Didinger: Watching a game with Killebrew

Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Posted: 6:30 p.m.

By Ray Didinger
CSNPhilly.com

Harmon Killebrew, one of baseballs true gentlemen, passed away Tuesday at age 74. He died in a Scottsdale, Ariz., hospice after ceasing treatment for esophageal cancer. Tributes are pouring in and they say as much about his worth as a man as they do about his talents as a ball player.

It was hardimpossible, reallyto find anyone who didnt like Harmon Killebrew. He was a quiet guy from a small town (Payette, Idaho) who played 22 seasons in the major leagues and hit 573 home runs, 11th on the all-time list. His nickname was Killer, which was almost comical given his gentle nature.

I met Killebrew in the spring of 1987. I was working for the Philadelphia Daily News and the paper was preparing a special section to mark Mike Schmidts 500th home run. It was a given the Phillies third baseman would reach that milestone early in the seasonhe was only five homers shy on opening dayso we worked all through spring training to have a pullout section written and ready to go.

My assignment was to profile the 10 living members of the 500 Home Run ClubHank Aaron, Willie Mays, Frank Robinson, Ted Williams, Mickey Mantle, Willie McCovey, Ernie Banks, Reggie Jackson, Eddie Matthews and Killebrew. It meant traveling around the country for almost a month to interview each Hall of Famer face to face.

For anyone with an appreciation of sports history, it was a dream assignment. It probably would not be done today with newspapers slashing budgets and cutting space, but it was a different time back then. The Daily News was willing to invest the time and money, and I was the lucky guy handed the passport to baseball history.

I did most of the interviews during spring training because most of the subjects were in various camps. Jackson was in his final season as a player with Oakland. Robinson was a coach with Baltimore. Aaron was director of player development with the Atlanta Braves, and Matthews was a minor league hitting instructor. Mays and McCovey were fixtures at the San Francisco Giants camp, and Williams still hung out with the Boston Red Sox.

I understood going in that these werent just ball players; they were a kind of royalty, a select club within the Hall of Fame itself. You can be a great playerJoe DiMaggio or Carl Yastrzemski, for exampleand still not be in their circle. As such, I knew it would not be easy getting an audience with them and in most cases, it wasnt.

But with Killebrew, I went to the broadcast booth at the Minnesota Twins training camp and knocked on the door. He answered. I asked if I could speak to him. Sure, he said, come on in.

I sat with him while he broadcast the game. We talked between innings then we talked for another hour when it was over. I mentioned the fact that he was easier to deal with than the others.

Im just grateful people remember me at all, he said.

I was struck by the way Killebrew said it, so unaffected and honest, but that is how he lived his life. He was a common man of uncommon deeds. In researching his career, I found a Time Magazine profile that said: Killebrew is so quiet that sportswriters have given up trying to jazz up his image.

I read the line to Killebrew and he laughed.

Now you have the same problem, he said.

But Killebrew was proof that you dont have to be a great storyteller to be a great story. For all of his modesty, he was a compelling figure with a life story that read like a classic novel. He was born country-strong. His father was a fullback at West Virginia Wesleyan University. His grandfather, the original Harmon Clayton Killebrew, was a heavyweight wrestling champion in the Army.

The six-foot, 195-pound Killebrew was a star quarterback in high school and was offered a scholarship to the University of Oregon, but he turned it down to sign a 50,000 contract with the Washington Senators in 1954. The scout signed Killebrew after watching him hit a baseball over the school fence and into the sugar beet patch beyond. The scout paced it off and determined the ball traveled 450 feet.

Although only 18, Killebrew was considered a bonus baby, which meant he had to stay on the major league roster for two full seasons. He played sparingly (93 at bats) and after that he bounced back and forth between the major leagues and the minors for three more years before finally breaking out in 1959 with 42 home runs.

It was tough but I think it was good for me in the long run, Killebrew said. It forced me to grow up. There were times when I was in Chattanooga, hitting .200 and I had to ask myself, Do I really want this? I said, Yeah, I do. I realized, OK, Harm, youve gotta work for it and thats what I did.

Killebrew won or shared the American League home run title six times. He hit 40 or more home runs in eight different seasons. He was the American Leagues Most Valuable Player in 1969. He played three different positionsthird base, first base and outfieldand historian Bill James ranks him as the games No. 2 all-time multi-position player behind only Pete Rose.

When I interviewed people about Killebrew, they all described him the same way: a low-key guy, but a fierce competitor. Williams recalled the way Killebrew circled the bases after hitting a homer. He ran hard and kept his head down the whole time. Almost like he was embarrassed, Williams said.

It is almost fitting given his small-town roots that he played virtually his entire career with the WashingtonMinnesota franchise, hardly the glamour destination in big league baseball. He did become the most popular player in both cities and he met several presidents, including Dwight Eisenhower, who informed Killebrew that he was his grandson Davids favorite player.

I asked if he remembered his 500th home run. Killebrew laughed and told a typically self-effacing story. He said when he hit No. 499, the Twins had thousands of plastic cups made with his likeness and the No. 500. They were going to give them to the fans as keepsakes the night he hit the historic home run.

Nice idea. Trouble was Killebrew went into a slump.

I was pressing, he said. I knew these cups were sitting around gathering dust. It was getting embarrassing. It went on for almost a month. When I finally hit it (Aug. 10, 1971, off Baltimores Mike Cuellar) I felt like a giant weight was lifted off my shoulders.
E-mail Ray Didinger at viewfromthehall@comcast.net