Farewell Bud Harrelson

Saying goodbye to a "quintessential" New York Met.

Under the tree, Christmas 1975.

I couldn’t let the week end without noting the passing of another of my childhood heroes, former New York Mets shortstop, broadcaster, third base coach and manager, Bud Harrelson. Though it’s only been 24 hours since the world learned of his death after a long battle with Alzheimer’s and dementia, I’m having trouble expressing anything that hasn’t already been said about Bud.

He was the quintessential New York Met, the only man who was on the field for both of the franchise’s World Series wins in 1969 and 1986, while also being a stalwart of the 1973 National League champs. He won a Gold Glove in 1971 and was a two-time All-Star. While he wasn’t the most popular player in team history — that will always be Tom Seaver — he inhabits a territory he shares with Tug McGraw, Cleon Jones, Rusty Staub and Mookie Wilson, among others: beloved.

We loved Bud. He was Seaver’s roommate on the road early in their careers and was known as Tom’s best friend on the team. You can’t talk about the history of the Mets without talking about Bud. In an interview with SNY that aired yesterday, Mets play-by-play voice Gary Cohen said that if you wanted to meet Bud but hadn’t managed it, that was because you hadn’t tried very hard. He never turned down a fan request for an autograph or to make personal appearances.

And there’s another thing about Bud. He never backed down, even when it probably would have been a good idea. After Jon Matlack shutout the Reds in Game Two of the 1973 National League Championship Series, Bud talked out of turn to the press about the Reds’ inability to hit Matlack. Before Game Three at Shea Stadium, second baseman and future Hall of Famer, Joe Morgan of the Reds, warned Bud that Pete Rose was unhappy with what he said. The rest is New York baseball history.

After his career ended — he played for three more seasons after he was mercifully traded following the debacle of the 1977 Mets season — he settled on Long Island and lived there the rest of his life, eventually co-founding the Long Island Ducks independent baseball team. He was my father’s favorite Mets player. Though my Dad topped out with CYO Baseball in Queens, like Buddy he was a scrappy, light-hitting shortstop who knew how to draw a walk and had some speed on the basepaths. One evening when my father was taking the return trip on the Long Island Rail Road from Penn Station back to the suburbs, he ran into Bud on the train. Dad, who treads that fine line between “mensch” and “nudge”, chatted him up for about 30 minutes before pulling into the station in Floral Park.¹

My Dad got me his autograph that night. It was inscribed on the reverse of one of Bud’s business cards. “To Eric. Believe in yourself. Bud Harrelson.”

It wasn’t just a throwaway line That same sentence was embossed on the nameplate that rested on Bud’s desk in his office at Shea Stadium when he was Mets manager.

Bud believed in himself and it took him further than he ever could have imagined. He wanted you to believe in yourself, so you could see the top of the mountain too. Having encountered many people who have reached the pinnacle of success, I can tell you that’s a very rare quality, one to be emulated and treasured.

Bravo zulu, Bud. In the afterlife may you enjoy fair winds and following seas.

1. One day we will chronicle my Dad’s random encounters with Mel Brooks, Anne Bancroft and Billy Crystal, among others. Today is not that day.