I
was never part of the screaming crowd when a rock idol was performing. Or
sobbing when a movie star passed away or grieving when an athlete announced his
or her retirement. But the death, at 92, of Stan Musial, one of
baseball’s greatest stars and a St. Louis Cardinal for 22 years, got to me in a
way that no celebrity event ever has before.
Just
the very mention of his mellifluous name, Stan “The Man” Musial, always caught
my attention. To me he was the epitome of cool — everything about
him: his swing, his unique batting stance with the crouch and the wiggle,
his remarkable performance and his moral demeanor on and off the
field. He was a guy’s guy, a girl’s guy. In fact, Stan was
everybody’s guy. I have never seen anyone in all my life who was revered
the way Stan was in St. Louis. He was an icon’s icon.
He
was also my boyhood hero, as I grew up as a Cardinal fan in my hometown city;
he could do no wrong, and he was the personification of glamour and
decency. Although I never met him, short of getting his autograph once
after a game, a piece of me was taken with his demise.
What
was it about him? Perhaps it is summed up in the inscription on the statue of
Stan Musial in front of St. Louis’ baseball stadium: “Here stands
baseball’s perfect warrior. Here stands baseball’s perfect knight.”
Stan
most likely would not appraise himself that way, but that legend was written
for a reason. It communicates his value and the esteem in which he
was held. Stan was as humble as he was great, noted Bob Costas, the
sportscaster, in his emotional eulogy
at the funeral.
In
broadcast interviews, Musial always diminished his achievements. It was always,
“thanks” and “aw, I really appreciate that,” rather than anything leaning
toward self-glorification. I remember that kind of response,
particularly, after he hit five home runs in a doubleheader, at a game I
attended as a child. His seven batting titles, his 3600 hits, his three
Most Valuable Player awards (and the list goes on and on) never seemed to have
an ego impact. Stan was just passionate about what he did; at the same
time his kindness and caring for others runneth over.
After
the color line broke in baseball, when there was still chiding by the fans and
some players and there were already black stars like Willie Mays, Frank
Robinson, Hank Aaron and Ernie Banks, the black players were often
isolated socially. At one All Star Game, the latter guys were all sitting
together playing cards, when Stan Musial walked over and said, ”Deal me
in.” It was Stan’s way of saying “I accept you,” when many others did
not. Stan was never kicked out of a game and never argued with
umpires. Hank Aaron, one of the greatest players of all time and the
all-time career home run leader, said, “I didn’t just like Stan Musial, I
wanted to be like Stan Musial.”
Many
of Stan’s fans felt that, despite his major national records and the
acclaim for him in St. Louis, he was undeservedly not as well regarded
nationally as, say, Mickey Mantle, Ted Williams or Joe DiMaggio, because he was
from the Midwest, away from New York, the media capital of the world, and
therefore was not as celebrated. They began a movement to change that, and
last year President Obama presented Stan with the Presidential Medal of
Freedom. George Vecsey, former sports editor of The New York Times, came
out with a biography on him in 2011, furthering his national standing.
My
life has been touched by Stan Musial. His graciousness, his good nature,
his success as a player and in life have all made him a role model among role
models.
Bob
Costas alluded to a statement about Stan made by the now-deceased broadcaster
for the Cardinals, Harry Carey, at the time Stan played his last game.
Stan had hit a single, and Harry said: “Take a look fans, take a good long
look. Remember the swing and the stance. We won’t see his like again.”
Said
Costas, “Harry was right. We never have and … we never will.”
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