<Archive Obituary> Richie Ashburn (September 9, 1997)
AndrewJ
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The Philadelphia Inquirer (September 10th 1997)
A Phillie For The Ages, Richie Ashburn Dies
The Broadcaster And Hall Of Fame Centerfielder, 70, Apparently
Had A Heart Attack In A New York Hotel
'Philadelphia Has Lost Its Most Well-Loved Sports Hero Ever'
By Frank Fitxpatrick, Staff Writer
Young, blond and fast as a deer, he was the city's favorite Phillie
throughout the 1950s. And for the last 35 years, even on the night he
died, Richie Ashburn's voice, as flat as his beloved Nebraska, meant
summer to a million Philadelphians.
Mr. Ashburn, the Hall of Famer whose half-century as a Phillies
outfielder and wry color commentator stretched from Curt Simmons to
Curt Schilling, died early yesterday in a New York hotel only hours
after working a Phillies-Mets game at Shea Stadium.
"I don't think it's overstating it at all to say that Philadelphia
has
lost its most well-loved sports hero ever," said Tim McCarver, the
broadcaster who began his announcing career alongside Mr. Ashburn in
the early 1980s.
Mr. Ashburn, 70, had performed his normal duties during the Phillies'
13-4 win Monday night, even engaging in his characteristic
umpire-bashing. He never revealed any discomfort at the ballpark,
said
Harry Kalas, his broadcast partner since 1971.
Back in his room at midtown Manhattan's Grand Hyatt hotel, he
contacted the Phillies' traveling secretary, Eddie Ferenz, and
complained of chest pains. Ferenz summoned team trainer Jeff Cooper,
but Mr. Ashburn was dead, apparently of a heart attack, by the time
they entered his room about 5 a.m.
His passing triggered an immediate emotional response in the
Philadelphia area, where several generations of baseball fans were
eager to share recollections of the man whose voice had been a part
of
their lives since 1963.
"He had such a powerful connection with the city of Philadelphia
because he not only played there but broadcast there for so long,"
McCarver said from New York. "But I think the reason for the warmth
fans there felt for him was that everyone had a chance to experience
his wonderful sense of humor."
All day, on radio talk shows, on TV newscasts and, no doubt, at
taverns and watercoolers, Philadelphians traded anecdotes about Mr.
Ashburn and expressed shock that he was gone. And last night, the
electronic message atop the Peco Energy Co. building read, "Goodbye,
Whitey," using the nickname by which he was known to millions of
listeners, "You'll always be No. 1."
"He started in 1948," said Mike Schmidt, who was inducted into the
Hall of Fame with Mr. Ashburn in 1995. "That's a hell of a long
period
of time - and especially in Philadelphia. To do that in Philadelphia,
wow! More power to you. To stay in good graces with this city says
something for your character. And he did it."
Mr. Ashburn occupied a prominent spot in Philadelphia baseball for
all
but three of the last 50 seasons, ever since he was named the
Sporting
News' National League rookie of the year in 1948. He won a pair of
batting titles (.338 in 1955 and .350 in 1958) and led the league in
hits three times before a 1960 trade sent him to the Chicago Cubs.
Two years later, after a 120-loss season with the expansion New York
Mets wore him down and provided him with a lifetime of material, he
retired at 35.
"I was planning on going back to Nebraska where some people thought
I'd make a good candidate for Congress," he said in a 1988 interview.
"But Les Quailey, who was the fellow that ran Atlantic-Richfield's
broadcasting interests, asked me if I'd be interested in doing the
Phillies games."
It was in that role that Mr. Ashburn became a beloved Philadelphia
institution. He groused frequently about umpires and pitchers and
marked spectacular plays with a high-pitched 'Oh, brother!"
"I remember being with Rich not long ago in Clearwater," said Andy
Seminick, the former Phils catcher who was a teammate of Mr.
Ashburn's
on the 1950 National League champion Whiz Kids, "and it seemed like
every single person stopped him and had something nice to say to
him."
Last night's game with the Mets began with a moment of silence, and
the Phillies wore black armbands with Mr. Ashburn's No. 1. His
retired
number, hanging above the left-field wall at Veterans Stadium, will
be
draped in black for the rest of this season. And throughout the next
homestand, the American flag will fly at half-staff.
The city's flags will be flown at half-staff until Mr. Ashburn is
buried, Mayor Rendell said yesterday. A viewing will be held at a
public location on Friday, with a private funeral the next day, Mr.
Ashburn's daughter Karen Hall said last night.
Fellow broadcasters - Andy Musser, Chris Wheeler, and especially the
deeply sentimental Kalas - turned the start of last night's Phillies
telecast on Channel 17 into a heartfelt eulogy.
"Richie and Harry have been together for so many years," Schmidt said
from his home in Jupiter, Fla. "They were the voice of the Phillies.
>From April to October, they were in the living rooms of 90 percent of
the people in Philadelphia. And those people grow on you. You don't
know them, but they become one of the family."
Mr. Ashburn's Midwest twang sounded odd at first in a business where
baritones were the rule. But his remarkably dry wit and transparent
love of the game quickly infatuated even the most hard-bitten
Phillies
fans.
"The first thing I remember when we started in '63, it was Byrum
[Saam], Richie and me in the broadcast booth in Clearwater," said
Bill
Campbell, who broadcast Phillies games with Mr. Ashburn and Saam from
1963 to 1970. "He hadn't done his first game yet when he stood up in
the booth, looked down at the field, and said, 'Boys, this game looks
a lot easier from up here.' "
So popular was Mr. Ashburn that first the Philadelphia Bulletin and
then the Philadelphia Daily News asked him to write a column. He did
so from 1974 to 1991, with an easy and affable style that mirrored
his
relaxed broadcasting technique.
That career side road caused him to joke that he could become the
first person in history to be bypassed in three Hall of Fame
categories: playing, broadcasting and writing.
In March 1995, as he played cards in the Largo, Fla., condominium
that
was his winter home, Mr. Ashburn received word that he had been voted
into the Hall by the Veterans Committee. The induction of Mr. Ashburn
and Schmidt, on July 30 that year, attracted more than 35,000 fans,
most of them wearing Phillies red. It was the largest gathering
anyone
at Cooperstown could remember.
"I think it was one of the happiest days of my life," Schmidt said.
"And to share it with him was a great experience."
In the early 1970s, when the up-and-coming Phillies were searching
for
a manager, fans clamored for Mr. Ashburn to take the job. Danny Ozark
was hired instead, and Mr. Ashburn, who smoked a pipe and had a
penchant for unusual caps, stayed behind the microphone.
"Richie was a very special and unique individual who loved his
wonderful family so very much," said Bill Giles, the team's chairman.
"He loved people. He loved the game of baseball. And he loved his
Phillies."
As he aged, Mr. Ashburn's wit and generally mellow disposition
obscured his competitive fires. He could be a ferocious opponent in
tennis, golf, squash or gin rummy.
"That dude might be old," Lenny Dykstra once said after Mr. Ashburn
had beaten him once again in one of their high-stakes tennis matches,
"but he gets to every ball."
In 1948, at age 21, Mr. Ashburn won the Phillies' center-field job in
the most unusual way. His predecessor, Harry Walker, had been the
batting champion in 1947, but Walker's spring holdout gave Mr.
Ashburn
his opportunity. He kept the job, and the leadoff spot, for a dozen
years.
"That was fortunate timing," Mr. Ashburn said in 1988, "but I
shouldn't have been surprised. I've been awfully lucky in my life."
One of its unluckiest moments occurred on April 1, 1987, when his
daughter Jan, 33, was killed in an Overbrook Park auto accident. The
emotional exchange between Mr. Ashburn and Kalas during a subsequent
telecast is something Phillies fans still recall.
"That really hit him hard," Campbell said, "but Richie bounced back.
That's just the way he is. You don't keep him down for long."
Mr. Ashburn and his wife, Herbie, whom he met while taking courses
toward an education degree he eventually earned from the University
of
Nebraska, had six children. They separated in 1977 but remained close
friends.
Mr. Ashburn had diabetes but rarely discussed it, and many did not
discover that he suffered from the disease until they witnessed him
administering himself a shot of insulin in a ballpark press box or
dining room. He was extremely fit; until recently, Mr. Ashburn had
been a top-flight amateur tennis and squash player. He played golf,
rode a bike, and walked whenever possible.
Despite his rural roots, Mr. Ashburn, who lived in Ardmore, very
quickly became a card-carrying Main Liner.
A devout Republican who was approached about seeking political office
in Nebraska and Pennsylvania, he belonged to the Philadelphia Country
Club, dressed tastefully conservative, and drove a Mercedes.
It was a big jump for the son of a prairie blacksmith, who slept in
the same bedroom with his parents, Neil and Toots Ashburn, and three
siblings. The Ashburns were a close-knit family, and, early in his
playing career, his parents spent summers in Philadelphia watching
their son at old Connie Mack Stadium.
Mr. Ashburn was born on March 20, 1927, in Tilden, Neb., where he was
fast enough as a boy to chase rabbits through the cornfields. "I'd
run
alongside them," he said, "and catch the fat ones."
He swam in the ElkHorn River, played football, and was a star catcher
for the local American Legion team. That team included another future
major-leaguer, Rex Barney, who died a month ago.
All that exercise helped him become the state's champion sprinter. He
ran 100 yards in 9.6 seconds, a Nebraska record that stood for a
quarter of a century. Then in 1944, Herb Krasnick, the Phillies'
Midwest scout, signed the teenage catcher to a contract.
The slap-hitting lefthander had exceptional speed, and it was Eddie
Sawyer, his manager at Class A Utica and later with the Whiz Kids,
who
moved him from behind the plate to center field.
"You never saw anyone could run like him," Seminick said. "You think
these fellows today are fast? Richie was like the wind."
The running bunt was a staple of Mr. Ashburn's repertoire - he would
sprint toward the pitcher and drag the ball down the first-base line
-
as was the opposite-field single. And in an era when base-stealing
was
rare, Mr. Ashburn stole 234 in his career.
While he played in the same era as Hall of Fame centerfielders Willie
Mays, Duke Snider and Mickey Mantle, he was the most productive
defensive player of them all.
He led National League outfielders in putouts a record-tying nine
times. His arm was only average, but, on a play that Mr. Ashburn
called his fondest baseball memory, it helped save the season in
1950.
On the final day, the Phillies needed a victory at Brooklyn for their
first pennant in 35 years. It was 1-1 in the bottom of the ninth, and
the Dodgers had runners at first and second when Snider lined a hard
single to center.
Mr. Ashburn charged fast and easily threw out Cal Abrams at home. In
the 10th, Dick Sisler homered and the Phillies won. It would be the
only championship Mr. Ashburn won in his 15-year career.
"I don't have any regrets," he said in 1988. "There's nothing I'd do
differently. I love living in the Philadelphia area. My family is
great. I enjoy what I'm doing, sticking around the game. But to tell
you the truth, I would like to have won a World Series or two."
Mr. Ashburn was never a great technical announcer, but he managed to
convey to the listeners a certain homespun intimacy and an unalloyed
love of the game.
"Someone once told me that that he felt as if I were right there in
his own living room," Mr. Ashburn said, "telling him about the game
in
a casual sort of way. I can't think of a better compliment."
Oddly, his death might have saved the Phillies from a painful
decision. Mr. Ashburn's contract expired at the end of this season,
and with the recent change in management, he was concerned about his
future.
"He was also extremely worried about what was going to happen to him
next year," Campbell said. "He talked to me about that several times,
most recently a week or so ago during dinner in the press room."
Mr. Ashburn liked to say he loved his job, not so much for any
professional satisfaction it brought him but because it kept him
close
to baseball.
"You're not involved with the constant pressure to win up here in the
booth," he said in 1988. "As a result you get a different
perspective.
You can take the time to enjoy the baseball."
And, until a few hours before his death, he always did.
In addition to Karen Hall, Mr. Ashburn is survived by his other
daughters, Jean Ashburn and Sue Ann Morrison; sons Richard and John;
his mother; a sister; a brother; and nine grandchildren.
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Photo:
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Thousands Show Ashburn Is Still Number 1 To His Fans To The End
They Lined Up All Day To Say Goodbye
The Philadelphia Inquirer (September 13th 1997) ~
By Frank Fitzpatrick, Staff Writer
The tributes to Richie Ashburn were as big as the busload of
uniformed
Phillies who marched into Memorial Hall like a pinstriped honor
guard,
and as small as the old transistor radio one wistful listener left
among the bouquets.
They were as solemn as the tears of Charlie Touey, a fan who said he
hadn't been able to speak Ashburn's name this week without sobbing,
and as irreverent as the words of John Kruk. "Nobody ever said
anything bad about Whitey," the former Phillie said. "Not even me."
Generations of Philadelphians, some wearing red caps with their
Italian suits, others in shorts and faded T-shirts, said good-bye
yesterday to Ashburn, 70, the beloved Phillies Hall of Famer and
broadcaster who died Tuesday, apparently of a heart attack. They were
joined by officials of the city's professional sports teams, friends,
relatives and city officials.
Throughout the day and into the night, a crowd of 20,000, according
to
the Phillies' estimate, moved past the closed cherry-and-brass
casket,
which was flanked by white-gloved police guards, in the grand and
grimy rotunda of the 121-year-old Fairmount Park building.
The viewing was one of the largest and most public in Philadelphia's
history, certainly the best-attended since Frank Rizzo's in 1991. A
private service will be held this morning.
First, it took the assembled dignitaries - from Mayor Rendell and
Eagles owner Jeffrey Lurie (he cut in line) to the current and former
Phillie Phanatics - nearly 2 1/2 hours to file past the flower-ringed
casket at the north end of the room and to express sympathy to
Ashburn's family.
"You almost have the feeling," Phillies vice president Larry Shenk
said, "that if Whitey were here, he'd be looking at all this and
saying, 'You know, you fellows might have gone a little overboard
with
this thing.' "
Then, shortly after 12:25 p.m., representatives of the Mannal Funeral
Home rearranged the restraining ropes, and the relentless but orderly
public procession began.
These farewells were more openly emotional, some fans reaching out to
touch the casket, some pausing in front for a silent prayer, others
lifting their children to read its simple brass inscription: "Richie
Ashburn 1927-1997.
"For 35 years he was a part of this city's life, and a link to
baseball's past," Rendell said. "I really think the fans of
Philadelphia are richer because of it."
Tug McGraw, the former Phillies reliever whose dramatics with the
1980
world champions led to some of Ashburn's most memorable radio and
television moments, cradled his 1-year-old son, Matthew, as he stood
in line. That championship team's manager, Dallas Green, and
centerfielder, Garry Maddox, softly talked baseball as they waited.
Phillies trainer Jeff Cooper and longtime team official Paul Owens
locked arms in a touching moment at the casket.
The line of mourners ran from the Welsh Memorial Fountain in front of
the ornate Centennial Exposition building, past the twin Pegasus
statues at its entrance, up worn granite steps, and into the sunlit
hall. It swelled about noontime and then again from 5 p.m. until the
lengthy tribute concluded at 8:26.
"Richie touched a lot of people," said Green, who met Ashburn when
the
future manager took part in his first spring training with the
Phillies in 1956. "His honesty and simplicity appealed to them, I
think. This game is very simple, and a lot of people forget that.
Richie stripped away all the bull and got to the point. Just like me.
Except I got fired for it."
Ashburn's three daughters and two sons greeted almost every visitor
personally. With handshakes and tears, they mingled almost nonstop
with those eager to share a story, usually humorous, about the warm
and whimsical Nebraskan.
"These are the people my dad would have wanted us to be with," said
Richard, 39, Ashburn's fourth child and the older son. "Every one of
them has a story. They say they're sorry, and then they tell the most
incredible stories.
"We knew he was loved," said Ashburn, who wore a red cap with his
father's No. 1 on the crown, "but this has been just unbelievable.
It's really helped all of us get through the healing process."
Richie Ashburn's 93-year-old mother, Genevieve "Toots" Ashburn, sat
with his sister, Bette Cram, and brother, Bob. Beneath her seat was a
box of tissues and a replica of the red-and-blue Phillies hat her son
wore as a rookie in 1948.
"It was so nice of you to come," she said over and over.
Sometime after 12:40, the line was halted when the uniformed Phillies
arrived. One by one, with the crowd behind them straining for a peek,
players and coaches approached the casket, bowed and moved on. Coach
John Vukovich, who had known Ashburn since the 1960s, was first in
line. Mickey Morandini was last.
Everyone who entered Memorial Hall - dignitaries at the rear, the
general public from the front - was asked to sign a book and handed a
black-and-white photo of a youthful, smiling Ashburn, bat, glove and
cap in hand. On the back was a poem written by Harry Kalas, his
Phillies broadcast partner for 27 years.
As they signed in, some fans placed flowers and personal items on a
nearby table.
Mike Radosinovich of Bressler, Pa., a longtime Phils fan and radio
listener, left the transistor radio. "He gave so much to me, I wanted
to give something back to him," he said.
Someone left a tiny 1997 Phillies calendar. Sept. 9 had been circled
in black. That was the day Ashburn died, just hours after working a
Phillies-Mets broadcast. "We'll miss you, Whitey," read the tiny
message scribbled inside. "The games will never be the same."
The Crowther family left a bouquet, in the midst of which was a
heart-shaped piece of wood containing Ashburn's photo. "Thank you for
giving us a chance to say good-bye," read the card.
Mannal's staff of 12 scurried around the hall, replenishing the photo
supply from time to time, chatting with the 25 police officers and
half-dozen park rangers, and passing messages from fans to family
members.
"We had no idea what to expect," Janice Mannal said. "All we knew was
that the turnout was going to be huge."
Though Philadelphia's sports fans have a well-deserved reputation for
harshness, they showed a softer side during the Ashburn farewell -
occasionally displaying both parts of their nature simultaneously.
"I'll never forget him," sobbed Touey, 63, of Collingdale. "It's so
sad. I don't remember the Phillies without him."
And then, as if preparing for a life after Ashburn, the sobs stopped
and Touey stiffened.
"Maybe now," he said, "we can get a good team here in Philadelphia."
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Richie Ashburn 1927 - 1997
Mine Of Priceless Gems
FROM: Newsday (September 10th 1997) ~
By Steve Jacobson
He spent one season of his 52 years of baseball in New York and yet
he
is one of ours. And we have to laugh.
Richie Ashburn died yesterday. He was 70, which is no age at all.
One of the things about being a certain age is that too often we have
to write about the death of people we like. Then again, we had the
pleasure of their company. Richie - everybody who knew him called him
Whitey - used to come to spring training in a borrowed antique car,
wearing bermuda shorts, argyle socks and a flat cap, smoking a
Sherlock Holmes swooping pipe and smiling. And everybody would smile.
"Baseball has lost its Will Rogers," Tim McCarver mused yesterday. To
paraphrase Rogers, nobody who ever met Richie Ashburn didn't like
him.
Even when he was whipping them on the tennis court.
People will gather to mourn him and will be drawn to the funny
stories, to the insights and observations about life and baseball
that
will last a lifetime as parables for all sorts of situations.
"When you build a ballpark," he said about the perpetual dusk of the
unlamented Colt Stadium in Houston, "you should put in lights.
Especially if you're going to play at night."
About how umpires and referees see bad teams, Ashburn explained:
"They
screw you because you're horse manure ." And tell me that's not valid
for life situations.
He played 15 years, won two batting titles and was second twice. His
first two seasons in the minors, he was a catcher - until they found
he was out-running batters to first base and made him a
centerfielder.
Only 11 times has an outfielder handled 500 chances in a season.
Ashburn did it five times, and nobody else did it more than once, not
even Willie Mays. Ashburn's throw to the plate on the last day of the
1950 season cost Brooklyn a pennant. He was the first batter up for
the Mets. That was in 1962, when he and Casey Stengel made the Mets
as
endearing as they were inept.
Ashburn made Marv Throneberry an unwilling folk hero. He elevated Hot
Rod Kanehl. His wit relieved Roger Craig's 18 consecutive losses.
Oh, we knew he was one of the best leadoff hitters ever before he got
here, but it was the Mets that provided the fertile ground for his
wit. He deserved the Hall of Fame for what he did, but what he said
should be on his plaque.
After batting .306 in 1962, he began his 35-year career as a
broadcaster in Philadelphia, where he played a dozen years, from
1948-59. He wrote two newspaper columns a week and insisted on doing
them himself. He became the most beloved figure in Philadelphia
sports
history - beyond Mike Schmidt, Robin Roberts, Chuck Bednarik or any
of
them. But he is a piece of New York.
He was given a boat as Most Valuable Met in the season of 120 losses.
When it was put in the water, it sank. Somebody forgot to put in the
drain plug. So it went that year. George Weiss, the Mets president,
opened the vault to offer Ashburn a $10,000 raise, which was a big
deal then, to play another season. Ashburn wisely declined.
"Everybody should experience something like that season," Ashburn
once
reflected.
"It was an invaluable experience," Kanehl said. "You'd do it again."
"Nobody," Ashburn said, "should have to do it twice."
On that team was Frank Thomas, known as Big Donkey, who missed part
of
the previous season with a shattered thumb. He had this gift of
bringing strong-armed players to tears by catching their best throws
bare-handed. Ashburn was his broker.
Thomas would stand there with his dumb look and Ashburn would say:
"You think you got a pretty good arm? I got a friend here who'll
catch
your best shot bare-handed." Don Zimmer lost $100. Mays also lost
$100, except Ashburn said Mays never paid.
Bilingual Joe Christopher taught Ashburn to holler "Got it" in
Spanish
so he wouldn't be run over by shortstop Elio Chacon. So Ashburn came
running in from center for a pop behind shortstop and called, "Lo
tengo," and sure enough, Chacon slammed on the brakes. And
leftfielder
Thomas ran over Ashburn, which cost two runs and the game.
Throneberry came late to the Mets and the spirit of the Mets. He
still
thought of himself as the next great prospect in the Yankees' system
and felt he was being ridiculed. Ashburn made him Marvelous Marv, the
darling of the downtrodden. Even when Marv was the flashback star of
a
fun beer commercial, he still wasn't sure what he was.
Ashburn played straight man to Marv, fed him lines. There was the
time
in the decrepit Polo Grounds when Throneberry was sitting in front of
his locker, permitting a leak in the ceiling to drip, drip, drip onto
his bald head.
"I deserve it," Throneberry said.
"Yes, you do," Ashburn agreed.
Craig recalled what a good leadoff hitter Ashburn was. "You could
throw him a perfect pitch," Craig said. "He'd foul it off and laugh
at
you until you made a mistake and he got a hit." Bat control, it was
called.
Once he hit a foul ball that hit a woman between the eyes. Broke her
nose and glasses and cut her face. As they were carrying her out,
Ashburn hit her again. "That," Ashburn said, "was not bat control."
For years before he was selected to the Hall of Fame, Ashburn argued
that he wasn't qualified. When he was selected in 1995, the first
thing he did was call his 91-year-old mother in Nebraska. "Mom, your
son is in the Hall of Fame," he said.
"He said it with such passion," McCarver said. "This is tough for me
to tell."
After he stopped playing, Ashburn became an outstanding tennis and
squash player. It would irk Bill White that he'd hit the ball hard
and
Ashburn would hit it soft, and Ashburn would win. Lenny Dykstra lost
more than one tennis bet to him.
Jim Bunning, now a congressman from Kentucky, recalled that he
couldn't beat Ashburn in tennis or golf. "I always looked at him as
indestructible," Bunning said yesterday.
McCarver and Ashburn were partners in a charity golf tournament and
Ashburn was standing over a little putt on 18, which could have made
the difference. "He couldn't putt worth a damn," McCarver said. "The
other guys are saying, Pressure getting to you, Whitey?'
"He looks up with his pipe in his mouth and that cap and says,
Pressure never gets to a two-time batting champion.' Then he misses
the putt. And he's so angry, and his face is red from laughing so
much."
He was an original Met. He remains an original.