Dear Mickey - A fan's tribute

I never got a chance to send you your get-well letter. It was half written, but you went too soon; yet you had so much to offer, so much yet to live! Those who remember you from our youth as a bigger than life figure-those broad shoulders and strong arms-still think of you as a bigger-than-life figure, but not for your physical strength now as much as for the humility you showed and yes, even the sympathy you inspired in your final days. While as youth we hung your picture on our bedroom walls or carried one of your baseball cards stuffed in our pockets, now as adults we carry your picture in our wallets, a picture that is on the reverse side of an organ donor card, which serves as an everlasting tribute and testimony to your off the field life.

And what an off the field life it was, Mickey. Columns have been read, autobiographies and biographies written, stories and anecdotes told. We learned you had faults - who doesn't?; and that you weren't perfect - who is? It was the on the field heroics that captivated us during our youth-feats accomplished in spite of constant pain, a pain that was virtually unseen, especially to those of us who followed most of your career listening to those mighty Yankee teams on radio while sitting on the porch at night or in the personal Hall of Fame that was our bedroom.

Mick, I remember your switch to first base, thinking it would never work, that it was a gimmick or a mistake. Not quite understanding your damaged legs, I couldn't figure out why the Yankees were taking the best centerfielder in baseball and moving him to first. When you are thirteen years old, you don't understand that you baseball heroes experience the same aging process as your parents.

I still have a photograph of you standing at home plate, batting left handed, that I took during one of my first trips to Yankee Stadium. My dad and I had taken a bus trip to the Stadium and this would be one of several times I saw you play in person. I wish I had better memories of your at bats; I wish I could remember that I saw you hit a home run, make a terrific catch - but I can't. All I have of my visits to the Stadium, other than some scorecards and yearbooks, is that single photo. My friends joke that it's not really you. After all, the figure is so small. But I know that it is - the stance is unmistakable, my scribbled note on the back of the photo serving as confirmation.

Mickey, I kept all the news clippings, your five-for-five outburst on Memorial Day, 1968 (Boy, was Memorial Day good to you), your 535th homer against Denny McLain, (did he really 'put it in there' for you?; he did have the game won already-his 31st-and it did put you past Foxx for 3rd place all-time. Could he have wanted to share his achievement with you?); the box score for your 1,500th RBI (I knew how many you needed at the beginning of the season and conducted my own personal countdown).

I read in disbelief your retirement announcement during Spring Training, 1969, feeling such a loss. Where I had such anticipation during the winter, there was now an emptiness, and baseball would never be quite the same for me. I have the photos, Bill Gallo drawings and articles from that March 2, 1969 New York Daily News I purchased 28 years ago, now framed and protected for all time.

Yes, Mick, I saw you on August 9, 1969, during Old Timers' Day at Yankee Stadium. My dad and I were there to see your first on field appearance since "A Day to Remember" in June. (I still have a copy of the 45 RPM record given to us that day, capturing on vinyl that memorable day when your number 7 was retired).

Just as your life changed after retirement, so did mine. As a 15-year-old, I was still interested in baseball, but I was now in high school and I was beginning to develop new interests. My Mantle baseball cards, along with those of other players, my photo pack of black and white pictures of Yankee players, all my Mantle memorabilia were put aside. Sure, there were players and periods of time that once again captured my interest-Murcer, Munson, Mattingly- 1977/78, 1981, 1994/95, but it just wasn't the same.

I rediscovered collecting in 1993 and soon defined my primary focus: cards, magazines, books and anything that had to do with you, things I remembered as a youth and things I didn't even know existed. Suddenly, it was like pre-1969 again. I had rediscovered you and you had become a passion in my life again. This passion was shared with my family - my wife, my daughters, but especially with my parents. It is only fitting that my Mickey Mantle shrine is in a curio cabinet that once belonged to my parents.

During this time of rediscovery, some of my old collection began to resurface. My dad found my 1960-61 Armour hot dog plastic baseball coins. There were doubles of some players, but, of course, I had three Mickey Mantles! And Mick, the B/W 8x10 (capturing the finish of your classic swing) that had hung on my bedroom wall was found. Of course I already had all of those wonderful newspaper clippings from your playing days - your stint as an NBC sports announcer; your Hall of Fame induction with your buddy Whitey; you, Hank Aaron and Willie Mays holding one of Babe Ruth's bats; you and Joe DiMaggio at Old Timers' Day at Yankee Stadium; you and Joan Rivers (Mick, you're wearing an earring?!). But nothing prepared me for the newspaper clippings that would start in June of 1995.

You see, Mick, June is a special month for you and me. I was born June 10th. Your minor league career began in Independence, MO, June 14th, on Flag Day (how appropriate). Your number was retired on June 8th. And it was in June, 1995, that you were first admitted to the hospital. I followed the reports closely each day hoping that you would be all right. You see, I suddenly feared that I would lose my hero again, so soon after rediscovering him. I was beginning to accumulate a new collection of clippings that rivaled those of your playing days. I watched with tears when you appeared on the scoreboard at Yankee Stadium for Old Timers' day; and with such admiration during your press conference when you reached the pinnacle of your true value to America's youth, making the tragic and yet so poetic and contradictory statement, "I'm no role model." Mickey, from the day you walked into the Betty Ford Clinic, to the day you interviewed with Bob Costas after the death of your son, you were more of a role model than you would ever be able to understand.

And Mickey, that Sunday afternoon, as I asked my younger daughter to put on the Yankee game, and I heard the haunting voice of public address announcer Bob Shepard say, as only he could, "Today is a sad day...", and I realized that you had left us, I sat on the floor in front of the TV and cried - cried for my lost hero, for my lost youth, for the mortality of us all. And in the next several weeks, months, and even to this day, I have become obsessed with saving and video-taping everything about you that I could. I left work early to watch your funeral service and was so happy to hear Bobby Richardson reveal that you had made your peace with God.

And, yes, that mortality we all face soon struck again without mercy. First my mother, who, when I visited her in the hospital the day you died said to me, "I'm so sorry about Mickey - I know how much you admired him" - my mother, who always wanted to see my new Mickey Mantle items - my mother, who did not throw out my baseball cards - passed away November 18, 1995, three months after you died.

And my dad, with whom I first saw you at Yankee Stadium - my dad, who was a Detroit Tigers fan and loved Al Kaline but respected you as a player - my dad, who was in the Coast Guard during WWII with Tommy Henrich (yes, the same Old Reliable who taught you how to play the outfield) - my dad, who was sitting behind home plate at Yankee Stadium and witnessed Allie Reynolds (your fellow Oklahoman) pitch his second no-hitter of 1951 - my dad, who two days before his passing saw my copy of the sheet music for the song "I Love Mickey" that you recorded with Theresa Brewer, saying what a neat item it was, joined my mother on July 4, 1996 (even that date had an eerie connection between Independence Day and Independence, MO). Three people who meant a lot to me had left me in less than one year.

Mickey, now I continue to share my passion and admiration for you with my wonderful wife and two daughters. My parents have joined you but I know that if they were still here, they would fully support your Organ Donor program, as they might have been candidates for organs had they lived.

Last year I visited the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown and although there were numerous fans viewing many plaques, yours without a doubt had the largest crowds. I also visited the American Archives Museum and met your good friend Tom Catal. You'd be pleased with the museum he has created in your memory. It is a fan's delight and a tribute not only to your career but also to your impact on American culture.

Mickey, as I said earlier, it is only fitting that a great number of my Mantle memorabilia are housed in an old curio cabinet that belonged to my parents. So many times when I spend some solitary moments in our family room, I look at the cabinet and remember how much a part of my life you were when I was a young boy and then again more recently, and I think of the good times I had with my parents. And then I understand the most important thing you left behind - the realization that one's life has meaning and importance regardless of how many home runs you hit or how far you hit them; regardless of how many people you touch or at what point in your life you touch them - and that as a part of my life that I shared with my parents and continue to do so with my family, you will forever be intertwined with memories and emotions - good memories of youth, of passion, of family.

God Bless you, Mickey Mantle, and God Bless my parents, and may your legacy be one of honesty, courage and love. And may your Organ Donor program perpetuate your memory for generations to come.

Your fan,

Robert Palazzo