Pinstripe Empire (70 page)

WHEN THE PHONE RANG AT Joe Garagiola’s Phoenix home ten days after the ’78 World Series, it marked the beginning of a horrible stretch for the Yankees that found the joy of a hard-earned championship transformed to ongoing grief.

“Joe, it’s Lem,” said the Yankee manager to the onetime Yankee broadcaster. “It’s the worst, Joe … my son Jerry’s been killed in a car accident near you. Can you go to the hospital and be there for me until Jane and I can get there?”

Jerry Lemon was twenty-six, their youngest of three sons. To Lem, it rendered meaningless the great triumph of just weeks before. But few in baseball were as well liked as Bob Lemon, and the friendship and support of the baseball community held him up.

Spring training would go on—Tommy John and Luis Tiant were exciting new free-agent additions to this world championship club—but this was not a team that was going to run on all cylinders.

Tommy John, four years removed from the career-saving elbow surgery that would come to bear his name, was at this point a fifteen-year veteran with 169 victories. Few thought that he had eleven years and 119 more victories left, but he would go 21–9 and 22–9 in his first two Yankee seasons. He would win more games for the Yanks—91—than for any other team he played for.

Tiant, the first Cuban Yankee since Pedro Ramos, was an almost mythical figure in Boston, one of the most popular and emotional players in Red Sox history. Defecting to the Yanks was huge. But El Tiante, who was at
least thirty-eight at the time, would repeat his 13–8 ’78 season by going 13–8 again. These were the bright spots.
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Catfish Hunter, in the final year of his five-year deal, would have the deaths of his father and Clyde Kluttz to deal with as he wound down the clock with a very unproductive 2–9 showing.

Was Lemon’s heart no longer in his assignment? Now fifty-eight, he had come at Al Rosen’s request to hurriedly take over for Martin the year before. Now, his son’s death was a tough one to get through. Some felt the listless play of the Yankees under his watch was because he was distracted. He never really said, and no one asked.

The old gang was beginning to leave. Tidrow was traded to the Cubs in May, having done a fine job as a starter and reliever over five seasons. He’d later go on to a long career as a player personnel executive with the Giants.

Elite pinch hitter Cliff Johnson had a foolish tussle with Gossage in April, causing Goose to injure his thumb and miss three months. Johnson was traded to the Indians, almost certainly as a punishment.

Ron Davis, 14–2 with nine saves, filled in as a closer, but settled back into the role of a setup man; he was one of the first to be identified as such. Davis was a good find, and his Yankee career might have gone longer than three years had he not made an unwise speech during a winter appearance in New England following the 1981 season in which he criticized interference by Steinbrenner. When someone faxed the local newspaper carrying his remarks to the Boss, Davis was gone, hustled off to the Minnesota Twins. (His son Ike would later play for the Mets.)

Mickey Rivers went to Texas, which brought back Oscar Gamble for a second tour of duty and ended all too soon a wonderful Yankee stay for Mick the Quick, whose drive and desire seemed to have waned. Perhaps being the subject of trade rumors for much of the season was the cause.

On June 18, with the Yanks 34–31, Steinbrenner decided to relieve Lemon of his managerial duties and bring back Martin a year early. This was viewed as a necessary move, done with more kindness than most managerial firings. Lemon, in uniform, even stood with Martin at the press conference. The American League quickly moved to allow Lemon to manage the
All-Star team a month later, despite his dismissal. No one could say enough about Lemon, who remained on the Yankee payroll for the rest of his life.

Martin was back for Billy II, despite an off-season fight in Reno with sportswriter Ray Hager. Billy’s scrappy nature, often alcohol-induced, had a certain appeal to Steinbrenner, who liked his managers feisty. This time he was taking on a floundering team with many question marks and a roster in transition. Reggie Jackson asked to be traded, but agreed to stay on. Al Rosen himself quit a few weeks later.

On June 26, Bobby Murcer returned to the Yankees after four and a half years in exile with the Giants and Cubs. Bobby, thirty-three, was not the player he had been when he left, but his popularity was as strong as ever, and he’d give the Yankees six more seasons of limited role-playing, largely as a DH. His return was especially welcomed by his pal Thurman Munson.

Munson, thirty-two, was also not the player he had been. Never having spent a day on the disabled list, he was banged and bruised and carried the wounds of a ten-year veteran who played his heart out each day at the toughest position. Now, his knees shot, and bothered by other ailments, he was playing first, the outfield, DH, and talking openly about wishing to go to Cleveland to be close to his family and his business interests. He would have frank talks with Steinbrenner, into whose office he’d traipse after batting practice to talk business. “Get something for me before I leave as a free agent,” he’d say. But Steinbrenner didn’t want to lose his captain, and most felt that in his heart, Munson didn’t really want to leave either.

Although he was a wounded warrior, the affection that showered down on him from the stands didn’t fade. The fans had really connected with Munson over the years. He grumbled to the press, talked about leaving town, but they loved his game and they accepted him as the fourth great Yankee catcher, following in the tradition of Dickey, Berra, and Howard. He certainly seemed to be on a path for the Hall of Fame, if he could build his lifetime stats with five or six more productive seasons.

Thurman had begun flying propeller-driven planes during spring training of 1978. A small executive airport bordered Fort Lauderdale Stadium, making flying lessons convenient during spring training. Few among the media or the fans knew that Munson was flying home to Canton after games while other players were simply driving to their homes in Bergen or Westchester counties. Occasionally, he might mention it in an interview—he wasn’t trying to hide it—but he did so few interviews, it was generally not known.

Munson would go home, spend time with his wife and three children,
and then return to Teterboro Airport the next day and drive to the stadium. He loved the adventure of flying. When it came time to renegotiate a new deal with the Yankees in ’79, he had the “no flying” clause removed from his contract. Steinbrenner reluctantly took it out, feeling it would stop Munson from dwelling on going to the Indians. Martin was very concerned that Munson was flying with team permission. “Does George know you’re flying?” he demanded.

In late July, Munson and Piniella slept at Murcer’s Chicago apartment during a series with the White Sox. Bobby and Kay Murcer then drove Thurman to small Palwaukee Airport north of Chicago after the August 1 series finale, in which Thurman played first base. Munson left after midnight and flew home to Canton, where, on just a few hours’ sleep, he had breakfast with his kids, lunch with his father-in-law, and prepared to discuss a street naming in his honor with city officials.

Finishing lunch early, he went to Akron-Canton Airport to check on his newest plane—a Cessna Citation jet. He had moved up to an executive jet just three weeks before. He took it to the West Coast, with Reggie Jackson as a passenger. Martin and Nettles also went up with him. Many of his teammates, including Murcer, refused to go.

At the airport, Munson bumped into his business partner and fellow flying enthusiast Jerry Anderson, along with an instructor he knew, David Hall. He was anxious to show off the new jet to them, and as they walked around, Thurman said, “Let me show you how it performs,” and offered to take them up. They agreed.

This was a Thursday off-day, and Munson didn’t have to be back to Yankee Stadium until the following night. It was a carefree, blissful day for Munson, resting his sore body, being with his family, showing off his jet. He was in a good place.

Munson, with his two passengers, made three successful take-offs and touch-and-go landings, then took off for a fourth, turning right instead of left at the air traffic controller’s direction. So things were different. And errors were being made. Both Anderson and Hall could sense it. Now they were coming in toward the runway, too low and too fast, and they sensed an imminent crash. Thurman knew it too, but despite his errors, he reacted quickly enough to save them from a crash. He brought it down hard into an adjacent field facing the runway, and fought to slow it down as it moved at high speed across the acreage.

“My God,” thought Anderson. “We’re all going to survive a plane crash.”

“You guys okay?” Thurman managed to say.

But suddenly, the left wing hit a tree stump and jolted the aircraft to a halt. The force of the jolt tore Thurman’s seat from its running track. His shoulder harness hadn’t been fastened, and that caused his body to thrust forward, breaking his neck.

Hall and Anderson were determined to get him out. But Munson was paralyzed and unable to assist with his own rescue. The plane burst into flames, and Anderson and Hall had to make the horrible decision to flee for their lives and leave Thurman behind. Munson died in the wreckage. He, with Ed Delahanty and Ray Chapman, was the most prominent baseball player to ever die midseason. He was the captain of the defending world champions, a former MVP, a Yankee hero. He left a wife and three children.

It was late in the afternoon when the phone rang in George Steinbrenner’s Yankee Stadium office. He absorbed the tragic news from the airport manager. He summoned his staff.

In his grief, his shock, and, yes, his anger, he took full control, barking directions and instructions. Almost in one breath, he said, “Call Cardinal Cooke—we’ll have a memorial service before the game tomorrow … I’ll write something for the message board—it will alternate with his photo … get black armbands for the players’ uniforms … we’re retiring his number … we’ll put a plaque in Monument Park … we’ll retire his locker … we’ll take the team to the funeral … the wives … [Larry] Wahl, [Gerry] Murphy, you get the next plane to Canton and do whatever needs to be done there, go go go … Butterfield,
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who are we bringing up from the minors to catch?”

Each player was called individually—Steinbrenner took the stars, and general manager Cedric Tallis the balance of the roster. Each call was its own separate shock. Billy Martin had to be called in from a lake on which he was fishing and told the news.

The next night, before the game with the Orioles, the Yankees stood at their positions with home plate empty, a steady drizzle falling, Yankee Stadium turned into a cathedral as Cardinal Cooke officiated in a memorial service. Then they played the game. They played Saturday and Sunday too, going through the motions, lost in grief.

On Monday, August 6, the day of the funeral, the team went to the Canton Civic Center, where Murcer and Piniella read eulogies. Against plan, they boarded their buses and followed the funeral cortege to the cemetery. “We’re going to be with him to the end,” Steinbrenner decided, facing a forfeit if they didn’t make it back for that night’s game with the Orioles. But they made it.

On the flight home, Martin told Murcer to just go home; he’d been through so much on this very long day. But Bobby, only a part-time player at this point, said, “Skip, I somehow feel I’ve got to play tonight, if you’ll let me.” He put him in the lineup.

Playing listlessly behind Guidry, the Yankees trailed 4–0 in the seventh when Murcer hit a three-run homer, his first since returning to the team—his first in Yankee Stadium since 1973. Had the game ended right there, it would have been dramatic enough. But there was more.

In the last of the ninth, southpaw Tippy Martinez, the former Yank, was on in relief. Ordinarily, Murcer would have been pinch-hit for at this point, with a righty sent to bat. But Martin went against the book, feeling the emotion of the moment. Runners were on second and third.

Martinez felt the emotion too. He had loved Munson. He was thinking about him all day, even now as he threw two breaking pitches to Murcer and quickly went 0–2.

Suddenly, Tippy had a flashback. It was Munson coming to the mound, years before, with Ron LeFlore of Detroit at bat, a thirty-game hitting streak on the line, a Yankee win assured. “Give him a chance to extend the streak,” extolled Munson. “Give him one he can hit.”

Martinez knew he owed that to Murcer right there. Not a batting-practice pitch, but a major league fastball. Not over the middle but on the black. Something Murcer could hit.

Bobby swung and lined a shot down the left-field line, driving in Dent and Randolph with the tying and winning runs. Pandemonium! As Bobby left first base and fell into the arms of Yogi Berra, tears running down his cheeks, Martinez quietly exited and looked quickly at the heavens, saying to himself, “That one was for you, Thurman.”

It may have been the only time in history that the fans left Yankee Stadium in tears after a Yankee win. It was the end of what was perhaps the most emotional five-day run in the team’s long history. But now, their captain was gone.

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THURMAN’S TRAGIC DEATH alone did not end the Yankees’ run of three straight pennants. It just wasn’t their year. They were in fourth place, fourteen games out when Thurman died, and there they finished, despite going 55–40 and winning their last eight straight under Martin. Catfish Hunter was saluted with a day as his career wound down, but his speech, referencing the loss of his father, Clyde Kluttz, and Thurman within months of each other, took the cheer out of the day and cast another sad punctuation mark on the tragic season. Hunter himself would later meet his own tragic end, contracting Lou Gehrig’s disease in 1999 and then dying from a fall before the full effects took hold. He was fifty-three.

THE FIRST MAJOR departure of the off-season was Billy himself, again. On October 23, he got into a fight with marshmallow salesman Joe Cooper in a hotel bar in Bloomington, Minnesota, and was fired five days later. “The marshmallow man I hit was saying bad things about New York and the Yankees,” said Martin.