The Mick

Picture of one of my baseball cards

Mickey Mantle died on this day in 1995.

I'm quick to recognize The Mick was an amazingly flawed person.

A drinker? Check. Womanizer? Check. Occasional grump? Check.

But he was also full of Oklahoma charm and boyishness, with a talent for sports that can only be described as "God-given" (or "Ruth-given").

Flawed? You bet.

He first appeared on the scene in 1951, but he worked his way through an un-Mantle-like .267 average with 13 home runs. It was the lowest home run total of his career.

Playing across the Harlem River was another rookie who would go up against Mantle in the '51 World Series. His name was Willie Mays. That's a lot of talent in the span of barely a mile.

Mickey would give baseball fans 18 years of thrills. A triple crown in '56. Three MVP's. All-star appearances every year except 1951. A fine defensive play in left center field that kept Don Larsen's perfect game alive. Myriad big hits. A career-high 54 home runs in 1961, when only a kid from North Dakota named Roger Maris could outhomer him.

Nobody hit more World Series home runs than him. Facing a 38-year-old knuckleballer named Barney Schultz in Game 3 of the 1964 Fall Classic, Mantle allegedly told catcher Elston Howard to head to the locker room, because the game was over. He was that confident.

"Forget about it," said Curt Gowdy on NBC Radio.


Watch Mantle run. Always with his head down, because he was -- at heart -- a shy kid who didn't want to show anyone up.

But those flaws. Those injuries. No Mantle man -- his father included -- lived past 40. Hodgkins Disease is awful. Mickey felt guilty about that and a lot of his behavior -- his demons -- were a result of that.

Joe DiMaggio didn't help things, but so was the fractured psyche of Mickey Charles Mantle.

When Mick was sent back to Kansas City during that '51 campaign, he called his father and told him he might not have what it took to make it. His dad drove to where Mickey was staying, busted into his room, and began packing a suitcase. "I thought I raised a man," 'Mutt' Mantle said. "I see I raised a coward instead."

That did it. Mick got it together, and Cooperstown awaited.

That fall, Mays hit a fly ball to right center. Mantle, playing right, charged in before being called off at the last minute by DiMaggio. Mick stopped, caught his spikes in a drainpipe, and wrecked his knee.

Mutt helped his son into Lenox Hill Hospital before having to be admitted himself. They watched the rest of the Series together in the hospital before Hodgkins claimed Mutt in early 1952.

Then there was the mythicism. Besides the on-field exploits for the most-famous, and most-successful team, there was the off-field impact. He was a Madison Ave darling in a golden era that would later add Frank Gifford and Joe Namath and Tom Seaver. Those boyhood looks were good, and many a baby was born to the name.

One of my closest friends will never be known by his given name. In fact, don't even call him that. It shows up on his legal paperwork, but not for a day is he known by his birth name.

He's known by his middle name: Mick.

He finished with 536 home runs, and one can only wonder what he could have done. But look around Yankee Stadium to this day, and you'll still see plenty of number seven jerseys patrolling the concourse.

His death in 1995 brought baby boomers to their knees. Just 63, years of drinking ravaged his liver. Though he received a transplant, cancer had ravaged his body. At a press conference that year, he said, "This is a role model: Don't be like me."

Though controversial, organ donations increased as a result of Mantle.

The funeral was carried on ESPN. Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Bobby Murcer, Hank Bauer, Moose Skowron, and Johnny Blanchard were the pallbearers in the greatest of Old Timer's Days. Bobby Richardson officiated in the most graceful way I've ever seen. I'd be honored to have such class do the same.

Roy Clark sang "Yesterday When I Was Young."

Bob Costas gave the eulogy of eulogies.

I listened to it on the radio at work and watched it when I got home.

1988

For the record, I met Mickey Mantle once, in the last '80s at a card show in White Plains. He could not have been more gracious and kind in the briefest of encounters. The story was memorable enough to Sean that when we talked about it last night at Yankee Stadium, he remembered it.

"You met him at the place where the (New York) Streets play," he said, recalling that I told him about it when we were at the Westchester County Center watching an arena football game.

(For what it's worth, the Yankees/Orioles last night game helped rekindle some love of being at the ballpark.)

*****
It's taken roughly 800 words to get to the real point of why we're here, in the worst case of burying the lede.

I was exchanging tweets with my friend Mark Del Franco about Mantle and baseball cards when I was reminded of my own cards. The Mick published a book of the same name in 1986 that was a huge hit. To promote the paperback edition of the book, the publisher printed baseball cards that were free giveaways. I snagged a few of them from the Waldenbooks in Jefferson Valley Mall. I still have them.

Except for one.

My father died in 1989, and that's no secret to those who have read this effort on the interweb. As he was being laid to rest, it was decided that there were going to be items that would be buried with him. I recall his Teamsters jacket being included. Feeling like I should add something to this time capsule, I began to think about exactly what.

Clearly, you can figure out what it was. With minimal notice, I grabbed one card from its sleeve, delivered the eulogy at his funeral that Tuesday, turned around, and placed it in his casket.

The Mick. With my dad for eternity.

To quote Costas: "I just hope God has a place for him where he can run again. Where he can play practical jokes on his teammates and smile that boyish smile, ’cause God knows, no one’s perfect. And God knows there’s something special about heroes.

So long, Mick. Thanks."

I hope my dad is running again as well, but that's a different story for another time.

You were flawed, Mick. You were also one in a million.

"Thanks" doesn't seem sufficient.