by Marty Appel
Wichita, Tuesday, July 17
During the All-Star break, Thurman slipped off to Wichita, Kansas, to fly a number of solo hours with an instructor, enabling him to move closer to his license. On Tuesday, July 17, the day of the All-Star Game, he received a Citation-type rating after doing four hours of training in a flight simulator in Wichita, allowing him to ultimately serve as his own pilot-in-command.
“The problem with this period of instructor training,” says his friend Jerry Anderson, “was that you mostly sit back and cruise, most certainly on autopilot, and you certainly don’t learn how to take off and land or recognize emergencies, while at cruise.”
Edward McAvoy, an investigator for the National Transportation Safety Board, would later say, “Such rapid progress is unusual for a part-time flier.” He was critical of the whole FAA system under which the licensing and rating of pilots were done by examiners who first teach them to fly, and then license them, while working for the companies selling the planes. It amounted to a conflict of interest, thought McAvoy.
And there was nothing unusual about the procedure. It was standard among airplane manufacturers.
“I agreed with McAvoy,” says Anderson. “Cessna promised Thurman he could learn to fly with their instructors during the season so they could sell him the plane.”
The Citation name is still used by Cessna for its business jets. Thurman had purchased a Citation I/SP, which was introduced in 1977 and enabled single-pilot operation and the use of short runways. It was thirty-two feet long and sat six, with a wingspan of forty-four feet, and was capable of flying at 300 knots (about 332 miles per hour), which was about twice as fast as the King Air C90 twin propeller. The first Citations had appeared in 1969. The company produced 312 Citation I/SPs between 1977 and 1985, when the Citation II line was introduced.
“When I flew [it],” wrote pilot Richard L. Collins, speaking of the new Citation line, “the word from Cessna salesmen was to use it like any airplane. Just do what you do, only do it faster …”
“Looking back,” says Anderson, “the King Air C90 was the perfect plane for Thurman—fast enough for New York-to-Canton trips, but not so complex or expensive to operate that he struggled. I flew many times with him in the King Air; it was a very comfortable aircraft for his piloting skill level and five-hundred-mile trips. Of course, he wanted ‘faster and higher,’ as all us pilots do at times.”
Canton, Sunday, July 22
While the Yankees were at home playing the Mariners, back home in Canton Bill Shearer was having a Sunday breakfast with Jack Dole at a farm just outside of town. Shearer had played third base in American Legion ball when Thurman had been a shortstop. “We were the most scouted Legion team in the country,” he says. “Four of our guys signed pro contracts. Gene Woodling used to watch us when he was scouting.”
Dole’s job was manager of the Akron-Canton Airport.
At one point, when the conversation turned to baseball, Dole looked at Shearer and said, “You know Thurman Munson pretty well, right?”
Told that he did, and that in fact Thurman often called him when he was in town, Dole looked him in the eye and said, “Please talk to him … this jet… he’s not getting it done.”
Shearer thought about his own conversations with Munson on the subject. They had been talking on Thurman’s driveway after he’d come home from the 1978 World Series. Munson already owned one of the fastest propeller planes available. Why did he need the jet?
“Bill, I can get home between twenty-five and thirty minutes quicker than with the propeller plane,” said Thurman.
“It was true,” says Don Armen, who hangared Thurman’s plane in Canton. “He bought the jet to save time. He could fly in all kinds of weather, high enough to get up over storms. And this way, he could start branching out, flying to the West Coast and taking his family and flying from almost anywhere after a game. It was for convenience.”
On Monday, July 23, Munson fell under the .300 mark for the season and into what would be a 2-for-24 slump. He was so banged up it was amazing that he was in the lineup at all. This season was getting away from the Yankees, and they knew it. They said the right things, but it was looking like a lost year.
New York, Tuesday, July 24
Thurman always walked to the batter’s box with what can best be called a herky-jerky walk. There was nothing gladiatorlike about his presence on a baseball field. He wasn’t blessed with the body of Dave Winfield, nor the presence of Brett Favre. His teammates sometimes called him “Tugboat,” which perhaps captured his manner best of all. He was their leader, their captain, but he didn’t lead the pack with the grace of a luxury liner. He did it like a tugboat leading his charges, perhaps breaking through ice to do so.
He also waddled a little bit, like a bobblehead doll, set in motion with batteries. And yet there was a steely-eyed determination about him as he jerked his head back and forth as though never quite able to relieve some bothersome kink in his neck.
And oh, could he be annoying adjusting his batting glove. Over and over, unhitching the Velcro, then refastening it, stepping out after each pitch, adjusting, flexing, resetting his helmet, digging in, positioning himself. No pitch was too insignificant to avoid the rituals. It could be a Wednesday afternoon in June against the Brewers, Yanks up by seven, eighth inning, and yet each pitch was to be studied, considered, analyzed, and pondered. “How did he pitch me last time when we were 0-2?” he’d wonder. And then, as he was adjusting his batting glove, he’d remember. Breaking pitch, low and away. And his concentration would return and his focus would be steely, and he’d take his practice swing—one, two, three—and stare at the pitcher.
Mike Barlow was on the mound at this moment. Barlow, a six-foot-six right-hander out of Syracuse University, was thirty-one years of age, in his fifth season. Munson hadn’t seen him much—he pitched for the Angels and matchups between this pitcher and this hitter had been few. Syracuse and Kent State hadn’t played each other in college.
This was the first game of a three-game series with the Angels, and if you wonder if it was a different era for baseball, consider this. Of four home weekday games that week, this was the only one on TV. There was no cable. It was on Channel 11, and it started at eight o’clock, as night games did back then when the games could still end around a reasonable 10:30.
This being the fourth inning, it would have been just past nine p.m. The Yanks had a little three-game winning streak going. Martin, having replaced Lemon as manager on June 18, was starting to feel a bit of momentum, although the team was in fourth place, eleven and a half games out of first, and dealing with a seeming epidemic of injuries to key players.
Munson, catching and hitting second in the lineup, had struck out against Don Aase in the first inning. Now Barlow was pitching and the Yanks were up 4-3—thinking, a little bit at least, about winning a fourth in a row.
Clockwise from top: Darla, Duane, Thurman, and Janice. His siblings had all left home as soon as they could. COURTESY OF DARLA MUNSON DAY
Thurman with his older brother, Duane. “I left home and missed his high school years. That hurt me a lot, and maybe it hurt him too.” COURTESY OF DARLA MUNSON DAY
A photo in his Binghamton uniform, first day at Yankee Stadium, 1968. You can always tell a rookie photo from a veteran photo by the poise, or lack of poise, on display. Thurman had some poise. COURTESY OF MICHAEL GROSSBARDT
Thurman and Diane, with Tracy and Kelly on Family Day at Yankee Stadium, 1972. COURTESY OF MICHAEL GROSSBARDT
Old Timers’ Day, 1976. Yankee catching heritage of (l–r) Bill Dickey, Yogi Berra, Elston Howard, and Munson. “What time do you need me?” he asked. “Oh, he could be difficult.” COURTESY OF MICHAEL GROSSBARDT
Cover of the 1974 Yankees Yearbook, with the reigning “M & M” Boys, Murcer and Munson. COPYRIGHT © NEW YORK YANKEES. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Boston’s Carlton Fisk headed for a collision with Munson at Yankee Stadium. It wasn’t until the mid-’70s that both
teams peaked, and Munson-Fisk seemed to be the symbols of both. COURTESY OF MICHAEL GROSSBARDT
Munson with Reggie Jackson. It was all Yankee fans could talk about, with few siding with Jackson. Munson was “their guy.” COURTESY OF MICHAEL GROSSBARDT
Diana Munson’s mother, Pauline, attends to restless four-year-old Michael, wearing his dad’s number 15, outside the Civic Center. “He’s a handful, that little guy!” AP PHOTO/BRIAN HORTON
Ruth Munson, Thurman’s mother, leaves the funeral home, unrecognized by media or the Yankees. CBS NEWS ARCHIVES
Darrell Munson, back in Tucson, Arizona, about a month after his son’s funeral. “You always thought you were too big for this world. Well, you weren’t!” COPYRIGHT © 1979, 2008 TUCSON CITIZEN. REPRINTED BY PERMISSION.
Munson awaits his turn at the batting cage on his first day in the big leagues. “I had to go digging to find a pair of pants to fit him,” said Yankee clubhouse attendant Pete Sheehy. “His rear end was too big. I always kidded him about that.”COURTESY OF MICHAEL GROSSBARDT
In his locker with senior Yankee beat writer Jim Ogle of the Newark Star-Ledger. “I think he was edged away from us by Nettles, and maybe some others,” says reporter Murray Chass. “They didn’t like to see him too close to the writers.” COURTESY OF MICHAEL GROSSBARDT
Thurman hustles to third on a hit by Bobby Murcer. “He was the second fastest runner on our team, despite that body he was trapped inside of,” says Kent State teammate Steve Stone. “He could really run.” COURTESY OF MICHAEL GROSSBARDT
Thurman, full mustache, full polyester look, spring training. “To get [a] picture, I had to take a punch [in the ribs],” says Yankee photographer Michael Grossbardt. “I suppose on some level it was a sign of affection.” COURTESY OF MICHAEL GROSSBARDT
The author with Munson at the time of the autobiography project. “I’m only twenty-nine! No one does an autobiography at twenty-nine.” COURTESY OF LOUIS REQUENA
With his father-in-law, “Tote” Dominick. “We’re really shook up. It’s unbelievable. Such a loss. A 32-year-old son-in-law.” COURTESY OF DIANA MUNSON
The cover of the 1977 Yankees media guide captures Munson’s reaction as Chris Chambliss homers to win the ’76 pennant. The losing years were over. The Yankees were American League champions and going to their thirtieth World Series. COPYRIGHT © NEW YORK YANKEES. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
With Joe DiMaggio and Commissioner Bowie Kuhn, first-pitch ceremony, 1977 World Series. This would be the Yankees’ first world championship since 1962. COURTESY OF MICHAEL GROSSBARDT
The scoreboard at Shea Stadium on the afternoon Thurman died, where the Phillies and Mets were engaged in a day game. “I’ve never heard a ballpark that was any quieter than that,” says Tim McCarver, Phillies catcher at the time. COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR
Rescue workers at the scene of the accident on Greenberg Road, just north of Akron-Canton Airport. Steinbrenner wanted to call his players before they heard the news on the radio. THE CANTON REPOSITORY. USED WITH PERMISSION.
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.”
New York, Wednesday, July 25
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.