.998 fielding percentage for the year. He threw out 23 of 38 base stealers—61 percent where 35 percent is more common. The 38 attempts were also remarkably few over the course of a season, indicative of the respect for Thurman’s throwing arm and quick release. For his first two years, he had thrown out 63 in 107 attempts, or 59 percent. Here, his reputation was made.
“He had the quickest release of any catcher I had ever seen,” says Peterson. “And Gene Michael really helped him when he was at short with his quick tags and good glove.
“I had an understanding with Thurman that whenever I saw arunner break off first I would automatically switch what I was going to deliver to the hitter to a fastball so Thurman could gun him out at second. Most catchers couldn’t react like he could to a quick change like that.”
Because he caught only 117 games, and the record book cites 150 as the standard required for fielding percentage records, his “almost 1.000” season cannot be properly measured. But his .998 percentage tied Elston Howard’s 1964 Yankee catching record.
“Nobody could call a game the way he could,” said Mel Stottlemyre. “From the day he arrived it was as though he had been somehow studying the hitters throughout the league. He knew what to call, and we had immediate confidence in him.”
When Tommy John later came to the Yankees, he made five spring training starts but never happened to pitch to Munson. Then in the opening series against Baltimore, Munson was finally behind the plate. “When we came back to the dugout after the first inning, Munson said, ‘You didn’t throw a lot of curveballs to these guys in the spring, so we’re going to throw a lot of first-pitch curves.’”
John said, “How do you know? You didn’t even catch me all spring!” And Munson responded, “What do you think, I wasn’t watching?”
8
Sparky Lyle arrived on the scene in 1972, a tremendous addition to the team. While the term “closer” had not yet become part of the baseball lexicon, it came to mean the man whose bulldog determination and daily success over one inning of work could essentially shorten a game to eight innings, with the opponents knowing they had little chance in the ninth.
Lyle embodied the personality of a closer, although he would usually be asked to work two or three innings. He had the arm for it.
He was a fun-loving character with an infectious laugh, and he knew how to have a great time. If he hadn’t been a baseball “fireman,” he might have been a real-life fireman. He was a Pennsylvania guy with a blue-collar attitude and a wonderful approach to life.
“When I was with the Red Sox I always enjoyed playing against Munson,” recalls Lyle. “It was because he was a
ballplayer
. And you like to compete against guys like that.
“He called the game based on who the batter and pitcher were, not what he might be looking for if he was the hitter.
“I loved to have him back there when I was pitching. He was like me in that we were successful because neither of us was afraid to fail. That was just who we were.
“I’d throw him a slider in the dirt on an 0-2 count with a runner on third and the guy would strike out. It would be a tough pitch to handle because the guy was swinging and the ball was bouncing, all at once. But he’d catch it. And he’d hold the ball and walk out to the mound with this shit-eating grin and say, ‘You didn’t think I was gonna catch that, did you!’ And we’d laugh because we were competing at the highest level and we were also having fun.”
When I worked for the Yankees during that time, I played a little role in the Sparky Lyle mystique. His entrance was always dramatic at Yankee Stadium. He’d arrive in the Datsun bullpen car (our sponsor), throw open the door, jump out of it with fire in his eyes, throw his warm-up jacket to the waiting batboy, and storm to the mound. A few quick warm-ups and then he’d stare in to Munson,
“He had the quickest release of any catcher I had ever seen,” says Peterson. “And Gene Michael really helped him when he was at short with his quick tags and good glove.
“I had an understanding with Thurman that whenever I saw arunner break off first I would automatically switch what I was going to deliver to the hitter to a fastball so Thurman could gun him out at second. Most catchers couldn’t react like he could to a quick change like that.”
Because he caught only 117 games, and the record book cites 150 as the standard required for fielding percentage records, his “almost 1.000” season cannot be properly measured. But his .998 percentage tied Elston Howard’s 1964 Yankee catching record.
“Nobody could call a game the way he could,” said Mel Stottlemyre. “From the day he arrived it was as though he had been somehow studying the hitters throughout the league. He knew what to call, and we had immediate confidence in him.”
When Tommy John later came to the Yankees, he made five spring training starts but never happened to pitch to Munson. Then in the opening series against Baltimore, Munson was finally behind the plate. “When we came back to the dugout after the first inning, Munson said, ‘You didn’t throw a lot of curveballs to these guys in the spring, so we’re going to throw a lot of first-pitch curves.’”
John said, “How do you know? You didn’t even catch me all spring!” And Munson responded, “What do you think, I wasn’t watching?”
8
Sparky Lyle arrived on the scene in 1972, a tremendous addition to the team. While the term “closer” had not yet become part of the baseball lexicon, it came to mean the man whose bulldog determination and daily success over one inning of work could essentially shorten a game to eight innings, with the opponents knowing they had little chance in the ninth.
Lyle embodied the personality of a closer, although he would usually be asked to work two or three innings. He had the arm for it.
He was a fun-loving character with an infectious laugh, and he knew how to have a great time. If he hadn’t been a baseball “fireman,” he might have been a real-life fireman. He was a Pennsylvania guy with a blue-collar attitude and a wonderful approach to life.
“When I was with the Red Sox I always enjoyed playing against Munson,” recalls Lyle. “It was because he was a
ballplayer
. And you like to compete against guys like that.
“He called the game based on who the batter and pitcher were, not what he might be looking for if he was the hitter.
“I loved to have him back there when I was pitching. He was like me in that we were successful because neither of us was afraid to fail. That was just who we were.
“I’d throw him a slider in the dirt on an 0-2 count with a runner on third and the guy would strike out. It would be a tough pitch to handle because the guy was swinging and the ball was bouncing, all at once. But he’d catch it. And he’d hold the ball and walk out to the mound with this shit-eating grin and say, ‘You didn’t think I was gonna catch that, did you!’ And we’d laugh because we were competing at the highest level and we were also having fun.”
When I worked for the Yankees during that time, I played a little role in the Sparky Lyle mystique. His entrance was always dramatic at Yankee Stadium. He’d arrive in the Datsun bullpen car (our sponsor), throw open the door, jump out of it with fire in his eyes, throw his warm-up jacket to the waiting batboy, and storm to the mound. A few quick warm-ups and then he’d stare in to Munson,
Similar Books
