Free Clothing Optional by Alan Zweibel Page B

jubilant Cossack dance from the wedding scene in
Fiddler on the Roof.
    But the wonders of this nectarine did not stop there, however, as my other senses, apparently envious of the festival the taste buds were attending, shifted into a higher gear and became more receptive to the offerings of the city street’s colors, music, and smells that they were previously too self-involved to savor.
    Yes, all that was right with the world was embodied in that single nectarine, whose only fault was that it wasn’t the size of a basketball so its majesty could be shared by entire neighborhoods over the course of several weeks. As it was, I now was in the process of sucking whatever juices still remained in the strands clinging to its pit when I entered the Winter Garden Theater and learned of a tragedy—first from a stagehand, then verified by everyone else. Thurman Munson, the New York Yankees catcher and team captain, had died in a plane crash. The heart of the lineup as well as the dominant spirit of their clubhouse lost his life while practicing takeoffs and landings in the Cessna he’d bought so he could spend days off with his family in Canton, Ohio.
    A city of fans was instantly bound by shock. Disbelief. Raw emotions were soon followed by tributes. The catcher’s position left empty as the Yankees took the field for their next game…The scoreboard photo of Munson, his frizzy hair peeking out from beneath his cap, towering over a tearful Reggie Jackson in right field…A young widow with three small children at a televised funeral.
    I’d never met Thurman Munson, but I mourned the loss. Selfishly, I was going to miss his presence on the team he personified. Their first captain since the legendary Lou Gehrig. Emblazoned on the tail of the doomed Cessna was the same number that was stitched on his jersey, NY15. A true Yankee to his untimely end.
    I didn’t idolize Thurman Munson—perhaps because I was now twenty-nine years old and supposedly past the age of regarding ballplayers with the same awe as I did Mickey Mantle and Sandy Koufax while growing up. Then again, those players were bigger than the game itself, performing with a grace that elevated the acts of hitting and throwing cowhide to an art form. This was not the case with Thurman Munson, whose play was regularly described by adjectives such as
scrappy, gruff,
and
combative.
Whereas I don’t have a single memory of Willie Mays having a spot of dirt on his uniform, Thurman was the blue-collar counterpart who wallowed in his attempts to protect home plate or dive into the stands to catch a foul ball. His every move gave the appearance of an effort. Unbridled exertion. Thurman’s demeanor was abrupt and coarse. He was stout and hairy, and on no planet in any universe would he be considered handsome. Yet, this was his attraction. Why he was crudely lovable. Ralph Kramden with shin guards. A common laborer who toiled for a paycheck. Who loved his family. And his life. And most probably appreciated a good nectarine. Devoured it with abandon. Relished every fleck that didn’t get caught in his droopy moustache. And slobbered the juices that hadn’t already spilled onto the front of his already soiled shirt.

    Did Thurman Munson like nectarines? Was it possible that the bulge in this tough guy’s cheek was not a chaw of tobacco but, indeed, a pit? I had no way of finding out. I knew none of his teammates, and the few sportswriters I was friendly with thought I was kidding when I asked. So the question was quickly assigned to the same part of my brain where other former curiosities like “Would Jesus have thought Good Friday was an appropriate name for the day he was crucified?” and “Do fat people use more toilet paper?” were filed.
    Then, some years later, I met Thurman’s wife, Diana. A friend of mine took me to a reception the night before Old-Timers Day at the stadium. I got to see some of my