It might sound stupid, and it certainly speaks to my sheltered childhood, but the biggest tragedy of my youth was the tragic death of New York Yankee catcher and captain Thurman Munson. I remember exactly how I heard about it. My father had a business partner that lived on our block. His son, Ken, was three years older than me, but he was a regular visitor to my house, where we had neighborhood wiffleball games. The year was 1979 and I was about to turn ten. It was my first year of little league and Ken was on my team. Ken called me up and told me that Thurman Munson’s plane had crashed and that he was presumed dead. It was an unthinkable thing to hear over the telephone. Thurman Munson was the heart of the New York Yankees.
Not only had he won the Most Valuable Player award in 1976, he had been the key to two consecutive World Championships in 1977 and 1978. What’s more, I had already been overly protective of Thurman. In 1976 the Yankees were swept in the World Series by the Cincinnati Reds. Munson batted .529. Sparky Anderson, the manager of the Reds, had said that Munson couldn’t hold Johnny Bench’s jock. I never forgave Anderson for his lack of graciousness. I also never forgave my father for rooting for the Reds.
The Yankees decided they needed an extra boost to put them over the top. They signed Reggie Jackson as a free agent in 1977. Jackson had won three championships with the Oakland A’s in 1972, 1973, and 1974. He would prove to be a key ingredient in winning two more championships with the Yankees in 1977 and 1978. Reggie Jackson was truly Mr. October. But so was Thurman Munson, who would hit .373 in the three World Series he played in, and .357 in his post-season career. Compare that to his regular season battling average of .292. Thurman was clutch. And he was the best catcher I had ever seen.
When Reggie came to the Yankees I was happy. When he introduced himself by saying, “I am the straw the stirs the drink…Thurman can only stir it bad”, I never forgave him. Even when he hit three home runs in the final game of the 1977 World Series, I still never forgave him. No one could say things like that about Thurman Munson. Thurman Munson was a god to me. I worshipped him. I was just under ten years old when he died.
I was not alone. My best childhood friend actually maintains a shrine to Thurman Munson in his house. It includes an actual Yankee Stadium seatback that he stole back in 1996, some candles, and a glossy 8×10 photo of Captain Munson.
When he crashed his plane in Canton, Ohio, it broke my heart. The Yankees would not win another championship until I was 27 years-old.
Today, another Yankee lost his life in plane crash. Cory Lidle was not a Yankee for very long. He came over in a mid-season trade with the Philadelphia Phillies. His death is tragic, and it brings back some emotions that I haven’t examined for over twenty years.
Everyone has their childhood heroes. Don Mattingly replaced Thurman Munson in my heart. But, when Thurman died, a piece of me died too.
also in orange.
Sometime in 1980 I was flying to Cleveland from Denver, or vice versa and the woman in the seat next to me was one of those people that keeps talking and talking when you’re trying to read a book or go to sleep for the long flight. She was quite a talker and I have no memory of what she was saying, but it turns out she was Thurman Munson’s widow – I think her name was Diane? I was enough of a baseball fan to know who her husband was. He was the heart of the team that continually beat up on my Cleveland Indians.
I think her name was Diana. It’s a small world.
Tragedies of our youth are measured by a different yardstick than the tragedies of our older years. They are often more poignant and loaded with broader meaning. We are discovering tragedy, and with that discovery we catch a brief glimpse of life’s uncertainty in the corner of our eye.
My thoughts turned to Roberto Clemente’s death. I was just a few years older at the time of his plane crash than you were when Munson died. Clemente was the best right-fielder I ever saw, even if he did play for the cross-state Pirates. I saw him play many times in Connie Mack Stadium. He had ended the season with his 3,000 hit. Dead? How could he be dead? I understand your feelings.
Mattingly was a good choice to follow up Munson. Mike Schmidt did the same for me.
Oh, and hey, Sparky Anderson’s always been a vulgar jerk, but Bench was a better catcher than Munson. Calm down, breathe, I am not a troll. Munson was very, very good and a great clutch hitter, but Bench is the benchmark for catchers. (I swear that was an accidental pun.)
It sounds that Munson is still very alive to you. Sounds like you didn’t lose too much of your heart. And that’s a good thing.
Bench was better than Munson, but who sweeps a team and then uses the opportunity to diss a guy that batted .529 in the loss?
Oh, not doubt, Sparky Anderson was a major jerk. Munson didn’t cost the Yanks the Series. That Reds team was as good as any I’ve seen. Anderson didn’t add much. They started the same 8 guys almost all year. The pitching was solid. Their defense was great. Bench, Morgan, Perez, [Rose] – Hall of Fame. Concepcion ? did he ever make it? Tolan in center. Talk about strong up the middle.
you forget Joe Morgan, George Foster, Rawly Eastwick, and Ken Griffey. The 1974-76 Reds were the best offensive team of their era.
I thought I mentioned Morgan, but it bugged me that I couldn’t remember the right and leftfielders. Of course, Foster, the last guy to legitamately hit 50 homers, and the kid, Griffey, speed, average, but not the power his kid has. I’m embarassed that I forget them.
Anyone remember Lyman Bostock, Jr.?
Great hitter on those loaded Twins teams, (Oliva, Carew, Hisle?, pre-Puckett ?) of the late ’70’s (or early ’80’s?) I can’t remember if he died in a car crash or a shooting. The memories both seem correct. I was in Dallas when he was playing, so I got to see him versus some really lousy Rangers pitching.
He was murdered in Gary, Indiana, after a game with the White Sox:
His was, for me, the first death of a childhood hero.
Of course, just two years later John Lennon would be murdered.
Now I see why a shooting and a car accident were in my memory. What a senseless death.
I’ll never forget my first major league baseball game, in 1964 at what is now RFK Stadium in Washington, Yankees vs. the Senators, when I was 9. The Nats won 10-9. I still have the scoresheet, first one I ever filled out. Mickey Mantle hit TWO home runs. I can still replay the first one of those in my mind like a YouTube tape. But my hero Frank Howard also hit one a mile (upper part of the upper deck, where they had lots of chairs painted white for Frank’s big shots). As I remember, the Nats scored all 10 runs in one incredible inning, coming back from about five runs behind.
I’ll never forget how GREEN! was the field when I first beheld it walking from shadows out to the stands.
Your story is a lot better. But I can relate. I’ve got lots of baseball stories.
There was nothing like Connie Mack stadium in Philadelphia. After walking across the city streets and cramped temporary parking lots thrown up in vacant lots or any other place you could squeeze in a few of Detroit’s finest, you’d enter this creaky, dark, brick with exposed rusty steel beams stadium. You’d walk through the dirty, dank corridors, watching what you stepped in, and then you’d burst through into the sunlight and the brilliant green diamond. Is it any wonder that so many great books are written about baseball? No other sport gives you time to think, tell stories, and remember.
Hey, folks, this has been fun, but I’ve to teach tomorrow, and its getting late. See you later.
BooMan, so what position did you play?
Anybody who follows baseball like this had to have been a regular player of the game.
I was always in the Babe Ruth vein, pudgy, a little slow running, the pitcher, and the biggest slugger on the team. I was famous in my neighborhood for hitting more balls on the roof of the elementary school than any other kid. I always used to loft them high to dead center or a little to the right.
In contrast, my father, a much better hitter, always hit sharp line drives down the third base line.
Memories…
I was a pitcher and shortstop and always batted lead-off and always led the league in batting average, stolen bases and runs scored.
I was a catcher throughout my baseball “career”. As a Yankee fan, I had a lot of role models — Yogi & Elle to start with.
I thought them better than Thurman, but there was something special about him. I met him once, back in the day when I was a reporter and assigned to cover a charity event that the Yankees were heavy into. Billy Martin was there, as were most of the late 70s Yankees.
During the speeches, I got the photos I needed and gravitated to the rear of the room — where the buffet was. I paid no attention to the man who sauntered over to grab the shrimp next to me. I mumbled something about them being fun to watch, but the ballplayers should stay away from public speaking. “Tell me about it pal”, he said and when I looked over I realized it was Munson.
He kind of grinned and chuckled and we made small talk for a while and then each went about our duties.
I was in Ohio the night he died. I recall it like I do when I heard about Bobby, Jimi, Janice, and King.
ABFS