Despite what you’ve heard, despite what you’ve read,
There is crying in baseball, it has to be said.
Some forty years back, when I was still a young man,
Thurman Munson had crashed while attempting to land.
Jet fuel fed the fire; all the others got out.
Munson was trapped in his seat and could not.
A hero to many; a friend to his mates,
Poor Thurman deserved a more generous fate.
He should have grown old with his family and then
been honored in Cooperstown with a plaque at the end.
Instead, he died young, in pain and in terror.
I couldn’t believe it- there must be some error.
But no,- he was gone, but the game doesn’t stop.
Still, he went out a champion, a winner on top.
Then, when his friend, Bobby Murcer, stood up to address
friends, family, teammates, and the men of the press.
There were offers of handkerchiefs; even grown men broke down
That day we committed our friend to the ground.
There were no dry eyes I tell you there were none to be found.
Lamentations and weeping were the dominant sound.
There is crying in baseball, at least on that day
When a hero to many was taken away.
I remember Bob Sheppard, his cheeks wet with tears,
his baritone echoing down through the years.
My hair has gone grey and my muscles have grown soft.
I remember his seasons and recall all we lost.
Despite what you’ve heard, despite what you’ve read,
There is crying in baseball, it had to be said.
On 08/02/79 a small plane bearing the designation NY 15 crashed and burned at the airport near Canton Ohio. Thurman Munson Captain of the World Champion New York Yankees was the sole fatality.
