I didn’t know much about death in the summer of 1979, as I hadn’t yet lost anyone close to me. I would lose a great-grandmother later that year, and I can remember the bewilderment I felt in the funeral home. This woman who had cared for me and given me so many hugs lay motionless in a coffin, her hands clasped together, while the adults whispered about the place in their suits and black dresses, and the overpowering smell of so many flowers stung my senses. Indeed, I would begin to understand death soon enough.
But on August 2, 1979, I hadn’t had much acquaintance with death. And so it was that I learned that one of my favorite baseball players had died on this day. Thurman Munson, the captain of my favorite ballclub, had perished in a small plane crash. He was gone, in a moment, on an off-day between Yankee games. I sat on the grass of my front lawn that afternoon and tried to figure this thing out. It wasn’t making much sense.
When the Yankees took the field in their home stadium the next day, I saw thousands of grown people crying, trying to deal with the loss of someone who had meant something real to them. I saw Yankee players crying in their pinstriped uniforms. Death was something powerful, something you didn’t take lightly. Death meant paying your deepest respects to the person who had died, and at the same time trying to continue with your own life.
I hadn’t paid much attention to the career of Bobby Murcer at this point, but I learned that he had been close friends with Thurman Munson. Four days after Munson’s death, Murcer spoke at his friend’s funeral service. That night, the Yankees had a game. And in the most powerful period ever delivered to the end of a eulogy, Bobby Murcer drove in all five New York runs, including an upper-deck homer, to deliver a 5-4 Yankees victory in honor of the fallen captain.
In the 29 years since that day, I’ve been able to learn a lot about Bobby Murcer, first through his status as my brother’s favorite childhood player and then through his career as a Yankees broadcaster. I’ve learned that the kindness and friendship he displayed on that summer day in 1979 represented the kind of man he was. His death yesterday, at the age of 62, is a very sad day for his family, and for those who follow baseball. In the days ahead, I look forward to seeing the Yankees honor him in ways that befit a real role model.
I’ve also learned more about death since 1979. I’ve worn those suits to the funeral homes, spoken in hushed tones, and sent those bouquets of flowers. I’ve learned to revere death, to pay my respects with compassion, and to hope beyond hope that when it’s my turn there will be words for me that approach those spoken for Bobby Murcer.
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I remember the odd mix of feelings on the day I learned, while at the ballpark waiting for the game to start, that Daryl Kile had died. He wasn't a friend or even an acquaintance, yet I felt like in some odd way I knew him--though all I really knew was his competitiveness and his curveball. Yet the thought that we'd never see either again was sobering. These attachments we develop to the strangers on the field are powerful; had I been a kid that day, like you were when Munson died, I imagine it would have been much harder to take.
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