Atlanta Braves Flashback: My Darkest Day as a Braves Fan

In 1990, my fandom and loyalty toward the Atlanta Braves was tested. But I learned an important lesson that year, I just hadn’t realized it yet.

August 3rd, 1990. I had just turned 11 years old that July, and I was living in Schofield Barracks, Hawaii (I’m an Army Brat). Superstation TBS was still alive and kicking, so that, obviously, was my only connection to the Atlanta Braves after leaving Alabama.

Like many who were around for the Braves of the 1980’s, Dale Murphy was my hero. I don’t use that term lightly. He was my hero in every sense of the word. I idolized him. Every number I wore on the back of my jersey when I played, was the number 3. I got rather upset if I didn’t get #3. I don’t know how many people I had to correct when they associated my wearing of the number 3 to Babe Ruth.

I am ambidextrous, but my dominant hand was the left, so, I threw left-handed, but hit right-handed. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I began experimenting/teaching myself to switch-hit. Murphy always had that little waggle of the bat before readying himself to hit.

You know what I’m talking about, right? He’d let the bat hang from the waist, elbows bent just a little, both hands wrapped around the handle, and he’d give the bat a waggle back and forth, 3 times. I did this. He stood in the box with a confident, equally balanced stance. I did this. For me, as a kid, it was one of the most beautiful, fluid swings I had seen, and a follow through more picturesque than I could imagine.

To this day, my lucky number is, and always will be, number 3. My parents still swear to this day that my first words weren’t “mama” or “dada”. No. My first words were Dale Murphy and Bob Horner.

While I was still living in Alabama, I even used to question why even in Chicago, at Cubs games (thank you WGN), they would sing the “Braves song”. Also known as the National Anthem … You know, ” … and the home, of the Braves”. My family had a good laugh with that one. Anyway, I digress.

Flash forward to August 3rd, 1990. Being in Hawaii, and an 11-year-old kid, you can imagine my feelings when I heard the news that my hero, Dale Murphy, had been traded by the team I adored more than any other. A part of me died that day.