As a boy, I had many sports heroes. I looked up to them, watched them on TV, read their biographies, and wrote letters to them. Many of them sent me autographed photos in answer to my letters. One of those was pro baseball great Mickey Mantle.
He seemed to be able to do it all. He was supremely talented. He set all kinds of records. He hit the longest official home run in baseball history, and he had the record for the most World Series home runs.
Mickey Mantle had amazing success in his baseball career, but later in life he became a struggling alcoholic. His comments at his last press conference on July 11, 1995, were not those of a triumphant hero celebrating a life well-lived. These were the comments of a man who had been given much in life and had squandered it all. Now looking back, he was filled with regrets.
It was a standing-room-only conference. His comic timing was still acute, but the robust physique, the popeye muscles, and the untroubled face of American plenty were gone. His tracksuit hung on his desiccated frame … He looked like death.
“God gave me a great body and an ability to play baseball,” he said. “God gave me everything, and I just … pffft!” What would be remembered most was the anguished plea to children: “I’d like to say to the kids out there, if you’re looking for a role model, this is a role model. Don’t be like me.”
A reporter asked Mantle if he had signed a donor card. “Everything I’ve got is worn out,” he said. “Although I’ve heard people say they’d like to have my heart … it’s never been used.” (Leavy, 2010)
I remember watching that interview and appreciating his stark honesty. Of all his accomplishments in life, this may have been his finest hour—warning people not to follow the path that he had chosen.
Mickey Mantle learned too late what was really important in life. He had sacrificed the most valuable things in his life and had chosen to give his time and efforts to things that had no lasting value.
Reference: Leavy, J. (2011). The last boy: Mickey Mantle and the end of America’s childhood. New York: Harper Perennial.
