Don’t Meet Your Heroes?
They’ll always disappoint you, the saying goes. This is a story about how the rule doesn’t apply…if you have the right kind of hero.
My memories of watching Dale Murphy play baseball are so fresh and vivid, they surpass anything in the here and now.
Murphy played eighteen seasons in Major League Baseball—fourteen of them for my beloved Atlanta Braves, and all of those in my childhood.
I can still see bright Florida sunlight coming into the back room of my childhood home in the landlocked town of Bartow. The “TV room”—as my father oft declared it—would be awash in so much sunlight you could see every dust particle in the air but barely see the TV the room was named for thanks to the glare. I can still see the couch, my dad reclining in the La-Z-Boy, and the glider chair. I can feel the orange-brown 1970s shag carpet, where stains were easily obscured and GI Joe’s small weapons disappeared (only to be discovered later by either Momma’s vacuum or Dad’s bare foot).
I would sit on that carpet legs “crisscross applesauce,” or lie prone on my stomach, staring through the glare at the TV, watching the Atlanta Braves on TBS. I would fidget, impatient for Murphy, No. 3, to appear. Dale Murphy was more than my favorite player; he was my idol. The First Baptist Church taught me I should not worship idols, but I did not believe any God-fearing American in the 1980s thought worshipping Dale Murphy was sinful. If they did, they obviously they didn’t like baseball, or the Braves. They certainly weren’t real Americans. Most likely hippies or Presbyterians, and thus not worth listening to.
Each time I heard announcer Skip Caray say, “Murphy on deck,” my anticipation reached a fever pitch. Here it was, the moment I was waiting for: Murph is up. What’s it going to be? Single? Double? Homer? If runners were on base, an RBI?
Could be anything! Anything was possible when Murphy was up to bat. The Braves were awful in the ’80s, but it didn’t matter to me. Every at-bat for Murph was like I was watching the World Series, Game Seven, bottom of the ninth, with the championship on the line. Such was my adoration for No. 3.
I don’t remember dates, or specific games or at-bats. But I remember the anticipation, the joy, and the belief.
As a proud member of the so-called “TBS Kids”—the name given to kids who became Braves fans even though they lived hundreds of miles from Atlanta—I spent many a hot summer afternoon on that shag carpet, watching the Braves play on Ted Turner’s network. Always waiting for Murph to bat. Living and dying with every pitch.
When he hit one of his 398 career homers, I’d spring to my feet, mimic his swing with my souvenir Braves baseball bat, and running the pillow bases I had set up pre-game in the TV room, yelling my approval. Then I would plot right back down beside my dad to high-five and relive the previous three minutes like they had been the greatest sports moments ever. (Oh, to have the knees of a seven-year-old knee again!)
I don’t remember dates, or specific games or at-bats. But I remember the anticipation, the joy, and the belief. The belief came like waves: I just knew my hero would come through, but I would be crushed when he didn’t. But every time the crushed hopes went out with the tide, a fresh wave of hope would roll in. “Next time, Murph!”
Game after game—me, my dad, and the TV. Waiting, cheering, and letting billows of hope wash over me.
The Saturday before Father’s Day, 2023, these memories hit me like a slap as I opened a box from the Braves stadium shop. Inside, I found a blue, New Era baseball hat—size 7¾—embroidered with a white Atlanta “A,” trimmed in bright red, with a patch on the side that read: “MURPH, 3, NL MVP, 1982 and 1983.” I had emailed the Braves store some time before, inquiring about Murphy merchandise, and earlier that week a store employee called to tell me they had this hat in stock. I didn’t hesitate for a second. Take my money!
I was instantly transported back in time to that Florida TV room, the carpet, TBS, the pillow bases, and my dad. My dad, who introduced me to my baseball hero. My dad, gone ten years now, who just sat with me and watched.
Holding that hat in my hands, I walked into the kitchen, where my wife was, wearing a huge, shit-eating smirk.
After a couple of seconds, I realized what I was doing and became immediately embarrassed.
Instantly, she knew what I was really feeling, because she knew how much I missed my first hero. “Well, I won’t make fun of it if it makes you happy.”
“Stop it, you’re a grown-ass man,” I thought, cussing my own immaturity. Too late. I was caught, dead to rights and dignity.
“Sorry,” I half-heartedly apologized, “it’s a Dale Murphy hat.”
I don’t know why I apologized. I had no regrets for my purchase.
Elizabeth, looked down downward, registering instant disapproval. But then she looked back up with a tenderness I hope I always remember. She knew about my Dale Murphy hero worship. She knew how dad and I watched those games. Instantly, she knew what I was really feeling; because she knew how much I missed my first hero.
“Well, I won’t make fun of it if it makes you happy.”
“Thanks,” I said, and my huge grin returned. Just like a kid.
A year later, I’m flying up I-75 like a bat out of hell in a black F150, and I’m already late. Driving in the rain, too fast and irresponsibly by the standards of reasonable people. Alone in the cab, I’m darting in and out of four lanes of traffic and the HOV lane. I yell at strangers to go even faster. Leaving a job interview in Macon, ninety miles south of Atlanta, at 11 a.m., I know there is no way I’ll make it to the Cobb Galleria by 11:30, especially since I spent fifteen minutes going the wrong direction.
Late or not, there’s no way I am missing what I am traveling to: the Dale Murphy MVP Experience. I’d be spending a whole afternoon and evening hanging out with my hero, Dale Murphy himself. There’s lunch, pictures, autographs, stories, and watching that night’s Braves game with Murph. After a few not-so-subtle hints Elizabeth never acted on, I bought my $600 ticket to celebrate my student loans being paid off. No rain checks. So, I’m going. And as pissed off as I am at someone’s grandmother piloting a white Nissan Sentra ten mph below the speed limit, I’m grinning ear to ear again. Just like last Father’s Day when that dumb hat, currently riding shotgun in my passenger seat, arrived.
The Alabama songwriter Jason Isbell once wrote, “It takes a whole lot of medicine to feel like a little kid.” Maybe that’s the case with intoxicants, but I know all you need is to be a TBS kid going to meet and hang out with Dale Murphy. That’s more than enough.
When I arrive, I am still in a suit and tie. Not your typical ballpark wardrobe. I park the truck and grab the two items I’m allowed to have signed: a brand-new baseball, and my 1988 Topps Dale Murphy baseball card. The card’s condition is far from “mint,” not that it matters. This card isn’t for resale; it’s for me. Worn, with creases from inadvertent bending at the corners, I’ve had this card since that Little League concession stand 36 years ago where my dad bought the pack it came in, and there’s no way I will miss my chance to have Murph sign it.
On my way to sit down, still looking at my card and ball, I hear Murphy behind me exclaim, “This is John, everyone! He drove all the way from Macon to get here!”
Ball and card in my jacket pocket, I make my way across the parking lot, while it’s still raining. By the time I make it into the Galleria Mall, I see the sign “Dale Murphy MVP Experience,” and there’s Murph. I arrive just before he stops signing autographs.
Immediately, I am back to being that Little Leaguer in 1988.
“What do I say?” I think.
Fortunately, there’s not much time to decide before I have to hop in line along a far wall, dead last. Even more fortunately, Murph’s wife, Nancy, realizes I’m the guy who emailed earlier that week saying I’d be late. She ushers me into line, and leans down to tell Dale who I am. He looks up at me, smiles, shakes my hand.
“You’re the best dressed guy we’ve ever had!” he says. All I can do is smile wider and half- giggle a “yeah.” On my way to sit down, still looking at my card and ball, I hear Murphy behind me exclaim, “This is John, everyone! He drove all the way from Macon to get here!” Then, as if on cue, Nancy says, “He dressed up because he had a job interview.”
“Yeah!” Murph replies, “he wins for best-dressed guy we’ve ever had!”
The Little Leaguer inside me jumps so hard for joy that he almost appears in the real world.
After making our way to Truist Park, I find myself standing next to Murph’s son, Jack, and grandson, Ledger. Ledger, just like his dad and his grandpa, is a ball player, wearing his own Braves jersey. Jack played in the NFL for a bit, and recently moved his family back to Georgia. To a town close to where I live, in fact. After a quick conversation about the schools and good places to eat, I ask Jack something I’d been itching to talk to his dad about: “What was it like being there for the Wright Thompson interview?”
In 2018, the renowned Mississippi journalist and author Wright Thompson published a piece in ESPN: The Magazine called “Where Have You Gone, Dale Murphy?” That story revived my awe for Murphy, because in it, Thompson concludes that Dale Murphy never really became “Dale Murphy.” That is to say, Murphy did not adopt the persona of a 1980s Major League Baseball All Star. Dale Murphy, Thompson discovers, is just Dale Murphy the man.
I should preface this by saying I am a huge Wright Thompson fan; what interest I have in writing is because of Thompson, John Grisham, and Harper Lee. They are my Southern writing trinity.
Thompson involved the whole Murphy family in his story. I remember Ledger’s face from seeing him in a magazine photo, bouncing on a trampoline.
“It was great,” Jack answers me. “Wright just hung out with us, barely took notes.” Thompson’s Murph treatise teaches Dale is more than a great ball player. He is also a good man and a great dad. And that’s what I needed to know more about.
So, I linger near the man himself, looking for a chance to chat. After seeing a break between a brewery owner from Florida and a South Carolina Pork Association rep, I make my move. I know Dale is a fan of the aforementioned Jason Isbell, so I break the ice with that. Murphy and I start talking about Isbell’s latest Weathervanes, and all the great tracks it holds.
Murph tells me to not expect things from my kids—what they should be like, how smart they should be, what they want to do as they grow up. Instead, accept them as they are.
When the music chatter is exhausted, I change directions.
“Can I ask you about being a dad?” I say. “I’ve read Wright’s article several times, and what comes out to me is that you have such a great family, with successful kids.”
Finally, after that long windup, I get my real question out: “How were you able to do that and manage your career? And do you have any advice for me?”
Murphy seems genuinely appreciative of the compliments, and after giving most of the credit to Nancy, he then spends fifteen minutes with me talking about what family means to him. I mostly listen. And two critical values emerge: acceptance and example.
Murph tells me to not expect things from my kids—what they should be like, how smart they should be, what they want to do as they grow up. Instead, accept them as they are. Be direct but loving when they make mistakes. Try to steer them on a right path, and provide a moral foundation, but don’t expect them to take life on the way you did. Never condemn them for what they choose to do, because that cuts you off from your kids. You can’t help them if you are not in their lives. And the best way to lead your child onto a righteous path in life is to be an example.
“Show them how you treat other people,” he tells me, “because that’s how they learn to be a good person.”
That struck a chord in me. It’s sad that the idea hits me like a revelation, as if the Golden Rule itself was novel in its conception. But is there anything more universal than treating others as you’d have them unto you? It’s the oldest rule we know. To influence my kids to be good people, I must be a good person myself. And I have to accept them, so that I can always be there for them.
Maybe it was the bourbon, but my mind was doing circles. It was clear before I even asked my question: Dale Murphy’s kids are good because Dale Murphy is a good man. He showed up for his kids, even during eighteen 162-game seasons of professional baseball—and long after.
He was even showing up for me. I needed no other example than how Murphy made me feel that whole day. Welcoming me and tagging me as “best dressed.” Introducing me to the whole group. Taking the time to talk to me, one on one, like I was the most important person in those box seats high above the ball field. And while he was doing that, his son and grandson were there watching. I got the explanation and the example. When it was done, I felt more equipped for parenting than when I got there.
Murph homers again.
After what was undoubtedly a Top Five day in my life (along with meeting my wife, marrying her, and the births of our two children), I took time to reflect on what meeting Dale Murphy actually meant to me. It was a childhood dream come true, but it was more than that. It was an opportunity to spend one-on-one time with a baseball legend, but it was more than that, too.
It was the opportunity to learn that my hero was all I wanted him to be. An outstanding athlete, and a better man.
They say you shouldn’t meet your heroes, but if that’s a rule, Dale Murphy is the exception that proves it. Talking to Murphy about what it takes to raise good children was an affirmation that my hero worship was not misplaced. That the trust a seven-year-old boy put in the Braves’ best ballplayer was the one of the best investments ever. Not only had I idolized a good ball player, but I had also worshipped someone who treated his kids like my father treated me.
If you are really, really lucky, when you meet your famous hero, you will remember your real hero, who sat with you on a shag carpet to watch whoever your own Dale Murphy was.
My daddy sat with me watching the Braves for hours, because he knew I loved it. He loved football more than baseball, but he never pushed any sport on me or away from me. He simply saw where I was going and followed. When I wanted to play Little League like my friends, he bought me a glove and bat. He came to all my games, then volunteered to coach. He took me to look for baseball cards at shops and flea markets all over Florida. Sometimes when I’d tag along with my dad, a citrus man, to work, we’d go scouting orange groves in the morning and rookie cards after lunch. During that whole time, I was subconsciously watching—how my dad interacted with me, sure, but also how he talked to people, how he made square deals to buy oranges from growers, and how he treated everyone with a handshake and respect. My dad was, and still is, my first hero. Meeting Dale Murphy reminded me again of the many reasons why I loved and missed my father so much. Talking to Murphy about how he raised his children reminded me of what my dad did for me.
Dale Murphy was my sports hero because he was so like my original one. The cynics who say, “Never meet your heroes,” are wrong. Their belief comes from the assumption that no hero can live up to the hype, that you’ll just be disappointed.
But if you are lucky enough to have a hero like Dale Murphy, it’s a different story. Heroes like Murphy aren’t just heroic because of their public lives, but because of how they treat others—and how they accept those around them. And, if you are really, really lucky, when you meet your famous hero, you will remember your real hero, who sat with you on a shag carpet to watch whoever your own Dale Murphy was, who loved you and showed you how to be good, too.
About the author
John works as an attorney in Griffin, Georgia, while still pondering what to be when he grows up. When not lawyering, John wonders how he out-kicked his coverage with Elizabeth, his wife; and trying to be a good dad to two incredibly sweet, stubborn, and opinionated children. John loves live oaks covered in Spanish moss, Florida orange juice, and them Dawgs.
Beautiful Sunday morning read. I met Murph at an alumni divining at a Braves game a few weeks before I got married in 2011. I asked him for any advice he might have. He said when he and Nancy got married, they made an agreement that he’d make all the big decisions and she’d make all the little decisions. In 30 years, they hadn’t had one big decision.
I love Murph.
alumni signing, that should say. Dang autocorrect.
John T.,
After 20yrs. in the ATL (’81 to ’01) and then 20yrs. in Nashville I FINALLY met Dale Murphy… at a friend’s memorial. Peter Cooper was a writer, songwriter, artist, and massive champion of unknowns. (Peter changed the word ‘Champion’ from a noun to a verb for this Tuscaloosa boy.) And Peter was a life-long baseball NUT. But Dale…
Dale just happened to be in Music City on the day of my buddy’s memorial at the CMHoF and Dale simply brought his entire family over to tell everyone hello, pay massive respect, and share some Cooper stories… while on vacay with his lovely family. I mean dang, what a monumental stand-up guy.
Jon,
Thank you soooo much for sharing that. (And I can’t believe it’s been 20 years since you left.)