Munson: The Life and Death of a Yankee Captain (38 page)

I smiled to myself when I read this. Thurman’s version of the story was that he wore his spikes, not sandals, and that the clumps of mud that dropped onto Steinbrenner’s desk gave him a kick. George didn’t remember it that way, or chose not to.

Steinbrenner also revealed that he had said to Thurman, “Would it make any difference to you if we traded you to Cleveland like you always wanted?” And Thurman had told him, “It might. If you got a deal for me with the Indians, maybe I’d consider playing a couple more years.” And so Steinbrenner had phoned Gabe Paul, now at Cleveland, and the two had agreed to discuss this possibility after the season.

Some fans put floral arrangements near the player entrance. The gates mercifully opened at six p.m. Eddie Layton played somber music on the organ for nearly the full two hours leading up to game time, setting the tone in the ballpark. He made it feel like a church. There was an unusual stillness as the fans entered and headed for their seats. A misty rain was falling—a baseball rain—not enough to call off the game, but appropriate weather for everyone’s mood.

At 6:30, Steinbrenner went into the clubhouse and the full team met. He wanted to talk about playing the game. “Nobody wanted or felt any desire to play baseball,” said Figueroa in his book. “Murcer conveyed to us that Munson’s wife had said that we should play the game, as that would have been her husband’s wish. Then George Steinbrenner talked to us. He could not contain his tears and began to cry, as did the rest of us, joining him in shared sorrow. It was a very sad night for all of us, the players and the Yankee management.”

“Billy had to talk to everybody and he couldn’t hold himself from talking about it,” said Chris Chambliss. “Everybody was crying in there.”

Emerging from the clubhouse after the meeting, Steinbrenner talked to the waiting press. He was wearing a white shirt with a red tie, and no jacket. Said Steinbrenner: “We had a meeting. We talked
about the untimely passing of Thurman, and I’d just rather not discuss what took place in there. Everybody was there and a few fellows spoke and it was a tribute to Thurman and that’s all I can really say.”

But in answer to a question, he added, “Bobby Murcer said he talked to Thurman’s wife last night. Diane said he would want them to play and that she felt that’s what he would want and therefore she would appreciate it if the fellows went out and played … We’re gonna play tonight, Monday we’re all going to the funeral and if we don’t get back, we don’t get back, we’ll forfeit.”

And with that he turned and walked away.

The field was covered after what Frank Messer, on WPIX, called “desultory batting practice.” But the tarp was removed just after eight p.m. In pregame remarks on WPIX, coming toward the end of Channel 11’s 7:30
Action News
, Messer revealed at once that number 15 would be retired, joining 3 (Ruth), 4 (Gehrig), 5 (DiMaggio), 7 (Mantle), 8 (Dickey and Berra), 16 (Ford), and 37 (Stengel); that Thurman’s locker would be retired and never again used; and that there would be a plaque hung for Thurman in Monument Park.

Further, Mrs. Diana Munson would join Mrs. Eleanor Gehrig as the “First Ladies of the Yankees.”

Ordinarily those might have been separate ceremonies, perhaps even the following year. Now it was done at once and announced at the top of the broadcast. It was included in the day’s press notes so that the writers had it by six p.m.

WPIX did not use its upbeat opening animation. Don Carney, the veteran producer and director of the game, knew he had an unusually difficult telecast ahead of him. Messer and Bill White appeared
on camera together, live, as they had the night before in the WPIX news studio on East Forty-second Street. There was no pre-taped opening segment, as was usually the case.

“We never know how the team will react,” White said, as the tarp began to be removed from the field at 8:02.

Phil Rizzuto and Fran Healy were on WINS radio and the vast Yankee radio network. Listeners heard the familiar opening Yankee theme song, but then the somber voices of the announcers began filling time until the ceremony began.

Healy talked about his becoming a teammate of Thurman’s in 1976, and how soon thereafter, when the Yankees were playing in Cleveland, Thurman had invited him to spend the night at his in-laws’ home in Canton. The two had been opponents as far back as 1968 in the Eastern League.

“We were there, and he pointed to a house in the backyard and said, ‘That’s where you’ll sleep.’ And I looked at it and said, ‘No way!’ Thurman said, ‘Well, what do you want me to do?’ I told him he has to stay there too; he could sleep on the floor. And that’s what he did!”

The two talked about how Munson had actually done something few players managed during their careers: he
had
“stopped to smell the roses”—had been there more than most players for his kids as they grew up.

Rizzuto said he didn’t “know how I even got to Yankee Stadium today. Every few minutes my mind just went blank. But today is easier than yesterday, which was the longest night I can remember. At least today we’re surrounded by teammates and friends, and the players can go out and spend some energy, hitting and catching the baseballs.

“Thurman used to tell me a little prayer,” said Phil, “something that can work for everyone, whether you are Jewish, or Catholic or Protestant… ‘You’ve got to live for today because tomorrow may never come.’ And how true that is, and how much we feel that now.”

On this night, Yankee Stadium would indeed serve as a cathedral.

There were signs all over the stadium: “We’ll Love You Always Thurman,” “Thurman We’ll Miss You,” “15 Thanks,” “NY 15 is in Our Hearts Forever.” White talked about Jerry Narron, “who will hit with power, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he hits as many as thirty home runs a year.” It was mentioned that catcher Brad Gulden was also called up to take Thurman’s spot on the roster.

Reggie Jackson was alone, stretching in the wet outfield grass. Don Carney called for frequent shots of him from the “low third” camera. Reggie had been in Connecticut on Thursday and hadn’t been reached by any news media for comment. His agent Matt Merola said he “was in a state of shock.”

The lineups were taken to home plate by coaches Cal Ripken Sr. and Mike Ferraro, not by the two managers, Earl Weaver and Billy Martin.

The whole Yankee team was in the dugout, end to end, with no one in the bullpen.

The Yankees and Orioles emerged from their dugouts at 8:05. Figueroa, on the disabled list and in street clothes, stood out. The only one missing was Murcer, who had called Martin to say he wouldn’t be at the game and would stay in Canton with Kay Friday night. The Yankee starters went to their positions, with Luis Tiant dabbing tears from his eyes on the pitching mound, and Reggie Jackson doing the same, wiping his glasses, in right field.

Carney called for frequent cuts to Reggie in right. No doubt fans were wondering what he was feeling. He had been Munson’s foil. Were they staring at him, thinking he was being insincere? All of this had to pass through Reggie Jackson’s mind. The fans had little knowledge of the peace they had forged; how Reggie had flown with Thurman just a few weeks before.

The umpires lined up by the third base fungo circle. Still photographers gathered behind home plate.

Home plate stood empty. It was for many the single most memorable thing about the evening. The empty home plate. Jerry Narron, who would catch that night, stood between Yogi Berra and Art Fowler at the top of the dugout steps in his shin guards and black chest protector. (He wouldn’t wear Munson’s orange protector.) For many, it was a visual moment that evoked memories of the riderless horse in the funeral procession of President Kennedy sixteen years earlier.

Bob Sheppard, the already legendary PA announcer, commanded the crowd to “direct your attention to the microphone behind home plate, where Terance Cardinal Cooke will address us.”

And the formal program began.

“O mighty Lord and father of us all, we pause to pray for Thurman Munson,” the cardinal began. “Our brother and your faithful son. He was a good family man first and foremost, and you blessed this captain of the Yankees with skills and talent and a great dedication to the game of baseball and the many fans he touched because of it. We offer a moment of silent prayer in his memory. Strengthen and console his loved ones and give him light and joy in heaven with you forever and ever.”

Robert Merrill, who had been standing a few feet away, walked to the microphone and sang “America the Beautiful” with his eyes closed.

The scoreboard, with some bulbs out, carried the image of Thurman’s face, alternating with a message written by Steinbrenner that said, “Our captain and leader has not left us—today, tomorrow, this year, next. Our endeavors will reflect our love and admiration for him.”

“I never really felt as close or as one with the team as I did at that particular moment,” remembers Willie Randolph. “The feeling of togetherness. Knowing that here we are at a tough time, but we’ve got to go out tonight and play, and play for the man because when
we looked up at the scoreboard and we saw that picture of Thurman, we knew that he was on the field with us. And in essence, he was.”

Over the PA system, Sheppard said, “Thank you for your complete cooperation.”

No one knew what to expect at this point. The ceremony had lasted for six minutes. Was that enough? Was it over? Do we now play ball without our captain?

The silence turned to applause and cheering.

Great cheering.

And then came a chant of “Thurman, Thurman, Thurman.” And on it went, and louder it got.

And it was to be a moment that would refuse to be just a moment. It needed to be the last great cheer for this immortal Yankee, this hard-playing, hard-driving presence who took this team on his back and restored the Yankees to greatness. How could this possibly end in six minutes? On went the cheers, the fans calling his name, crying, yelling, being the way fans are supposed to be at a ballpark in the Bronx. Anything but silent.

The image of Thurman on the scoreboard would alternate with the “Our captain” message. Whenever the image would return, the applause and cheering would increase.

And then, finally, finally, nine more minutes later, the voice of Bob Sheppard rang out again.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your wonderful response.”

This time, it felt right. The Yankee fans—a full house—had made themselves part of this moment, part of the ceremony. They had taken command of the event.

Narron, number 38 on his back, moved to the catcher’s position at last to start taking Tiant’s warm-up tosses.

“All year long Thurman helped me out,” Narron had told reporters. “He told me I would have to do most of the catching this
year, and that if he did come back next season, he would probably play a different position, and definitely not catch as many games as he had.”

On TV, Bill White said, “A great tribute for Thurman Munson, a great amount of respect and love.”

Added Messer, “You can’t describe what just went on here.”

On radio, Rizzuto said, “I can’t ever remember when I’ve ever been so emotionally touched by the way these fans reacted.”

Healy said, “This is amazing. Two days ago we were in Chicago talking about how much easier it was to play the outfield or first base … two days ago.”

Among the mournful fans in the ballpark that evening was Juliet Papa. Just embarking on a career with local radio station WINS (the Yankees’ station), she was here not as a reporter, but as a lifelong fan. She grew up in an Italian family in the Bronx that lived and died by the Yankees. Now, with her brother at her side, she felt she needed to be there that night. It would be her way of paying respect, of being in the company of fellow fans, who had come to say goodbye in this unusual setting. She was one of more than fifty thousand in the house that night, but she well represented the overwhelming feelings they all shared.

“There was that ovation,” she recalls. “Oh my God. As a fast-learning newsperson, I looked at my watch. It had to be a good ten minutes that the packed house stood and applauded in a continuum that to this day sends a chill up my spine and puts a tear in my eye. It reverberated through the air and through the soul. It was perhaps all you could do, but the best thing to do. The people just didn’t want to sit down.”

The Yankees lost the game 1-0 to Scott McGregor and Tippy Martinez, two former friends and battery mates of Thurman’s. Reggie said, “I wanted to hit a home run, but I couldn’t do it. I was thinking of him every time I came to the plate. I’ll do something for him
and it doesn’t have to be on the baseball field. I’d like to do something for his family, his son.”

The announced attendance was 51,151. George Steinbrenner decided what the attendance figure would be and told Mickey Morabito to announce it in the press box. It was not uncommon for a team to cheat a little bit with an attendance figure if they could make it up the next day with the same team—no harm, no foul. It gave them the ability to turn a 19,000 crowd into a 20,000 crowd, and it looked better. The Boss took artistic license with this one. Good for him.

The Yankees lost 5-4 on Saturday and won 3-2 on Sunday before full stadiums as well. The signs didn’t go away. In Cooperstown on Sunday, 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. Instead, 466 miles away, people were filing past Thurman’s casket at the Canton Civic Center. Thurman’s death had diverted the attention of baseball fans.

Thurman Munson was all that was on everyone’s mind all weekend at Yankee Stadium. If there were games going on down there, it was the players going through the motions. It was almost too painful to see Narron and Brad Gulden catching.

“Toughest games I ever had to broadcast,” said Rizzuto.

And so the baseball world descended upon the football town of Canton to grieve and mourn the local hero who never moved away.

The Pro Football Hall of Fame ceremonies and exhibition game in Canton had been held on Saturday, July 28, and the town had returned to normal. Now there was this.