Munson: The Life and Death of a Yankee Captain (25 page)
Read Munson: The Life and Death of a Yankee Captain Online
Authors: Marty Appel
The moment of silence at Yankee Stadium, August 3, 1979, with home plate left empty for the missing captain.
For many, it was the single visual moment that evoked memories of the riderless horse in the funeral procession of President Kennedy sixteen years earlier
. AP IMAGES
Aisles are arranged for public viewing of Thurman’s casket, August 5, 1979, at the Canton Civic Center.
In Cooperstown flags were at half-staff on what should have been a more joyous New York event—the induction of Willie Mays into the Hall of Fame
. THE CANTON REPOSITORY. USED WITH PERMISSION.
Munson’s casket leaves the Canton Civic Center as an honor guard stands watch before the journey to the cemetery. Diana, her daughters, and her father are off to the left.
Canton had not seen an event like this since President William McKinley’s memorial service in September of 1901
. THE CANTON REPOSITORY. USED WITH PERMISSION.
Bill Gallo’s poignant drawing in the
New York Daily News
following the accident.
“I wanted it to look like he’s gone, but still looking at the symbol of baseball, which is kids.”
BY PERMISSION FROM BILL GALLO AND THE
NEW YORK DAILY NEWS
Thurman’s gravesite at Sunset Hills Burial Park.
“Only Thurman would get buried next to a Burger King and a pizza parlor,”
said teammate Graig Nettles. COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR
Diana Munson surrounded by her three children, two sons-in-law, and five grandchildren in 2004. Michael Munson (top, center) has since married and added another grandchild to the family. JOHN F. GRIESHOP/
SPORTS ILLUSTRATED
Willie Randolph was on third, Bucky Dent on second, with two out.
Thurman had settled into his batting stance, when Barlow delivered one right at his body that sent Thurman sprawling onto his ass, his bat flying out of his hands. It missed hitting him and went to the backstop, and Randolph scored the fifth run.
Thurman got up, adjusted his batting glove, touched his helmet, stared at Barlow, waved his bat, and took ball four. He hadn’t seen a decent pitch to bring in Bucky, but that was fine, he was on base, and maybe Chris Chambliss could pick him up.
But as he headed for first, he knew he didn’t feel right. The fall had played havoc with his already wobbly knees. It was as though he could hear the joint crack on every step as he trotted to first. And it hurt. He was used to playing hurt, and generally played through it. But if he couldn’t run, he would hurt the team, and that was not something he was about to do.
Chambliss lined out and the inning was over.
As Munson headed for the first base dugout he exchanged glances with Martin and shook his head. He knew he was done for the evening, and trainer Gene Monahan went over to ask him about the knee. Martin shouted over to Jerry Narron to put on the catching gear and get out there for the fifth.
Thurman headed down the four steps at the rear of the dugout and then up the walkway toward the clubhouse. He was going to put some ice on his knee and watch the rest of the game on the clubhouse television set. What he didn’t know was that he had just played his last game at Yankee Stadium.
During that home stand, Steinbrenner had called Martin into his office before a ball game. As Martin related to Golenbock:
He was madder’n hell at Thurman’s flying. I said: “George, you’re the one who gave him permission to do it.” He said, “Billy, I’d appreciate it if you’d talk to him about it.”
I went down and talked to him, and he told me that he and Diane were planning to take an apartment in New Jersey so he wouldn’t have to fly anymore. I said, “I think that’s a good idea. You’ll be with your wife, and you won’t have to fly anymore, and it won’t take so much out of you.” He agreed with me on that.
I went back up and told George about our conversation, and that’s when George got mad about Thurman’s hitting. He showed me his stats, that his average was down, his RBIs down. I said, “Don’t you understand, his legs are killing him. He can’t push off his legs to hit. The guy shouldn’t even be playing right now.” He was playing in great pain, playing in hell. That’s the kind of guy Thurman was. I said, “He shouldn’t be playing but we don’t have anyone else.” George said, “Why don’t you bat him eighth, that’ll show him.” “Bat him eighth? I wouldn’t bat Thurman Munson eighth,” I told George. “I won’t.”
Thurman didn’t play the home game on Wednesday night the twenty-fifth, and Frank Messer told us on radio that he was still feeling the effects of the injury that caused him to leave the game the night before.
This sounded odd to me, since he had left after being decked by a pitch—not being hit, not suffering a collision. He was a catcher and took so much pain and punishment back there that for him to miss a game without a more meaningful cause was strange.
So on Thursday, the final day of the home stand, I drove to the stadium to visit with him. Off to see my coauthor.
I drove my 1976 Toyota Corolla from my home in White Plains to the stadium, a twenty-minute trip. The car had been the Yankees’ bullpen car; it was a kick to own it, but then I found out I couldn’t take it on certain Westchester highways because, with its pinstripes and Yankee logo, it was considered a “commercial vehicle.” So I had to repaint it. But I knew it was the car of Munson’s MVP season and of Sparky Lyle’s triumphant entrances. Lyle’s spike marks were on the passenger door.
I went into the clubhouse, didn’t spot Thurman, but saw Catfish. It had been a tough year personally for this very special ballplayer. I had been the team’s PR director when he signed, and we had gotten close during the weeks of intense publicity that accompanied his signing and Yankee debut. He had been the one who doused me with champagne after we won the ’76 pennant. He had recently lost his dad and his “surrogate baseball dad,” scout Clyde Klutz, the man who had twice signed him—once for Kansas City and once again for the Yankees.
I told Hunter I was really sorry about his losses, and that I missed Clyde too.
“Thanks,” he said. “It makes you grow up. ’Specially when it happens twice.”
When I asked him how he felt, he quickly said, “I feel a hundred years old. I can’t pitch for shit. I’m not helping the team. I’m done.”
Hunter was always a stand-up guy, the kind who would look a manager on a visit to the mound straight in the eye and tell him whether he had any pitches left. He wasn’t the sort to be insecure about his standing with the club. You could take him at his word. Always.
I asked him if he knew where Munson was.
“Maybe in the sauna. He’s an old man too. Squatted down too many times.”
We laughed over that one.
I found it an interesting thought. How many times had he “squatted,” I wondered. There was no way I could calculate that in my
head. But I was wearing a Casio digital watch with a calculator on it and I decided to figure it out.
I came up with about 20,250 pitches a year, more with spring training and warm-ups, multiplied by ten seasons, and it was over 200,000 squats back there. No wonder his knees were breaking down.
Hunter was amused by these stats but intrigued as well.
“Don’t raise your kids to be catchers,” he responded.
With that I saw the naked Munson circle toward his locker. He was smiling; he seemed to have been coming down off a good punch line from someone. He was toweling himself off from the rear, singing, “America loves burgers, and we’re America’s Burger King …” I excused myself and walked over to him.
“Whaddya say, partner!” he said, extending a hand and motioning for me to slide over the stool from the next locker.
I told him I’d just calculated his lifetime squats on my Casio.
He laughed. “You think it’s 200,000?” he said.
“Well, that’s at 150 a game, 135 games a year plus warm-ups.”
“Well, no wonder I’m so messed up then! I didn’t need to hear that!”
I told him that I came down because I didn’t like to see him out of the lineup. Plus, it took a lot to sit him down, and I thought it might be more than it appeared.
He acknowledged that he was indeed hurting “like hell,” and couldn’t catch even in an emergency as it now stood. He was hoping that maybe a few days off would help, but he seemed resigned to going through more tests to see what was up.
I told him it just wasn’t the same team without him catching, and he said, “Get used to it.” The chances were good he wouldn’t catch again for the rest of the season.
“It kills me not to be out there. I can’t sit still in the dugout. I try to go to the bullpen for a few innings just to break things up.”
We shifted gears and talked about my wife’s pregnancy, with our
first child due in about six weeks. I asked him how everything was in Canton.
“Yeah, I need to get back there soon, I’ve got this little strip mall property I’m looking at buying, and I miss the family. When am I going to get you up there with me in the jet?”
I laughed. “You have a jet? I didn’t know that. Are you kidding me? I hate the turbulence in a 747! I couldn’t be in a small plane, I’d be a nervous wreck.”