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.
