There are many people in professional sports that wore the #3, but in my world, there was only one. And in my world, there will never be another.
I have always been a sports fan, and there are many teams in each sport that I will follow this year, but not next, and vice versa. But in the MLB, I was, and always have been, a Braves fan. Some of my earliest memories are of driving from my home in Lawrenceville, GA, to Fulton County Stadium in Atlanta, and sitting in the outfield, eyes glued to the jersey that read: Murphy 3. I really knew nothing about the sport, but I knew who I liked. I liked Dale Murphy. It didn't matter how many of the games I went to that resulted in losses by the Braves, as long as I got to see Dale Murphy. I remember him hitting, running, making amazing catches. Funny enough, one of my strongest memories is the game in which he went to the wall to catch a fly ball, put his hand out to brace himself....and came out of the game b/c he had to have his palm stitched up. I'm pretty sure I cried. That man, he was my hero.
And then came the day when he really DID become my hero.
For Mr. Murphy, this was probably one of many, many things he did that day. I was one of many faceless fans. But that day, someone in the Braves organization gave him a message about a little girl, a mere 8 years old, who was having major surgery soon. She was having a kidney removed, and while things were expected to go well, and her life was not in imminent danger, her father wanted something to put a smile on her face. And Mr. Murphy signed a photo. He wrote, "Laura, Good luck on your surgery. Dale Murphy." That photo came to me, in a box with several other Braves momentos. It had a padded Braves headband. A Braves pencill with a baseball eraser. A 1987 team photo. I'm sure there were a few more things, but they are all currently stored away as I prepare to move, and that is all I can remember right now.
Truthfully, it wouldn't have mattered if a solid gold bar had been included. That wouldn't have made a difference in my mind. In my mind, the world would be ok, because MR. MURPHY CARED THAT I WAS GOING TO BE OK!!!
From the viewpoint of an adult in my 30s, I realize that Mr. Murphy didn't know me then, doesn't know me now. Someone asked him to sign a photo for me, and he did that. But from the viewpoint of that 8-year-old girl, he was a hero. I knew everything would be ok, because Mr. Murphy cared.
Later that summer, the medical staff removed my infected kidney, and after a week in the hospital, I went home to heal. And heal I did. And before the end of the baseball season, I got one more baseball game in.
I don't know who the Braves played. I don't know who won. Because the first thing that happened wiped the rest of the night out of my mind. When we arrived at the stadium, my father led our family to an office, and then we were taken down to the bowels of the stadium. Truthfully, this meant nothing to me. My father was a batboy when he lived in Jacksonville, FL, and I have an uncle who was a scout for the Yankees. My father and uncle also lived in Indianapolis, near the minor stadium where the Cleveland Indians club played, and would hang out and harrass the players. I've grown up meeting players from a time that I don't remember. Claude Raymond, longtime announcer for the now defunct Montreal Expos, used to leave us tickets each time they came to Atlanta. We were constantly meeting these people I cared little about (at the time - I have a lot more respect for them now that I'm aware of who they are). And sure enough, a few minutes later, my dad was in deep conversation with Russ Nixon, someone he'd known from the Indians organization. I stood against the wall, biding my time until I could go out and watch Mr. Murphy.
And then this man came out in the hall. He was a giant. Eight feet tall. Broad as an ox. I'm fairly certain he had a halo, and maybe some wings. At least, that's how he looked to me.
Obviously, he was not 8 feet tall, though to me, he WAS a giant. And he wasn't an angel.
But he WAS Dale Murphy. And he was in uniform. His jersey said Murphy 3 on the back!!! And for about 5 minutes, he talked to my dad, my mom, my younger brother and me. And then he signed autographs for each of us, and told us to enjoy the game.
And from that day forward, there has never been an athlete that I respected more than I do Mr. Dale Murphy. I became Phillies fan when he was traded to Philly, and then a Rockies fan went he went to Colorado. And when he retired, I wondered how the MLB could survive.
But survive, the League has, and I've found other players to root for. Chipper Jones, Josh Hamilton, Brian McCann, Matt Wieters. Not all Braves, but most. I'm still a die-hard Braves fan, and I don't see anything ever changing that. And I will always consider Dale Murphy my favorite player, and the best man I ever saw on a baseball field.
To Mr. Murphy - you did something, one day, in one quick span of time, that people do each and every day. You probably never had another thought about it. But you brought a thousand rays of light into the life of a little girl who was going through one of the toughest, scariest things of her life. Your act of kindness, that tiny bit of time that you gave to me, has stuck with me for 25 years. If there was one thing I've always wanted to do, it was to look you in the eye and say, "Thank you." That will probably never happen, but with the connections this world makes through social media these days, I hope that one day, you read this. I hope one day, you will know how you touched my life.
Thank you, Mr. Murphy
