August 2nd, 1979

Thirty-two years ago yesterday, the sports world was rocked with the news that New York Yankee captain and catcher, Thurman Munson, had died in an Ohio plane crash.

The gritty, stocky, and at times, surly backstop was a fan favorite from Day 1, in an era where the Yankees were titleless and for a time, without a true home. New Yorkers identified with his tough play and all out hustle. That, to all, trumped any moodiness that The Captain displayed from time to time. He was one of us, a lunch pail type of guy, and we loved him.

Fisk? Great player, but we were glad we had Munson. Johnny Bench? One of the greatest catchers ever, but he belonged to a (Big Red) machine. Who could love a machine? We had the "commoner" in pinstripes, and that, his style of play, and his quirky personality is what endeared him to us.

I remember riding in a car on I-95 with my high school girlfriend on the way to her dad's house in New Rochelle. We heard it just as we emerged from the tunnel before the tolls. I remember not saying anything for a few moments. It was as if a friend had passed. In fact, one had. Thurman Munson was there for as long as I had followed baseball and the New York Yankees. He and Bobby Murcer where just about all we had for a long time. We watched him break in the major leagues and win Rookie of the Year in 1970, and we watched him win the AL MVP in 1976. We witnessed his being named the first Yankee captain since Lou Gehrig as well as him leading the team to three consecutive pennants and two straight World Series titles. He was a trusted friend, and now he was gone.

To this day, when a Yankee fan hears the name Munson, to a person they will speak with sadness, joy, and pride. He will forever be The Captain. He will forever be Number 15. He will forever be a Yankee.

May God bless Number 15, and may his legend live forever.