Dale Murphy was once the face of baseball, beamed as it was nightly across America on media mogul Ted Turner’s SuperStation TBS. A face that was hard for Atlanta Braves fans, for fans of nearly every big league team, and for the game itself not to love — for its Hollywood looks, its kind smile, its competitive grit.
His countenance mirrored something different, something that was rare among Major League stars of his day — genuine modesty about baseball, humility regarding his place in the world. Perspective never seemed a stranger to him, and that, alongside his enormous talent, set him strangely apart.
If there was a more adored baseball player in the 1980s, I have no clue who it would be. It’s a shame that same adoration does not exist among a select group of Cooperstown voters now. Murphy’s latest shot at induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame came and went on Sunday, those voters known as the Era Committee neglecting to elect him. Jeff Kent got in, others, such as Murphy and Don Mattingly did not.
It wasn’t for a lack of support from fans from many walks of life — musicians to movie stars, politicians to prominent baseball figures, famous folks to the rank and file — who heavily campaigned for Murphy to finally get in. The man retired from active play in 1993 and since becoming eligible has rather surprisingly — at least to a legion of fans — failed to be named.
Murphy, a grandpa now to some 20 grandkids, who lives with his wife Nancy in Alpine, has superior numbers and overall accomplishments leaned up against some others who already are in the Hall — two-time National League MVP, seven-time All-Star, five-time Gold Glove winner who led the league in home runs twice and RBIs twice, among other achievements. If you want advanced stats, not all but enough of them are there.
Moreover, there was no player of his time who was a better role model, a better ambassador for baseball and for good, clean living than Murphy. Stories of regular people who met Murphy over his prime playing years and fondly remember those encounters could be numbered into — who knows? — infinity. Almost all of them have a tale to tell.
(Brett Davis | AP) Former Atlanta Braves outfielder Dale Murphy on the field before a baseball game against the Arizona Diamondbacks on July 29, 2022, in Atlanta.
One example. An editor friend of mine in Los Angeles watched Murphy, who he’d never met before, take batting practice at Dodger Stadium on a random sunny afternoon, and when he waved the slugger over, Murphy complied, grinning and offering a handshake. When my friend thanked him for the example he set for young people, mentioning that he had the player on his fantasy baseball team, Murphy immediately apologized for a recent slump he’d been fighting through. “I’ll try to do better for you in the days ahead,” he said. The exchange would have been comical had it not been so sincere. That’s pretty much all you need to know about Dale Murphy.
I’ve interviewed him many times through the years. He used to be a regular guest on my radio show and he did so willingly, without complaint, figuring it was a small way to give back, to speak to Utah baseball fans. His commentary was insightful, earnest and on point. Often, I’ve been asked which athletes over the nearly 50-year span of my career have most impressed me by way of their character and generosity and decency and Murphy’s name is one of the first that comes to mind.
A decade ago, while walking through the Vatican, of all places, I saw a group of tourists who were wearing Braves gear. I had a Phillies hat on. When we struck up a conversation, I jokingly said that at least we had Murphy, who played for both teams, in common. I mentioned what a good dude Dale is, that I was from Utah and talked with him on occasion. You would have thought I told them I had a regular audience with the Pope himself. Braves fans, especially those with a few rings around the trunk, treasure the former player, the man. And so do so many fans of other teams.
(Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune) Dale Murphy records a podcast at a Salt Lake City radio station in 2019.
He once told me the whole nice-guy thing made him a bit uncomfortable. Everywhere he went, fans called him Mr. Good Guy. He didn’t smoke, he didn’t drink, he didn’t carouse, he didn’t party and he didn’t take steroids. “But when people said that to me, told me what a nice guy I was, I’d tell them, ‘Well, I’ve been called worse.’”
Years ago, I asked Nancy how Murphy had acclimated to retirement following the fame and fortune of his playing days. She said: “Dale enjoys the kids, he’s a fun dad. He’s still searching for something, he’s always considering what he’ll do, but it’s not a search that leaves him unhappy. He genuinely enjoys the quieter life at home. He was never really into the attention. Some players don’t like leaving the game because they don’t like being regular guys. But Dale likes being a regular guy. He’s never seen himself as different than anyone else. He’s a person who cares a lot about people.”
For Murphy’s part, he said he had learned to stay grounded, to emphasize “what was most important — my marriage, my family. I prioritized my life according to that, not according to baseball.”
Still, he attacked the game, between the lines, with a deep and commanding sense of competition. Nice guy or no, Murphy was once voted by his peers in a national sports publication poll one of baseball’s fiercest competitors.
“I tried to play the game aggressively,” he said. “I tried to take guys out at second base. I tried to dive for balls, or run into a fence. That’s what you do for your teammates. If you have to dive, you dive. If you have to slide, you slide. I wanted to play.”
So, Murphy played, played hard.
But the game never owned him. The famous quote by Major League pitcher Jim Bouton, who said he spent his life gripping a baseball only to find out that all along it was the other way around, didn’t and doesn’t apply to Murphy, who called baseball “my occupation, not my life.”
It’s not as though he wasn’t passionate about the game. And he was fully aware of all the good things baseball brought to him and what it meant to so many fans. It’s just that when he was young, he thought he’d play forever. But as the seasons passed, he learned what every athlete comes to find out sooner or later — that Father Time is undefeated. You move on.
“If you look for satisfaction in baseball, it won’t be there in any lasting way,” he said. “It’s such a temporary thing.”
Maybe if Murphy made it into the Hall of Fame — “I’m not hung up on it,” he said — it wouldn’t be so temporary.
Immortalization in the Hall has some staying power.
Gracious as ever, he recently thanked all those involved in the aforementioned grass-roots effort to get him into the Hall of Fame, at long last. Perhaps he’ll actually make it to Cooperstown one day, some day, without having to buy a ticket. Maybe not.
If he does, he’ll deserve it. He should get in. If he doesn’t, millions of baseball fans of his generation will remember him, anyway. Making the Hall would help millions in the generations to come honor him, too, those never fortunate enough to have seen him play.
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