As a youngster in the late Sixties and early
Seventies, I was just a little too young to experience the Yankees in the
golden era of Mantle, Maris, and Ford. I became interested in the team when a
trio of young players gave them a glimmer of hope of a return to glory: Thurman
Munson, Roy White, and Bobby Murcer. It was Murcer, above all, who became my
childhood baseball idol.
I listened breathlessly on the radio on June 24, 1970, when he tied a major league record by clubbing four consecutive home runs in a doubleheader against the Cleveland Indians. I thrilled when, during his first two full seasons with the team (not shortened by injury or military service) in 1969 and 1970, he took advantage of the short rightfield fence at Yankee Stadium by swatting 49 homers.
I imitated that slight crouch at the plate
that helped earn Murcer five All-Star berths. In my greatest delusions, I
dreamed that, like him, I would win a Gold Glove and succeed him in centerfield
at Yankee Stadium, in the same hallowed ground once also patrolled by Mantle,
Joe DiMaggio and Earle Combs—all Baseball Hall of Famers.
And I mourned in late October 1974, when Murcer was
traded straight up for another star saddled with outsized expectations: Bobby Bonds, who had been hailed as the next Willie Mays for the San Francisco
Giants.
No matter the electrifying all-around play that Bonds
flashed in his single season with the Yankees, he could never replace Murcer
for me. I was angry with the Yankees for exiling this leader who sparked the
club on the field and won over teammates in the clubhouse with his easygoing
manner.
And I was absolutely delighted 4½ years later when the
Yankees arranged a trade that brought him back to the team he had dreamed of
joining as a child and never wanted to leave. As much as he gave all to the San
Francisco Giants and Chicago Cubs in his time away, it was obvious he never
really felt at home away from the Bronx.
The three words that may have best defined Murcer’s
career were “just short of.” In the first, most substantial part of his career,
he fell just short of the postseason, as the team continually lost to the more
powerful Baltimore Orioles. In his return, now as a part-time role player with
eroding skills, he made it only once to the World Series, recording just one
hit in 11 at-bats over two postseasons.
Ultimately, missing out on the postseason in his prime
may have meant Murcer fell short of overall greatness. His career statistics
over 17 years—252 homeruns, 1,043 RBIs, .277 batting average, .802 OPS—could
not match Mantle’s stellar 536 homeruns, 1,509 RBIs, .298 batting average, and
.977 OPS. But repeated, excellent play in the postseason during his best years
might have earned him more serious consideration as a Hall of Fame candidate.
Comparisons with Mantle cropped up from the moment
Murcer arrived at the Yankees’ training camp in 1965, as they both:
*hailed from Oklahoma;
*were signed by the great scout Tom Greenwade;
*started as shortstops before their erratic arms
convinced the team they were better suited for center field;
*earned the affection of teammates through their
country-boy charm.
Yet, though these comparisons were inevitable, they
were also superficial because they obscured significant differences during their
careers in the game and afterward. Murcer lacked Mantle’s gasp-inducing natural
skills, especially his almost unparalleled power-speed explosiveness.
On the other hand, once their playing days ended,
Murcer was not dogged by Mantle’s inner demons. Wondering if he could have been
even better if he’d taken care of himself, unsure what to do in retirement,
Mantle took refuge in womanizing and alcoholism that depressed those who knew
him, while Murcer earned three Emmy Awards as live broadcaster for the Yankees and
enjoyed a stable, happy family life.
Murcer’s return to the Bronx in 1979 came during a
lost season for the Bombers: not just the only time that the club would miss
the playoffs from 1976 through 1981, but one darkened by the tragic death of
Munson in a plane crash.
It was a season painful for the Yankees and their fans
alike except for August 6, when, after delivering a stirring eulogy at Munson’s
funeral, Murcer flew back to the Bronx for a nationally televised game against
the Baltimore Orioles. With the Yankees down 4-0 in the seventh inning, he
brought the crowd to its feet with a three-run homer, then won the game with a
two-run single in the ninth. (See this YouTube clip for footage of his
heroics.)
With other lefty-hitting outfielders on the squad in Reggie
Jackson, Oscar Gamble, and Ruppert Jones, Murcer found his playing time limited,
and after the 1980 season he never played a position again, finding himself confined
to pinch hitting. The emergence of the smooth-hitting 22-year-old first
baseman-outfielder Don Mattingly meant that the Yankees needed to clear space on
the roster for him, and Murcer accepted George Steinbrenner’s offer to become a
broadcaster.
The title of Murcer’s memoir, Yankee for Life,
testified to his steadfast loyalty to the team. It also proved sadly prophetic,
as he died of complications from brain cancer only two months after
publication.
Former Yankee publicist Marty Appel spoke for many in
explaining how gracefully Murcer adjusted to the mantle of greatness thrust
upon him:
"He had an easy, Oklahoma politeness and a
modesty that isn't normally associated with elite athletes. He was a fans'
player and he was a players' player.
"He was just a terrific kid who was handed an
oversized assignment and he handled it with grace and honesty and dignity, as
he did everything until the very end....He made you a better person just to
know him. No man ever wore the New York Yankee uniform better.”
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