Where Have You Gone, Dale Murphy?

As a nation of Hall of Fame voters turns its lonely eyes to him, the questions linger: Should a man who never juiced be rewarded for the home runs he never hit? And what if our love was never really his reward?

- Wright Thompson

The boy focused his hurt and longing into his love for a baseball player named Dale Murphy. These were feelings he couldn’t process or even understand until years later, but he found comfort following the Braves. Joel Bronson was his name. He could have been any kid born between 1972 and 1978 anywhere within reach of the TBS satellite but most likely in the Southeast. Joel grew up in Florida, raised by a single mom. He longed for a relationship with his absent father and filled that hole with admiration for Murphy. Joel loved Dale. He watched all the Braves games on TBS. Finally in 1991, after Murphy had been traded and Joel’s grandmother had died, he sent Murphy a two-page letter. Normally he wrote chicken scratch, but on this one he worked hard on his handwriting. Joel told Murphy he’d been a “father figure” to him. Teenage boys often hide their weakness behind subwoofers and cigarettes, but Joel shared his grief over the loss of his grandmother. The pain poured out, and he felt better.

Joel became a teacher and coach. He kept communing with his younger self, shelling out money to attend Braves fantasy camp or to purchase something called the MVP Experience, where fans got to watch a game in a suite with Dale and Nancy Murphy. For years, he’d show up at these events until he actually came to know Dale a little bit. They even exchanged numbers. Last year he decided to go to Braves fantasy camp one last time, now a 44-year-old man with three disintegrating vertebrae who needed physical therapy several times a week just to stay on the field. He wore No. 3.