Munson Thurman - Munson: the life and death of a Yankee captain

At such a late hour, it took only twenty-five minutes for Bobby and Kay Murcer to drive Thurman Munson to Palwaukee Airport in Wheeling, Illinois, north of Chicago.

The Yankees had concluded their two-game series with the White Sox, and Munson, his knees hurting and unable to catch, had left that final game early, signaling to Billy Martin with a nod of the head that he needed to be replaced as first baseman. First base was supposed to ease the strain on his arthritic knees, but ever since hed awkwardly fallen backward a few weeks earlier on a close pitch, he just wasnt the same.

The same, for him, meant a high level of proficiency, bordering on Hall of Fame greatness. But now, three straight seasons of championship play were coming to a close for the Yankees, and a great decade of performance was also winding down slowly for the thirty-two-year-old captain of the team.

Ah, but that was an hour ago. The Yanks had scored an easy victory, making the clubhouse loud and cheery on this getaway night, August 1, 1979. The Murcers had agreed to drive Thurman to the airport, where they could see his new Cessna Citation jet up close. It was late at nightit was actually August 2 alreadybut baseballs schedule forces its participants to live late hours, and this didnt seem odd at all.

Except, of course, for Thurman leaving on his own plane and not flying on the big Delta charter out of OHare Airport with the rest of the Yankee team. Now that was pretty unusual.

Players just didnt do things like this. The great Bob Feller became a pilot after his playing career to get from one minor league park to another as he built a postplaying career out of personal appearances. His old Cleveland teammate Early Wynn had a pilots license. So did Bob Turley, the former Yankee Cy Young Award winner, who used a private plane for business travel. For the most part, the older players simply couldnt afford such a hobby.

Ken Hubbs, a Chicago Cubs infielder, had died piloting his own plane fifteen months after winning the National Leagues 1962 Rookie of the Year Award.

Thurman saw himself as more of an Arnold Palmer, says his older brother Duane, who for a time worked as a sky marshal. He liked Palmerhis success at his field, his success in the business world, and the fact that he learned to pilot his own plane. I think Palmer was really his role model.

The Murcers, who had known Munson for a decade, had invited Thurman and Lou Piniella to stay with them in their Chicago apartment during the brief series. Bobby had been playing for the Cubs until just about a month before, and he still had his rented apartment there. It had been a great visit, all of them celebrating Bobbys return to the Yankees; one bright spot in an otherwise dismal 1979 season.

Murcer could be direct with Thurman, and he was on this night.

Fly with you in that crazy thing? Not me, Tugboat, he said, calling Munson by one of his clubhouse nicknames.

Well, Thurman had at least extended the invitation. At the very least, the Murcers agreed to drive to the end of the runway and watch him take off. It was fun, in a way, late at night, the coolness of the summer evening, the temperature about sixty-seven degrees, Bobby and Kay feeling like teenagers somewhere in Middle America at an old-time airstrip, not just a half hour from a major city.

The Murcers agreed that the jet was beautiful. Thurman hadnt painted it in pinstripes, but he had put an identifying N15NY on the tail, and for those who thought he was hoping to get traded to Cleveland, there was a message in that. He was stamping his prized possession as Yankee.

He ran his hand over the exterior, the shiny paint job not that old. He had gotten the $1.25 million twin-engine jet twenty-six days earlier, despite warnings by some that it was too much plane for him. But Munson, like most elite athletes, was not the conservative type when it came to risk-taking.

He said good night to the Murcers, who then drove to the end of the runway, and Munson climbed aboard his sleek prized possession, his aching knees settling into position. It was beautiful inside too. Sitting in the pilots seat, the yoke in front of him, the airspeed indicator at eleven oclock, the vertical speed indicator at three oclock, the landing gear lever right there at his powerful right hand it was all so magnificent! What a machine!

And so he went through his maneuvers and took off without delay, there being no other incoming or outgoing traffic at such a late hour. He slightly dipped his wings as he flew over the Murcers.

The mans crazy, Bobby said, as they got in their car and headed home. But thats Thurman.

The four-hundred-mile flight to Canton, Ohio, would be accomplished in just about an hour, with some bad weather keeping him on his toes. But this was the whole point of it all, wasnt it? If the jet could reduce the fly time over his Beechcraft King Air Model E-90, a prop plane, well, that was the goal. Get your own plane, take off when youre ready, and spend extra hours and extra days with the familyincluding four-year-old Michael Munson. (That little guy, hes a handful, he acknowledged to friends.) Diana loved when hed be home, because Michael would sleep through the night.

And of course she loved when he was home because theirs was one of the great love stories in baseball.

Up in the sky, passing over Lake Michigan, the lights of Fort Wayne, Indiana, in view, Thurman relaxed. He felt at home up there, although hed only been flying for eighteen months. It was he and his plane and his wits.

During spring training, he had spoken to Tony Kubek, the old Yankee shortstop who now broadcast for NBC.

I think its great, he told Tony, the feeling of being alone for an hour or two by yourself. Youre up there, and nobody asks any questions. You dont have to put on any kind of an act. You just go up there and enjoy yourself. You have to be on your toes, but its just a kind of relaxation when you spend a lot of time by yourself, and I need that. I also need to get home a lot, so I love to fly.

This was all so perfect. He was right where he wanted to be.

Some years earlier, a strapping truck driver who saw himself as more athlete than teamster would sit alone in the cab of his rig, perhaps thinking the same thoughts. Darrell Munson, Thurmans father, would think of the beauty of his independence, no one asking him questions, just on his toes, relaxing, putting Americas highways behind him.