August 2, 1979—When New York Yankee captain Thurman Munson died a little after 4 pm in a plane crash, the motive behind the fatal flight surprised sportswriters, fans and opponents who knew him principally as the prickly sparkplug of the crew who returned the sports world’s greatest franchise to glory.
Munson, homesick for his family, had only recently purchased a plane so he could fly home more often to Ohio. He was practicing a run at the Akron-Canton Airport when his Cessna-Citation began to lose altitude. Two friends were able to extricate themselves but unable to save Munson. A later inquiry found the accident to be a result of pilot error.
Before his death, the 32-year-old Munson had expressed the hope that he’d have a few more years to play, not only so that his four-year-old son would have the opportunity to see him in action but to improve his chances of making the Baseball Hall of Fame. His tragic accident certainly eliminated the first opportunity and, at least at this juncture, the second.
This is unfortunate, as is the pigheadedness of observers who poormouth his qualifications for Cooperstown. I lost much respect for baseball historian Bill James, for instance, after learning that he’d ranked Munson as only the 14th–best catcher in baseball history, preceded by, among others, Ivan Rodriguez and Ted Simmons.
(The latter came close to being the best catcher offensively of his generation, but he was, by virtually all accounts, subpar behind the plate; as for I-Rod, his qualifications should be looked at far more closely now in the wake of the Ortiz-Ramirez steroids revelations. Asked whether his name was among the now-infamous list of 104 positive-testing juicers, I-Rod’s pathetic response was: “God only knows.”)
In the 1950s, New York fans used to argue about who was the best centerfielder: Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle, and Duke Snider. Nowadays, few if any people question whether all three belong in the Hall of Fame. No such certainty exists about Munson, however, even though he rightly belongs with Johnny Bench and Carlton Fisk among the great triumvirate of catchers of their generation.
I’m afraid that, to some extent, politics obtains in the Hall of Fame balloting by the sportswriters, much as they might deny it. True, they don’t make themselves silly by failing to vote for someone who, over a long career, notches the accomplishments deemed worthy of Cooperstown admission: 3,000 hits, 500 hits, 300 victories, and the like. (Except, of course, if the individual was involved with steroids or gambling.)
But for the vast majority of other cases, such as Munson’s—those who either didn’t enjoy a long career or fell just short of the magic numbers needed to get in—other factors come into play. In Munson’s case, the Yankee catcher’s sometimes rough-around-the-edges personality didn’t help.
I mean, just look at pictures of Munson and his Red Sox rival (in every sense of the word) Fisk. If he’d been able to act a lick, I don’t see why Rod Shelton might not have wanted to cast him as the catcher in his great comedy Bull Durham.
Munson, homesick for his family, had only recently purchased a plane so he could fly home more often to Ohio. He was practicing a run at the Akron-Canton Airport when his Cessna-Citation began to lose altitude. Two friends were able to extricate themselves but unable to save Munson. A later inquiry found the accident to be a result of pilot error.
Before his death, the 32-year-old Munson had expressed the hope that he’d have a few more years to play, not only so that his four-year-old son would have the opportunity to see him in action but to improve his chances of making the Baseball Hall of Fame. His tragic accident certainly eliminated the first opportunity and, at least at this juncture, the second.
This is unfortunate, as is the pigheadedness of observers who poormouth his qualifications for Cooperstown. I lost much respect for baseball historian Bill James, for instance, after learning that he’d ranked Munson as only the 14th–best catcher in baseball history, preceded by, among others, Ivan Rodriguez and Ted Simmons.
(The latter came close to being the best catcher offensively of his generation, but he was, by virtually all accounts, subpar behind the plate; as for I-Rod, his qualifications should be looked at far more closely now in the wake of the Ortiz-Ramirez steroids revelations. Asked whether his name was among the now-infamous list of 104 positive-testing juicers, I-Rod’s pathetic response was: “God only knows.”)
In the 1950s, New York fans used to argue about who was the best centerfielder: Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle, and Duke Snider. Nowadays, few if any people question whether all three belong in the Hall of Fame. No such certainty exists about Munson, however, even though he rightly belongs with Johnny Bench and Carlton Fisk among the great triumvirate of catchers of their generation.
I’m afraid that, to some extent, politics obtains in the Hall of Fame balloting by the sportswriters, much as they might deny it. True, they don’t make themselves silly by failing to vote for someone who, over a long career, notches the accomplishments deemed worthy of Cooperstown admission: 3,000 hits, 500 hits, 300 victories, and the like. (Except, of course, if the individual was involved with steroids or gambling.)
But for the vast majority of other cases, such as Munson’s—those who either didn’t enjoy a long career or fell just short of the magic numbers needed to get in—other factors come into play. In Munson’s case, the Yankee catcher’s sometimes rough-around-the-edges personality didn’t help.
I mean, just look at pictures of Munson and his Red Sox rival (in every sense of the word) Fisk. If he’d been able to act a lick, I don’t see why Rod Shelton might not have wanted to cast him as the catcher in his great comedy Bull Durham.
Now Munson, on the other hand—well, check out that moustache. Remember, as often as not when a scribe was around in the Yankee clubhouse during the early Steinbrenner era, asking if he felt dissed about Reggie Jackson surpassing his salary, that facial hair would be twisted in a scowl. It remind you of some western where a cowpoke, at the end of a long, hot day in the saddle, swishing flies and smelling cowdung, has just entered a bar, only to be insulted. That’s the kind of look Munson leveled at guys with notebooks and pens.
Sure, Munson aficionados have summoned awards and statistics to bolster their case (Rookie of the Year, 1970; MVP, 1976; seven All-Star appearances; three straight .300 batting average, 100-RBI seasons). But his detractors are ready to compare him with others using statistics—which, in the modern era, can not only be wrenched out of context by steroids, but even by ballpark disparities.
The unfairness of this is compounded by the fact that only offensive statistics are used—otherwise, how in the world could Bill James rank Ted Simmons ahead of Munson?
Sure, Munson aficionados have summoned awards and statistics to bolster their case (Rookie of the Year, 1970; MVP, 1976; seven All-Star appearances; three straight .300 batting average, 100-RBI seasons). But his detractors are ready to compare him with others using statistics—which, in the modern era, can not only be wrenched out of context by steroids, but even by ballpark disparities.
The unfairness of this is compounded by the fact that only offensive statistics are used—otherwise, how in the world could Bill James rank Ted Simmons ahead of Munson?
It’s harder to measure defense but it can be just as important—particularly in the case of a catcher, a position player who not merely catches the ball but must also throw out runners attempting to steal (actions that, more often than not, occur because pitchers don’t know how to keep them close to the base) and call a game in which near-encyclopedic knowledge of opposing batters' strengths and weaknesses is required.
In the case of the latter function, think of Yankee pitchers who had some of their best seasons with Munson behind the plate: Mel Stottlemyre, Fritz Peterson, Catfish Hunter, Ed Figueroa, Ron Guidry, Sparky Lyle, and Goose Gossage.
How about some different ways of looking at the Yankee legend?
Just as it’s inconceivable to think about the Yankee championship teams from the Twenties through the Sixties without invoking Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Berra, and Mantle, so it is impossible to imagine the team that survived an insane owner and a ravenous press in the Seventies without calling to mind the tough leader who always found a way—a clutch hit, a goading challenge to a struggling pitcher (the tough-love treatment Munson delivered to Goose Gossage in May ’78), or a block of the plate that prevented a run—to win games.
The other night, one of the Yankee announcers (I believe Ken Singleton), in discussing Cooperstown, said it should be reserved for those that you as a player hated to face. I can think of nobody who better fulfilled that criterion than Munson.
In the case of the latter function, think of Yankee pitchers who had some of their best seasons with Munson behind the plate: Mel Stottlemyre, Fritz Peterson, Catfish Hunter, Ed Figueroa, Ron Guidry, Sparky Lyle, and Goose Gossage.
How about some different ways of looking at the Yankee legend?
Just as it’s inconceivable to think about the Yankee championship teams from the Twenties through the Sixties without invoking Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Berra, and Mantle, so it is impossible to imagine the team that survived an insane owner and a ravenous press in the Seventies without calling to mind the tough leader who always found a way—a clutch hit, a goading challenge to a struggling pitcher (the tough-love treatment Munson delivered to Goose Gossage in May ’78), or a block of the plate that prevented a run—to win games.
The other night, one of the Yankee announcers (I believe Ken Singleton), in discussing Cooperstown, said it should be reserved for those that you as a player hated to face. I can think of nobody who better fulfilled that criterion than Munson.
Take, for instance, October 6, 1978—the same night that George Brett clubbed three homers against the Yankees—when the Bronx captain belted a Doug Bird fastball over the fence to clinch a 6-5 victory over the Kansas City Royals, putting them in the driver’s seat as they won another of their hard-fought playoff series against their Western Division rivals.
No greater tribute to his importance to the team could have been rendered than when the Yankees made him the first Bomber captain since Lou Gehrig. Years ago, he was recognized with a plaque in Monument Park, but he should also be honored in Cooperstown.
No greater tribute to his importance to the team could have been rendered than when the Yankees made him the first Bomber captain since Lou Gehrig. Years ago, he was recognized with a plaque in Monument Park, but he should also be honored in Cooperstown.
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