Thurm: Memoirs of a Forever Yankee 

By Thurman Munson and Marty Appel

Thurman Munson's memoir, written just the year before his death, returns with a new introduction about his lasting legacy and a new foreword by his wife Diana who reveals the man dedicated to family and fans above himself.

Over forty years since Thurman Munson’s death, Thurm: Memoirs of a Forever Yankeerevives the life of the famous New York Yankees catcher. In collaboration with longtime Yankee historian Marty Appel, Munson chronicles in his own words his path to the majors, his career success, his approach to being the first team captain in nearly forty years since Lou Gehrig, the Yankees return to glory when they won the 1977 and 1978 World Series, the breakdown of his body as he gave his all to the sport, and his absolute dedication to his wife and children above all else. 

Munson, the Ohio native who quickly rose to Yankee stardom, played in an age of Hall of Famers, including a competitive relationship with teammate Reggie Jackson, a fierce rivalry with Boston Red Sox catcher Carlton Fisk, and clashes with new owner George Steinbrenner on their way to championships. Munson shares further stories such as catching for pitchers Ron Guidry, Catfish Hunter, and Goose Gossage, who all later attributed their success to Munson behind the plate. 

Appel’s conclusion gracefully recounts Munson’s tragic death at age thirty-two in the plane he was piloting and with Diana Munson writing the Foreword, they reflect on the impact Munson left in baseball and in life and celebrate his timeless legacy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diversion Books
• Release date: Mar 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781635769777

Book preview

Thurm

Memoirs of a Forever Yankee

Also by Marty Appel

BASEBALL’S BEST: THE HALL OF FAME GALLERY

with Burt Goldblatt

BATTING SECRETS OF THE MAJOR LEAGUERS

TOM SEAVER’S ALL-TIME BASEBALL GREATS

with Tom Seaver

HARDBALL: THE EDUCATION OF A BASEBALL COMMISSIONER

with Bowie Kuhn

THE FIRST BOOK OF BASEBALL

YESTERDAY’S HEROES

MY NINE INNINGS

with Lee MacPhail

JOE DIMAGGIO

WORKING THE PLATE

with Eric Gregg

YOGI BERRA

GREAT MOMENTS IN BASEBALL

with Tom Seaver

WHEN YOU’RE FROM BROOKLYN, EVERYTHING ELSE IS TOKYO

with Larry King

SLIDE, KELLY, SLIDE

BASEBALL: 100 CLASSIC MOMENTS IN THE HISTORY OF THE GAME

with Joseph Wallace and Neil Hamilton

NOW PITCHING FOR THE YANKEES

MUNSON: THE LIFE AND DEATH OF A YANKEE CAPTAIN

162–0: THE GREATEST WINS IN YANKEE HISTORY

PINSTRIPE EMPIRE: THE NEW YORK YANKEES FROM BEFORE THE BABE TO AFTER THE BOSS

PINSTRIPE PRIDE: THE INSIDE STORY OF THE NEW YORK YANKEES

CASEY STENGEL: BASEBALL’S GREATEST CHARACTER

First published by Coward, McCann & Geoghegan as Thurman Munson

Copyright © 1978, 1979 by Thurman Munson and Marty Appel

Copyright © 2023 by Marty Appel and the Thurman Munson Estate

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

For more information, email [e-mail]

Diversion Books

A division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

www.diversionbooks.com

First Diversion Books edition, March 2023

Paperback ISBN: 9781635769715

eBook ISBN: 9781635769777

Printed in The United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Diane, Tracy, Kelly, and Mike

—t.m.

To Thurman’s fans everywhere

—m.a.

CONTENTS

Foreword by Diana Munson

Introduction

A Mike Garcia Autograph

Kent State

Mickey, I’m Thurman Munson

Reserve Duty

Base Hit Off Catfish

Getting Ready for the Biggies

Rookie of the Year

An Unsatisfying Followup

Photo Section 1

Building Towards a Future

I’ll Stick to Building Ships

A Hitter Named Dave Schneck

Hunter, Bonds, and Battlin’ Billy

On the Road: The Saga of a Season

Free Agency Arrives

A New Stadium

The Pennant Returns to the Bronx

Battle to the Finish

Photo Section 2

The Talented Mr. Bench

Most Valuable Player

Reggie Stirs Things Up

The Yankees Prevail Again

Another Close Encounter of the Royal Kind

The Dodgers Fall

Eat Your Heart Out, Fisk!

Conclusion

Epilogue

Career Record of Thurman Munson

Foreword

Much has been written about Thurman Munson’s career—how he was Rookie of the Year, AL MVP, and captain of the three-time pennant-winning and two-time World Champion New York Yankees. Yet he was an enigma to the media. Rather than speaking to them he let his actions on the field do all the talking, which New Yorkers fully embraced because they could see into the heart and soul of who he really was. But there is still much more to Thurman than sportswriters and fans know.

Thurman was a pudgy guy from a middle-class family in Canton, Ohio, a sports nut who may have had more heart than talent, a competitor who loved a challenge and never backed down, a public figure who quietly and privately supported children’s charities, a man who loved to sit around the poker table with old friends and a bad cigar, but most importantly a loving husband and a sensitive dad who gently brushed his kids’ hair after their nightly bath, and who was so happy when he could drive them to school in the off-season.

I first met Thurman in grade school when he was twelve and I was ten. I tagged along on his newspaper route just to be with him, and then I would take the thirty cents my parents gave me as a daily allowance to buy him potato chips and a Coke at the local soda fountain. Thurman always told me it was the best investment I ever made!

As I got to know Thurman, I learned that his formative years were spent in a strict household where much was expected, and although I’m sure there was love, it wasn’t openly expressed. It wasn’t until adulthood that he allowed himself to feel comfortable sharing his feelings and emotions with the people he loved. He became very close to my parents who provided a safe space for him to be vulnerable. His tender side, which was hidden from the public, became unabashedly apparent when he became a father to Tracy, Kelly, and Michael, who remember his unconditional love and cherish so many fond memories of him from their childhood. They are the most special part of his legacy and my heart aches that he and they missed out on sharing the joys of life as they grew into adults and became parents of their own children.

I’m thankful that Thurman and I packed so much living into our twenty years together before he passed away at thirty-two. I could never have predicted what the following years would bring. I have realized that a full and meaningful life cannot be lived without experiencing both triumphs and tragedies, joys and sorrows, happiness and heartaches. The one constant in my life is the certainty that being Thurman’s wife and the mother of his three children has been my greatest blessing.

My family’s hope is that people won’t remember Thurman for how and when he passed but rather for how he lived his life. He was a self-made man, driven almost as if he knew he would leave us too soon, so the place he found in our hearts had to be deep and eternal. He was so proud to be a Yankee and he gave it his all. His legacy will never be forgotten and we hope that it will be celebrated and permanently memorialized.

Thurman’s self-proclaimed greatest accomplishment was his family. So, his children and I are proud and humbled to share him with you through this book. We hope that reading it will give you a window into the life and legacy of Thurman Munson, #15 in his pinstripes, but forever #1 in our hearts.

—Diana Munson, 2023

INTRODUCTION

When I first approached Thurman Munson with the idea of doing an autobiography, he was hesitant.

I’m only twenty-nine, was his first reaction. A lot of life to go. It feels too early to do a book like this.

I agreed, but I said, It’s sports. Books are written about sports figures in their twenties all the time. You won an MVP Award and you’re captain of the New York Yankees. If you don’t do it yourself, someone will write a book about you, and you’ll probably hate it.

He laughed, but he knew I was right. He didn’t have much of a relationship with any of the sportswriters who were regularly around the team—although, quietly, he actually had a few friendships there and I know he offered to pay for one writer to bring his kids to spring training. In comparison, I seemed like someone who he could work with. My career in Yankees public relations matched his—we both started in 1968, the year he was drafted—and I certainly knew the subject matter and the points to hit about his professional career. I was no longer working for the team so I could have some independence with the story without needing Yankee management’s approval.

That was fine with him because he was going through a rough patch with the Yankees. He spoke openly of a desire to get traded to Cleveland where he could be close to his growing family. That mattered more to him than his baseball career. And he knew he could use the newly formed free agency option to go to Cleveland. So, he leveled with his boss, George Steinbrenner, a fellow hard-headed Ohioan, and said, Get something for me while you can or I’ll leave and you’ll get nothing. Munson saw the whole big picture of unfolding free agency implications. Meanwhile, he was captaining the championship-caliber Yankees. He loved winning. He loved holding the trophy. It was a powerful lure to stay. The conflicts all led to a compelling drama, which we knew would be part of the story.

Another thing, he said. I want it to be a paperback, not a hardcover. I want kids to be able to afford it.

I explained that the normal cycle would be hardcover first, which would make its way to libraries, then a paperback. Kids could read it for free from the library. He accepted the explanation.

So, we began the process. It was only my second book and my first as a collaborator, but we had a disciplined process and stuck to it. His summer home was a beautiful house in Norwood, New Jersey. I’d never been in a house that had two staircases to the second floor. He loved the floor plan and used it, I was told, to build his home in North Canton, Ohio, where his full-time residence would be.

I brought a cassette tape recorder with me and set it down between us. In retrospect it was too close to me and not to him. My voice was louder and easier to understand. But I still have the tapes and from time to time, I play portions because it feels good to hear our conversations.

Munson could be guarded. There were areas he didn’t want to go. After the sessions, Diana would whisper to me, Did he bring up . . . ? Usually, he didn’t. He was going to be very protective of the way his story was told.

We worked without interruption unless one of his kids needed attention, then everything would stop. It was obvious that he was a family man first and his love for Diana and his children knew no bounds. The gruff catcher, who played such a demanding position and always had the dirtiest uniform—some teammates even called him Pig Pen after the always-scruffy Peanuts comic strip character—had a very soft side.

The finished book was well received although it lacked the controversy that Ball Four and The Bronx Zoo delivered but that was fine with him. He gracefully said what was on his mind, but he was not about to disrupt a championship run by calling out teammates or scrapping with his manager or the team owner. He knew the boundaries.

A year later, his death shook us all to the core. For those of a certain age, we remember where we were when certain events occurred—the Kennedy assassination, the Beatles on Ed Sullivan, men walking on the moon, and others. For the baseball universe, Thurman Munson’s death on August 2, 1979, has a place in that roll call. There were no twenty-four-hour all-news cable stations to turn to. There were just chains of phone calls to family and friends. Yet the word was passed quickly and the shock was all the more potent.

George Steinbrenner made sure he touched all the bases immediately as he choreographed the memorable and heartbreaking field ceremony after the accident, immediately retiring Thurman Munson’s number 15 and announcing a plaque dedication.

Fans did not wear T-shirts in the ’70s with player names on them, but as that evolved, it was evident that the Munson shirts would have been big sellers. Since then, the emotional connection to the captain has evolved. The Yankees of the ’70s came to be seen as a dynasty and Munson was not just the captain in title but the field general and clearly the heart and soul of the club. Those who loved the battling ’70s Yanks loved Munson, and the respect for his commanding presence continued to grow. So, too, do the waistlines of those in Munson T-shirts—working-class guys now past the half-century mark who proudly wear them to Yankee Stadium. When a highlight of Munson’s career appears on the video screen at the ball game, the place erupts. He was of course one of the elite catchers of his era and in Yankee history, and his career warrants the continued effort to get him into the Hall of Fame. The Society for American Baseball Research loves to compare his numbers with immortals of the game. Those statistics weren’t used in his time, but he knew his value. Those were part of the total package of his leadership.

When I arrived at Thurman Munson’s home in Ohio at the time of his funeral, Diana looked at me with tears and said, I’m so glad he did that book.

Those words ring in my head all these years later. I’m so glad we can bring it back.

—Marty Appel, 2023

A Mike Garcia Autograph

I was glancing through some mail in my locker in Fort Lauderdale Stadium, talking to Graig Nettles about an upcoming fishing contest, when Pete Sheehy slowly approached.

Pete’s been the chief of the Yankee clubhouse, both in New York and in Florida, for more than fifty years, and slow is his normal speed. Sometimes, the players refer to him as the grim reaper, for when roster cuts are made, he’s usually the man who comes up and says, They’d like to see you in the office.

Fortunately, I never experienced that feeling, because I was never cut in spring training. The only time I was ever sent down was when I was a non-roster player, just invited for a look, with the full understanding that I’d be going to the minor league camp by the end of training camp. So Pete was not the bearer of bad news for me on this March afternoon in 1976, merely the carrier of a message that Billy Martin wanted to see me before I left.

The manager’s office is just before the exit, and after I’d dressed, I poked my head in. You wanted to see me, Billy?

Oh, yeah, Thurman, come in, Billy Martin said. Listen, George thinks it would be a good idea if we had a captain on the club—you know, sort of an official team leader. And we’re agreed that you’re the best choice for the job, so I’m appointing you captain. We’ll make an official announcement to the press in a few days, but I wanted to let you know myself now.

I looked at him silently for a moment, then sort of shrugged my shoulders and said, Okay with me. Thanks! And off I went.

I didn’t give it a great deal of thought, and the significance was rather lost on me. I should have realized at the time what must have been going through Billy’s mind. He had played with Mickey Mantle, Joe DiMaggio, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Phil Rizzuto—the greatest stars—and none had ever been a captain. In fact, Billy himself might have been the best choice of them all, because as a player, he was considered the on-field leader of the team.

As I later learned, none of those men had been named captains because the position had been retired. When captain Lou Gehrig had died in 1941, Joe McCarthy, his manager, had declared that out of respect for Lou no one would ever hold the office again.

Now George Steinbrenner, who loves the Yankee tradition and history, decided the time had come to break that tradition and name a captain. George’s first sports experiences were in football, and I’m sure that helped influence his feelings. Furthermore, having a captain rather enhanced the total prestige of the organization. So at the time, I felt the move was at least somewhat for the benefit of the owner. Don’t get me wrong—I was honored. But the history of the assignment was lost on me, and I didn’t appreciate it as I might have.

I remember that a few days later Yogi came up to me and said, Thurman, you’ve become the best hitter in the league with men on base. Now, that’s an honor, having a guy as great as Yogi pay me a compliment like that. There’s nothing like respect from your peers, and I guess I didn’t feel that way about being named captain.

But in all honesty, even Lou Gehrig didn’t mean that much to me. Oh, I knew him from the Pride of the Yankees movie, and I was able to associate him with Babe Ruth, but I could never tell you if he was ever MVP, if he ever led the league in home runs, or what number he wore. I was just never that much of a fan, where things like that registered. In fact, if I wasn’t a Yankee, I’d still be in the dark about the game’s past. On the Yankees, one can’t help but get an education, because the team is so rich in history.

As the season went on and everyone began making a big deal about my being captain, it began to have more meaning for me. And eventually, the pride which should have been there at the start grew. I now know who Lou Gehrig is, and while I don’t think being captain made me a better player, or even a better leader, I’m touched by the honor of being associated with him.

I was the youngest of four children in my family. First came two sisters, Darla and Janice, then a brother, Duane, and on June 7, 1947, there was me. I once asked my dad why he named me Thurman Lee Munson, and he told me I was named after some athlete named Thurman Lee, but I never have found out who this Thurman Lee fellow was. And even though my name doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, it’s hard to forget once you’ve heard it, and no one has ever come up with a nickname which stuck.

When I was four, we moved from my birthplace in Akron, Ohio, to a farm in a town called Randolph, out in the country. There was a lot of room to play ball there, and I began to learn baseball from Duane and my dad, Darrell. Duane was a good athlete, but never took it very seriously, and certainly never thought of it in terms of being a professional.

My dad, though, probably would have had the drive to be a pro if he had had the inclination. I mean, he was the world’s original hard-nosed competitor. I’m sure that’s where I inherited my desire from. Dad would think nothing of hitting us ground balls for hours, and if one took a bad hop and bloodied a nose, he’d just go right on hitting without stopping.

When I started to play in organized games, I could go four for four, and he’d get all over me afterward for some fielding lapse. To friends and neighbors, he’d always be building me up, but it was sure tough to drag a compliment out of him directly. He even had a similar relationship with my mom, Ruth. When Dad was around, everyone in the house, including Mom, was intimidated. It seemed as though her chief responsibility was to keep us out of trouble so that Dad wouldn’t get mad at us.

Mom was also a great cook, which was no small necessity in the Munson home. We all had good appetites, and fortunately for me, I never had a real weight problem. In fact, right into my sophomore year of high school, I weighed only 125 pounds.

The farm was fun, but a few years later we moved to Canton, Ohio, where we rented a small house. I shared a bed with Duane. I remember thinking we were on the border of the rich section of town, where homes could go for $30,000. I loved Canton, because there were always so many guys to play ball with. On the farm, it was Dad, Duane, and I, and if one of us was missing, you couldn’t have much of a workout. But in Canton, there was always the opportunity to get a quick pickup game going in the streets. We’d play Wiffle ball, sockball, softball—you name it.

Canton was the town in which Cy Young began his professional career back in 1890. His name was Denton Young, but