The Dark Side of the Diamond

The Good Man - Lyman Bostock

I still have his card.

1978 Topps. Number 655. Lyman Bostock of the California Angels. It’s not an action shot. He’s not holding a bat or flashing a smile. It’s a simple, tight frame, just his shoulders and face, eyes looking slightly off to the side. A couple of players are blurred in the background. He looks calm. Serious. Present.

The first time I really saw that card was after I read about him, I must’ve been 11 or 12. I don’t remember exactly where maybe it was the Ashland Daily Press, maybe The Sporting News or Baseball Digest. But I remember what it said, Lyman Bostock had been murdered.

That word hit different. Not “injured.” Not “retired.” Murdered.

And I remember holding that card, looking into his face, frozen there forever and thinking, realizing really, He will never be alive again.

That thought stuck. Him and Thurman Munson. The first two players that taught me death didn’t care about batting averages. Or talent. Or youth. They were gone. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it.