, the 50th anniversary of Williams' .406 season and DiMaggio's hitting streak.

When DiMaggio died, in March 1999, Williams said there was no one he "admired, respected and envied more than Joe DiMaggio.''

Williams led the league in hitting six times, the last in 1958, when, at age 40, he became the oldest batting champ in major league history.

He was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1966, his first year of eligibility.

Although considered a born hitter by many, Williams worked countless hours to improve throughout his career. He often said hitting a baseball was "the hardest thing to do in sports.''

"A round ball, a round bat, curves, sliders, knuckleballs, upside down and a ball coming in at 90 to 100 miles an hour, it's a pretty lethal thing,'' he said.

He once ordered postal scales for the Boston clubhouse so he could be sure of the weight of his bats. In the on-deck circle, he would massage the handle of his bat with olive oil and resin, producing a squeal that disconcerted many pitchers.

"In order to hit a baseball properly,'' he once explained, "a man has got to devote every ounce of his concentration to it.''

Williams was only 20 when he joined the Red Sox in 1939, beginning a tempestuous, colorful career. He had several nicknames: Thumpin' Ted, Teddy Ballgame and The Kid. But none stuck like "The Splendid Splinter,'' a reference to his skinny, 6-foot-3 physique.

He was brash and outspoken from the start. In 1940, Williams made headlines when he told a writer: "That's the life, being a fireman. It sure beats being a ballplayer. I'd rather be a fireman.''

A few years after retiring, he was quoted as saying: "I'm so grateful for baseball -- and so grateful I'm the hell out of it.''

But he didn't really stay away. He managed the Washington Senators and Texas Rangers in 1969-72 and maintained lifetime connections with the Red Sox. In 1984, the team retired his number.

Theodore Samuel Williams was born Aug. 30, 1918, in San Diego. Out of high school, he signed a Pacific Coast League contract with his hometown team.

He played 1½ seasons with San Diego, then was obtained by the Red Sox in 1937 for the then-outrageous sum of $25,000 and five players. After a year in Minneapolis, he came to the majors in 1939.

With a dependent mother, Williams received a military deferment from his draft board in 1942. When that season ended, though, he enlisted, becoming a Marine flier. In 1946, he returned to lead the Red Sox to the pennant and his first MVP award.

As a member of the Marine Reserves, was called up as a jet pilot in 1952. After combat service as a fighter pilot in Korea, he rejoined the Red Sox late in the 1953 season.

After his 1960 retirement, Williams became an avid fisherman and outdoorsman. But he returned to baseball in 1969 as manager of the Washington Senators.

He managed three years in Washington and one more when the club moved to Texas as the Rangers in 1972. Although he was respected by his peers, Williams' teams went 273-364, a .429 mark.

Williams returned to the Red Sox as a vice president, then was a consultant and spring training hitting instructor. But the strokes, especially a particularly severe one in February 1994, limited his vision and mobility.

Williams underwent open-heart surgery in January 2001 and had a pacemaker inserted in November 2000.

He still did occasional public appearances in his wheelchair, and remained quick-witted and an avid fan. Commenting on the 1998 home run duel between Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa, he said: "The McGwire-Sosa thing was so super-great. McGwire is the closest thing to gargantuan at the plate.''

In 1995, Boston dedicated a $2.3 billion harbor tunnel bearing Williams' name. At the ceremony, he made it clear he didn't consider it a memorial.

"Every place I go, they're waving at me, sending out a cheer, sending letters and notes,'' he said. "And I thought, I've only seen it happen to somebody who looks like they're going to die. ... I'm a long ways from that.''

Married three times, he had three children: Bobbie Jo, Claudia and John Henry Williams.

Earlier this week, John Henry Williams broke a rib while playing for Boston's team in the Gulf Coast League. The 33-year-old son was giving pro ball a try for the first time, and was 0-for-6.

Funeral arrangements were not immediately announced.