GaryMrMets
08-01-2003, 02:23 AM
:rip: Thurman Munson :rip:
http://www.yesnetwork.com/announcers/index.cfm?cont_id=195742&page_type=wide
Pep Talk: Remembering a sad day in Yankee history
http://www.yesnetwork.com/photos/pepes_small.jpgBy Phil Pepe
Special to YES Network Online
July 30, 2003
As the calendar heads for August, I am drawn, as always at this time of year, to that horrific day 24 years ago when I learned of the tragic death of Thurman Munson. It's one of those rare days -- like the assassination of John F. Kennedy, the bombing of Pearl Harbor and the terrorist attack on the Twin Towers -- in which I will never forget where I was and what I was doing when I heard the awful news.
At the time, I was the Yankees' beat writer for the New York Daily News, and we had returned the previous night from a six-day trip to Milwaukee and Chicago. Thursday, August 2, 1979, was a day off on the Yankees' schedule, a good time to catch up with personal chores -- paying bills, doing laundry, and running errands. I hadn't turned on the radio or the television, so I was not prepared for the telephone call.
The voice on the other end said it had just come over the TV. Thurman Munson was killed when his private plane crashed at the Akron-Canton Airport.
Shock! Disbelief! Sadness!
And then reality set in. A call to my office, a plan formulated, work to be done.
It was my assignment to contact other Yankees for reaction. I broke the news to Roy White, who was overcome with emotion, unable to speak for several minutes until he had composed himself. Lou Piniella had heard the news already. He was disconsolate as he spoke of his teammate, his friend.
Throughout the next few hours, a flood of thoughts rushed to my mind, of Thurman Munson the baseball player, Thurman Munson the man.
I kept thinking back to a time in Anaheim three weeks earlier. A Saturday night, late, after midnight. The Yankees had lost to the Angels in 12 innings. Things were not going well. Their record was 49-42. They were in fourth place, 10 games out of first. It was tearing apart Munson, the captain, a proud man, the consummate competitor.
I was calling it a night, on my way to my room. I stopped in the Anaheim Hyatt House gift shop for a newspaper and there was Munson, his arms loaded with snacks.
"What are you doing with that junk?" I asked.
"Aw, I didn't get a chance to eat," he said. "I'm hungry."
"Don't eat that stuff," I chastened. "There's an all-night hamburger joint up the street. At least you can get something nutritious."
"I hate to eat alone," he said.
"I'll sit with you," I offered.
"Really?" he replied.
I had known Munson since he came to the Yankees as a rookie in 1970, but I really didn't know him. Not until that night in Anaheim.
We had had our differences along the way. Once, in 1976, I wrote something he didn't like. He complained about it. We argued. He stopped talking to me for the rest of the season. The following spring, we patched up our differences when he reached out and talked to me. No apology. That wasn't his style. He just began talking to me. He was sardonic, and always cantankerous. That was his way. I took it as a sign of acceptance. I would learn later, it was all a facade, part of the tough-guy image he wanted to present.
Once, I asked him to recommend the proper mitt for my 14-year old son, who was going to tryout for his school team as a catcher. Munson reached into his locker and handed me a brand new mitt. I began writing in my notebook.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm writing the serial number so I can order this mitt," I said.
"Take it," he said. "It's yours."
"Let me at least pay you for it," I offered.
"I didn't pay for it," he said. "The company sends them to me. Take it. But if you tell anybody I gave it to you, I'll deny it."
When the 1978 season ended, I asked Munson for his home telephone number, in case I needed to talk to him in the offseason. He refused to give out his number. Instead, he gave me his father-in-law's number and said if I needed to talk to him, I should call that number, tell his father-in-law who I was and why I was calling. His father-in-law would then pass along the message and he would call me "if I feel like it."
The day came when I needed to talk to him. Dutifully, I called his father-in-law and left my name and number at the Daily News, requesting Thurman return my call collect.
About an hour later, the sports department secretary told me there was a call for me. I immediately recognized Munson's voice.
"Why didn't you call collect?" I said.
"If I did," he reasoned, "then I'd have to give my name and I don't want anybody to know that I called a sportswriter."
Midway through the 1979 season, his knees aching with each squat behind the plate, it became obvious to me that Munson's days as a catcher were numbered. The Yankees even played him a few games in right field with the belief that ultimately he would have to move to another position.
I wrote a column suggesting that we had seen the end of Thuman Munson, catcher, and I detailed the highlights as of his career, praised his leadership, extolled his competitiveness. After his tragedy, some people said that column read like an obituary. Had I had a premonition?
There was no premonition. It's simply that a phase of his career, the most prominent phase, was coming to an end, and I pointed out that athletes have told me through the years that they suffer two deaths -- the end of their career and their corporal demise.
Munson and I grew closer that 1979 season, his last. Not very close. We didn't socialize. We didn't hang out. Ours was a professional relationship. Until that night in an Anaheim hamburger joint when we talked into the early morning hours and I discovered the real Thurman Munson.
It surprised me to learn that he was a man of deep emotion and warmth, not the gruff curmudgeon he portrayed publicly. He spoke affectionately of his family, how much he missed his kids when he was off playing ball, of his passion for flying. He boasted that, in his private plane, he could leave Yankee Stadium after a night game, drive to Teterboro Airport, hop on his plane and be in his home around midnight. He would spend the next morning with his family, then fly back to New York in time to be at Yankee Stadium for batting practice. He said his commute to Canton was no longer than his commute when he drove to his home in New Jersey.
He said he was never more at peace than when he was soloing in his airplane.
"I'll take you up with me one day and you'll see how peaceful it is," he said.
"Oh, no," I objected. "I'm not going up in a plane if you're the pilot."
"What are you worried about?" he said, and then, with typical Munson sarcasm, "I don't care if you live or die, but I care if I live or die."
Nineteen days later, Thurman Munson was dead.
Acclaimed author and former Yankees beat writer Phil Pepe is a regular contributor to YES Network Online. His latest work is entitled "The Yankees: An Authorized History of the New York Yankees Centennial Edition," due to be released in November.
http://www.yesnetwork.com/photos/thurmanmunson_0729corb.jpg
Thurman Munson: the lifeblood of the Yankees during the '70s.
http://www.yesnetwork.com/announcers/index.cfm?cont_id=195742&page_type=wide
Pep Talk: Remembering a sad day in Yankee history
http://www.yesnetwork.com/photos/pepes_small.jpgBy Phil Pepe
Special to YES Network Online
July 30, 2003
As the calendar heads for August, I am drawn, as always at this time of year, to that horrific day 24 years ago when I learned of the tragic death of Thurman Munson. It's one of those rare days -- like the assassination of John F. Kennedy, the bombing of Pearl Harbor and the terrorist attack on the Twin Towers -- in which I will never forget where I was and what I was doing when I heard the awful news.
At the time, I was the Yankees' beat writer for the New York Daily News, and we had returned the previous night from a six-day trip to Milwaukee and Chicago. Thursday, August 2, 1979, was a day off on the Yankees' schedule, a good time to catch up with personal chores -- paying bills, doing laundry, and running errands. I hadn't turned on the radio or the television, so I was not prepared for the telephone call.
The voice on the other end said it had just come over the TV. Thurman Munson was killed when his private plane crashed at the Akron-Canton Airport.
Shock! Disbelief! Sadness!
And then reality set in. A call to my office, a plan formulated, work to be done.
It was my assignment to contact other Yankees for reaction. I broke the news to Roy White, who was overcome with emotion, unable to speak for several minutes until he had composed himself. Lou Piniella had heard the news already. He was disconsolate as he spoke of his teammate, his friend.
Throughout the next few hours, a flood of thoughts rushed to my mind, of Thurman Munson the baseball player, Thurman Munson the man.
I kept thinking back to a time in Anaheim three weeks earlier. A Saturday night, late, after midnight. The Yankees had lost to the Angels in 12 innings. Things were not going well. Their record was 49-42. They were in fourth place, 10 games out of first. It was tearing apart Munson, the captain, a proud man, the consummate competitor.
I was calling it a night, on my way to my room. I stopped in the Anaheim Hyatt House gift shop for a newspaper and there was Munson, his arms loaded with snacks.
"What are you doing with that junk?" I asked.
"Aw, I didn't get a chance to eat," he said. "I'm hungry."
"Don't eat that stuff," I chastened. "There's an all-night hamburger joint up the street. At least you can get something nutritious."
"I hate to eat alone," he said.
"I'll sit with you," I offered.
"Really?" he replied.
I had known Munson since he came to the Yankees as a rookie in 1970, but I really didn't know him. Not until that night in Anaheim.
We had had our differences along the way. Once, in 1976, I wrote something he didn't like. He complained about it. We argued. He stopped talking to me for the rest of the season. The following spring, we patched up our differences when he reached out and talked to me. No apology. That wasn't his style. He just began talking to me. He was sardonic, and always cantankerous. That was his way. I took it as a sign of acceptance. I would learn later, it was all a facade, part of the tough-guy image he wanted to present.
Once, I asked him to recommend the proper mitt for my 14-year old son, who was going to tryout for his school team as a catcher. Munson reached into his locker and handed me a brand new mitt. I began writing in my notebook.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm writing the serial number so I can order this mitt," I said.
"Take it," he said. "It's yours."
"Let me at least pay you for it," I offered.
"I didn't pay for it," he said. "The company sends them to me. Take it. But if you tell anybody I gave it to you, I'll deny it."
When the 1978 season ended, I asked Munson for his home telephone number, in case I needed to talk to him in the offseason. He refused to give out his number. Instead, he gave me his father-in-law's number and said if I needed to talk to him, I should call that number, tell his father-in-law who I was and why I was calling. His father-in-law would then pass along the message and he would call me "if I feel like it."
The day came when I needed to talk to him. Dutifully, I called his father-in-law and left my name and number at the Daily News, requesting Thurman return my call collect.
About an hour later, the sports department secretary told me there was a call for me. I immediately recognized Munson's voice.
"Why didn't you call collect?" I said.
"If I did," he reasoned, "then I'd have to give my name and I don't want anybody to know that I called a sportswriter."
Midway through the 1979 season, his knees aching with each squat behind the plate, it became obvious to me that Munson's days as a catcher were numbered. The Yankees even played him a few games in right field with the belief that ultimately he would have to move to another position.
I wrote a column suggesting that we had seen the end of Thuman Munson, catcher, and I detailed the highlights as of his career, praised his leadership, extolled his competitiveness. After his tragedy, some people said that column read like an obituary. Had I had a premonition?
There was no premonition. It's simply that a phase of his career, the most prominent phase, was coming to an end, and I pointed out that athletes have told me through the years that they suffer two deaths -- the end of their career and their corporal demise.
Munson and I grew closer that 1979 season, his last. Not very close. We didn't socialize. We didn't hang out. Ours was a professional relationship. Until that night in an Anaheim hamburger joint when we talked into the early morning hours and I discovered the real Thurman Munson.
It surprised me to learn that he was a man of deep emotion and warmth, not the gruff curmudgeon he portrayed publicly. He spoke affectionately of his family, how much he missed his kids when he was off playing ball, of his passion for flying. He boasted that, in his private plane, he could leave Yankee Stadium after a night game, drive to Teterboro Airport, hop on his plane and be in his home around midnight. He would spend the next morning with his family, then fly back to New York in time to be at Yankee Stadium for batting practice. He said his commute to Canton was no longer than his commute when he drove to his home in New Jersey.
He said he was never more at peace than when he was soloing in his airplane.
"I'll take you up with me one day and you'll see how peaceful it is," he said.
"Oh, no," I objected. "I'm not going up in a plane if you're the pilot."
"What are you worried about?" he said, and then, with typical Munson sarcasm, "I don't care if you live or die, but I care if I live or die."
Nineteen days later, Thurman Munson was dead.
Acclaimed author and former Yankees beat writer Phil Pepe is a regular contributor to YES Network Online. His latest work is entitled "The Yankees: An Authorized History of the New York Yankees Centennial Edition," due to be released in November.
http://www.yesnetwork.com/photos/thurmanmunson_0729corb.jpg
Thurman Munson: the lifeblood of the Yankees during the '70s.