1973, The Shape of Things to Come | How Did We Get Here? Podcast

In 1973, George Steinbrenner bought the New York Yankees and changed the face of baseball forever.
 That same year, a young kid with a transistor radio and a Joe Pepitone glove fell in love with the game — not just the wins and losses, but the voices, the legends, and the dreams it carried.

From Phil Rizzuto’s “Holy Cow!” calls, to backyard games that ended with broken fingers and big what-ifs, this episode looks back at the spark that shaped a lifelong passion.

Because sometimes, the beginning of someone else’s dynasty can mark the beginning of your own journey too.

How Did We Get Here? — real stories about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.

Transcript

Was it just coincidence that George Steinbrenner bought the New York Yankees the same year I started to follow them?
While he was changing the face of baseball forever, my love for the game was only just beginning to blossom.

1973 - I was just a kid with wide eyes and a second-hand transistor radio.
The Yankees weren’t just a team on the screen — they were my team.

Names like Thurman Munson, Chris Chambliss, Graig Nettles, Mickey Rivers, Roy White, Reggie Jackson, Willie Randolph, Bucky Dent, and Sweet Lou Piniella.
 They weren’t just ballplayers.
 They were larger than life.
 Heroes who made me believe the game was something more.

And of course — who could forget Phil Rizzuto, the voice of the Yankees.
 That unmistakable call — and I can’t do it any justice, so I’m not even going to try — but “Holy Cow!”
 He made every inning feel electric, like you were right there in the Bronx, even if you were just a kid sitting in a living room miles away.

For me, Rizzuto wasn’t just calling games.
 He was shaping memories.
 Every crack of the bat, every pop of the glove, every laugh in the booth — it felt like he was speaking straight to me.

My pride and joy was a Joe Pepitone first baseman’s glove.
 When I got it, I had no idea who Joe Pepitone was — I just assumed he was a first baseman because it was a first base glove.
 Later I found out he actually was a first baseman for the Yankees.
 To me that glove wasn’t just leather — it was gold.
 I wore it every chance I got, dreaming of making plays in the Bronx.

Of course, fate had other plans.
 One broken finger in Little League… and suddenly my “career” felt over before it had even started.
 Later, a mishap with catcher’s gear only made the sting worse.

Still — I kept throwing.
 Kept catching.
 Kept dreaming.

Because that glove wasn’t just a piece of gear.
 It was a symbol of hope.
 A reminder that maybe — just maybe — I belonged in the game.

Oh, and by the way — I still have that glove somewhere.

The transistor radio was where it all started, but it didn’t stop there.
 I had a little black-and-white TV too.
 Between the crackle of the radio and that tiny screen, the Yankees came to life.

I can still see it like it was yesterday — Ron Guidry striking out 18 batters.
 Eighteen times the crowd roared as I sat glued watching every single strikeout.
 Eighteen times I thought, “This is magic.”

I felt the sting of 1976 when the Big Red Machine rolled over the Yankees in the World Series.
 And I tasted the sweet redemption in ’78 and ’79.

Who could forget Reggie Jackson — three swings, three home runs.
 That was the birth of Mr. October.
 October history burned into my mind forever.

And then of course there were the fights — the rivalries:
 Yankees and Red Sox going at it — Piniella and Fisk throwing down.
 Nettles and Brett in Kansas City with the pine tar bat.
 Even the fire in the clubhouse — Reggie and Billy Martin.

It wasn’t always pretty.
 But as a boy watching it unfold, it all felt larger than life.
 Like every game was more than just a game.
 It was a story I couldn’t turn away from.

Baseball wasn’t just a game for me.
 It was a refuge.

When things weren’t going so good in my life, I’d lie in bed and replay the Yankee wins in my head.
 Pitch by pitch.
 Swing by swing.
 Almost like my own highlight reel.

Somehow, those memories calmed me enough to drift into sleep — a peaceful slumber wrapped in pinstripes.
 And if I’m being honest… sometimes even now, as an adult, I still use that trick.
 (Shhhh… don’t tell anyone.)

And then there was Thurman Munson.
 The Captain.
 He wasn’t the flashiest player… but to me, he was everything a Yankee was supposed to be.

I remember Ron Guidry telling a story about Munson.
 Guidry was having trouble finding the strike zone and the signs were confused.
 Munson just walked out to Guidry and said, “Throw the ball. I’ll catch it.”
 I thought that was pretty cool.

He was tough, reliable, a leader who didn’t just wear the uniform — he embodied it.
 As a young boy, I thought that’s what mattered most.
 Not just the hits or the home runs, but the way you carried yourself.
 The way you led when others were watching — and most importantly, when they weren’t.

Munson wasn’t just my favorite player.
 He was my hero.

The Yankees are the only team I’ve followed my whole life — from those early years through adolescence into adulthood.
 Good times and bad.
 And I think I know why.

To me, the Yankees embodied the things I valued most: trust, honesty, loyalty.
 Some of the greatest players the game has ever seen wore pinstripes.
 But not one of them thought they were bigger than the game itself.

And that — right there — is what captured my heart as a young boy.
 And why my loyalty will never fade.

Truth is, I always wondered how far I could’ve gone.
 If that tryout had been possible.
 If the finger hadn’t been broken.
 If the gear hadn’t failed.

But baseball gave me something more important than stats or trophies.
 It gave me passion.
 Discipline.
 A dream to chase, even if it slipped through my fingers.

While Steinbrenner was building a dynasty in New York, I was building something too.
 A love for the game that would never leave me.
 And even though I’d never wear the pinstripes, I’d carry that feeling — that spark — into everything that came after.

And one day, the lessons I learned from the game — from my hero, Thurman Munson — would mean more than I could ever imagine.

This is How Did We Get Here? — a podcast about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.
I’m Jim Richmond, and I’m still here for a reason.
Maybe you are too.