Mickey Mantle

...he was a presence in our lives - a fragile hero to whom we had an emotional attachment so strong and lasting that it defied logic. Mickey often said he didn't understand it, this enduring connection and affection-the men now in their 40s and 50s, otherwise perfectly sensible, who went dry in the mouth and stammered like schoolboys in the presence of Mickey Mantle...and he was our symbol of baseball at at time when the game meant something to us that perhaps it no longer does... Mickey Mantle had those dual qualities so seldom seen-exuding dynamism and excitement, but at the same time touching your heart-flawed, wounded. We knew there was something poignant about Mickey Mantle before we know what Poignant meant. We didn't just root for him, we felt for him...there was a greatness about him, but vulnerability too. He was our guy. When he was hot, we felt great. When he slumped or got hurt, we sagged a bit too. We tried to crease our caps like him; keel in an imaginary on-deck circle like him; run like him, heads down, elbows up. - Bob Costas, giving Mickey Mantle's eulogy

Mickey Mantle died 25 years ago today. I remember when it happened, I was visiting NYC at the time, before I'd move there 3 years later.

HIs life was stuffed to the gills with everything possible, including tragedy hanging over him at every moment. He's my favorite baseball player of all time. Christ, is a more compelling baseball/human story even possible? Born into the Dust Bowl with a life of the lead mines looming, a big country aw shucks hoss straight outta central casting showing up at the most storied sports team in the world in the biggest city in the country, coinciding perfectly with the halcyon days of New York City baseball. Even his name sounded made up, TOO dead on for the role. Brought in to replace a living legend, the revered DiMaggio. Becomes known as the greatest of teammates; idolized by teammates for both his play and his loving being one of the guys. Misses his first World Series due to the first of many injuries, stuck in a hospital bed next to his father who waits to die of Hodgkins at 39 like all the males in the family. Plays entire career in pain, with 17 surgeries and some duct tape barely keeping his body together. With the scepter of dying young always on his shoulder, hits NYC nightlife like a Mack truck, therein belying his amazing Hall of Fame career with a stadium full's worth of "what ifs?" Worshiped by an entire generation of boys who would grow up to be men who never gave up their adulation. Set adrift after retirement in a sea of boozing, culminating in a stay at Betty Ford. Becomes sober, watches a son die. Devoted to sober life, born again, then boom! cancer. After all this, after so many lifetimes of home runs and standing ovations and sadness and loss, may have made his greatest play of all, looking at the cameras after his liver transplant and telling kids, "This is a role model: Don't be like me. I blew it." Becoming one of the greatest of all time, all while on the run from the inevitability of early death and then spending his last years feeling like he let everyone in the world down. All while simply being Mickey Mantle. Jesus Christ, is it even possible this actually happened? Unreal.

I could listen to him talk all day, and here's my favorite story ever.


And while I will curse Joe DiMaggio for being the reason for the injury that would begin a career of surgeries, I always forget the player who hit the ball was, of all people, Willie Mays.