Bobby Murcer's Return to Yankee Stadium

By Bobby Murcer, Edmond, Oklahoma

As appeared in

Opening Day. There's nothing like it, particularly at Yankee Stadium, one of the world's most storied ballparks.

The rich history, the celebrities, the sold-out stadium packed with fans—all the promise of spring packed into one baseball game. I've been part of Opening Day at the stadium for 37 years—13 as a Yankees player, the last 24 as a Yankees broadcaster.

But I've never gotten chills like I did last April 2, when I stepped into the broadcast booth at the start of the third inning, high above the field. Certainly, no one expected me to be there that day, at least not officially to call the game.

Fans—over 55,000 of them—began to clap, some even chanted my name. Yankee players tipped their caps from the top step of the dugout.

But this time it wasn't for anything I'd said from the broadcast booth or done on the field. They were cheering that I was simply in the ballpark. Four months earlier I'd been diagnosed with brain cancer. Doctors didn't know if I'd ever even see another Opening Day.

I have played sports all of my life and have always prided myself on being tough—a guy who takes the field even when he's hurting, and plays through the pain.

So last fall, when the headaches began, I went about my business. But the pain just grew worse and I felt exhausted too. I went to see my doctor. He ordered a series of tests.

On Christmas Eve 2006, while most people were getting ready to celebrate with their families, I was in the car driving home from the hospital with my wife, Kay. I had just undergone an MRI.

What's wrong with me? I wondered. It just didn't make any sense. Though I was 60 years old, I still worked out and stayed in shape. Then my cell phone rang. It was the doctor. I pulled over and punched on the speaker phone.

"Bobby, I have your results," the doctor said. He paused.

"Tell it to me straight," I told him.

"We found a tumor. I'm going to confer with some specialists and be back in touch with you to talk about the next step."

Tears ran down Kay's face and I pulled her close. She and I had known each other since I was 11 and she was nine. We've been married for four decades. She likes to tell people that she knows I love the Yankees, but she's the home team. And she is—my teammate for life.

"We'll get through this," I assured Kay. "I'm not going anywhere."

In bed that night, though, I wasn't so sure. The doctors wanted to operate in two days. Their haste worried me. I remembered my brother DeWayne, how he lost his battle with lung cancer years ago.

Finally I did the only thing left to do. There in the darkness of my room, I prayed. For strength. For courage. For life.

The day after Christmas, my brother-in-law Dwaine came with Kay and me to Houston, Texas. My Oklahoma City doctor had recommended the head of the neurosurgery department at the University of Texas M.D. Anderson Cancer Center for my surgery.

But when we arrived at the cancer center, another doctor was there to greet me. "Dr. Sawaya is not in the clinic today," he said. "I'm Jeffrey Weinberg."

I eyed him suspiciously. Dr. Weinberg looked young, no older than my own kids.

"We can operate tomorrow, or you can wait till Dr. Sawaya returns," he said. "I'll leave the room and let you think about it for five minutes."

"Life and death decisions made in minutes," I said to Kay, after he left.

We phoned my hometown doctor. There was urgency in his voice. I really couldn't wait another week, he told me.