Not All the Heroes Are Gone

The first thing to establish about a Dale Murphy is that there really is one. He’s that hard to believe.

You have to be sure he’s real and not fictional, somebody made up by the guy who created Frank Merriwell or Jack Armstrong or the Rover Boys.

I mean, nobody’s that good. Let’s face it. Who’re they trying to kid? What’re they trying to pull?

It’s bad enough that they tell you this guy hits 37 home runs a year, bats in 111 runs, scores 118, walks 90 times and steals 10 or so bases. But they’d also have you believe he’s kind to animals, is a devoted family man, goes to church regularly, feeds the hungry, helps old ladies across the street, reads the Bible, doesn’t drink, smoke, chew or swear. I don’t think he even belches.

Sound like a real person to you? Sound like a baseball player?

Not anyone I know. Sounds like two Steve Garveys. A combination of George Washington, Joan of Arc and the guy who founded the Boy Scouts. Who else could live up to that billing?

You figure this guy must have come walking right out of the pages of King Arthur. Sir Galahad in spikes. Lochinvar must have looked like this--6 feet 4 inches and 215 pounds, not an ounce of fat on him, eyes clear blue without a trace of bloodshot veins, handshake firm, glance steady, jaw strong, teeth perfect. Hollywood’s idea of a ballplayer.

You figure a guy who looks the part this much must have some serious flaws. Can’t hit the curveball. Too slow. Too lazy. Too dumb. Too all of the above.

At the very least, he must hell around. Like, the girls aren’t going to leave this guy alone.

It’s considered an axiom in baseball that the bigger the star, the greater the headache. Murphy doesn’t even swagger. You figure a guy who can hit and field the baseball the way he can would snarl at autograph seekers, miss team buses, break curfew, run up a few divorces, bust up a clubhouse after a strikeout. Murphy is so nice, you’d think he sold insurance.

It’s almost not fair. This kind of talent is usually given to someone who will abuse it. Murphy gets his sleep, eats right, lives right. He’s never known what it’s like to wake up with your head splitting, your stomach churning, your eyes red and your mouth tasting like the bottom of a chicken coop. He’s the sports equivalent of a plate of fudge.

You would think it would be hard being Dale Murphy. That you would fight off the urge to go behind a billboard and pull the wings off butterflies, vote Democrat, say something nice about Russia. Kick over the traces. Paint whiskers on statues.

You would think Murphy would wonder what it was like, just once, to be known as Disco Dale. Or Broadway Murphy. Have beer for breakfast. Backbite the manager. Be a star. Break up a barroom. Belt a cop. Total a car. Behave more like Claudell than George Washington. At least, grow a mustache. Wear gold chains.

All Murphy does is stand there and hit home runs. A right-handed Lou Gehrig.

Is it hard being Dale Murphy? Living up to that image?

The real Dale Murphy doesn’t think so. “In the first place, it’s not an image,” he says. “It’s me.”

With Dale Murphy, what you see is what you get. Nine innings of impeccable baseball followed by the rest of the time helping around the house.

What’s it like when the only fun in life is a high fastball out over the plate?

Murphy thinks it’s more fun than the opposite. Frank Merriwell had the right idea. Happiness is not a nightclub. You can’t smoke it. Or drink it. You can only live it.

“I know baseball is not the most important part of my life.” he said. In fact, it’s not even a close second.

For Murphy, the most important thing in his life took place before he ever got to the major leagues. It was down in Greenwood, S.C., Class C in baseball but triple-A in Murphy’s life.

For, it was there, when he was learning lessons like how to hold the runner on and what to do with a 3-and-2 curve that he got some lessons from a higher league. A teammate, Barry Bonnell, gave him a playbook for life--a game plan from coaches Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. He joined the Church of the Latter Day Saints.

“I listened to a missionary who outlined what seemed to me to be something that was the truth,” he said. “We’re all looking for the truth. It gave a purpose to my life.”

All baseball could rejoice. It gives a needed counter to the police blotter image that has emerged of late.

A lot of ballplayers find it hard to be good. Dale Murphy would find it hard to be anything else. “It’s not image,” he insists. “I don’t make decisions based on my image. But if I tried to be something I wasn’t, it would drive me crazy. If I tried to live another life style, it would be to create somebody I couldn’t live with.”

Murphy’s law works for Dale, who has won back-to-back MVP awards in recent years playing it by the Book. He’ll let others buck to be Disco Dale or Broadway Murphy. He prefers to be Soda Fountain Dale or Elm Street Murphy.

And, if anyone thinks he’s fictional, just another storybook character, that’s because they never had to try to get him out with men on base. Yes, Virginia, there is a Dale Murphy. And, if you don’t think so, just throw him a fastball with the game or the flag on the line.