Moby Benedict Obituary

It wasn’t my idea.

I was put up to it.

(What a lame excuse!)

I loved it – the feedback from the players, the attention of the crowd, the pseudo mini-celebrity.

Pride.

The opposite of Moby.

“How did he get a name like Moby?” I asked one of the Boys.

“Well, his actual name is Milbry, so . . . “

It was 1975 when I started regularly attending University of Michigan baseball games.

From before that through 1979, the end of Moby’s run, the Boys of Spring moved to Animal House, next to the Mud Bowl, when the school term ended because baseball season extended for another 2 to 4 weeks.

I stayed through the summers of 1975 and 1976 but most of the brothers left so there were plenty of empty rooms.

I was paying the fraternity $30 per month so I am sure Canham got a good deal for the team.

Some of the players liked the place so they moved in full time.

I appreciated all the more the effort and skill it took to play for those teams, given that my childhood dreams of pitching for the Tigers went up in smoke when I could not make a no-cut Babe Ruth league.

For unknown reasons, Moby had our dugout behind first base though he coached from third.

In the bottom of every inning, he scooted out of the dugout and waddled across to his position.

He was a bit bowlegged and 5 foot 8 tall.

One of the boys, OK, the son of the old guy in the picture, said to me “use that obscenely loud voice of yours and yell something like Hey Moby! While he is crossing the diamond.”

I succumbed to peer pressure and people pleasing and decided to give it a try.

My regular spot was about one third the way up from our dugout.

I confess to some trepidation as to how he would respond.

I had to be sure Michigan was in the lead.

With Moby’s back to me as he navigated over the chalk lines and pitcher’s mound, I let loose with every decibel I could manage, starting when he emerged and reaching a crescendo when he landed and turned back around.

I was not ejected though several people covered their ears and moved away.

I wondered how Moby would take it.

The first few times – nothing.

Then, he looked up in my direction, and tipped his cap.

I never did the yell when we trailed and never on the road, as I did not want it interpreted as anti-Moby.

And never more than twice in a game – I think.

Though 7 inning doubleheaders were how the Big Ten scheduled in those years.

The players enthusiastically endorsed it.

They were my real audience.

*  *.  *.   *.   *.   *

One day I went to the IM building to play paddleball.

And there was Moby, potbelly and all, on the challenge court.

I thought “easy-peazy lemon-squeezy.”

Through the years, we had occasional viewings or contact with each other but never acknowledged that I was the screamer.

He crushed me 21-2.

I think I scored the 2 when he went to the bathroom.

I was exhausted and he did not break a sweat.

The telling of the tale back at Animal House elicited gales of laughter.

“You know that billboard thing up on the wall with all the past national champions?”  one of the Boys asked.

“Yeah. Sure. I’ve seen it.”

“Did you notice Moby’s name?”

“Uh, no.”

That was the one year he entered the competition. Said it took too much time so he did not even bother to defend his title.

Another  lesson in humility.

It was great fun knowing the players and getting the inside scoop on strategy and opponents and, well, everything.

Some of the best talent Michigan baseball ever fielded, 1979 becoming the first college team to produce 3 first round draft picks in one draft.

I am old school, so am not googling this, but from 75 to 79, I only recall playing one conference game when we were not in contention for the title.

The 1979 Spartan team beat us the next to last game of the season to clinch first.

We had plenty of criticisms of Moby back in the days of our sophomoric omniscience.

For instance, he had four signs, take, bunt, steal, hit and tun.

Never changed them – the same year after year.

If you paid attention from the stands, you could figure them out.

 

Lots of talk on this blog and elsewhere about what makes a Michigan Man.

Whatever it is, Moby had it all.

Read the obit linked to at the top of this post.

He never cheated.

I never saw him get thrown out of a game.

He did have a John Beilein type ejection that was more on the umpire.

I know damn well he never lied to a player.

Or anyone else.

Moby lived a Christian, faith based life and was married for 66 years.

Humility.

Many, many accomplishments in his long career.

He never boasted about, and probably never brought up, any of them.

As my beard metamorphoses from black to gray to white, I see now that Moby led a cumulatively profound life.

He never rescued a child from a burning building or saved a stranger’s life with CPR.

He showed up for work day after day, week after week, year after year, decade after decade, to serve others.

Teaching young players the fundamentals of the game he loved with such passion.

The Boys tell me Moby had a reputation in the Bigs because players he coached at Michigan did not have to be taught how to play baseball.

The dedication and perseverance it takes to build the life that he did should not pass unnoticed.

He is to be honored before the Michigan game versus Rutgers at Ray L. Fisher Stadium on May 19.

A prior commitment prevents me from attending.

Many of the Boys will be there.

I urge you to attend.

And donate to the scholarship fund linked to in his obituary.

Check out the retired numbers posted in left field.

Seek out his former players.

Ask them about Moby.

You might learn something about life.

I did.

Post-script

I think it was 1992.

The next day after the Spartans tackled Desmond in the end zone to thwart the 2 point conversion.

The first old-times game at Ray L.

After that excruciating loss, I was even more eagerly anticipating attending and seeing which of the Boys would make it back.

Son of a gun.

There goes Moby to coach 3rd base for a few innings.

Should I give one more yell?

For old time’s sake?

I know the players would love it.

OK, I would too.

I made my way to my old spot.

And gave it my all.

One last time.

The smattering of applause from the few contemporaries who recalled the ritual was overcome by the larger part of the crowd chattering things along the lines of “What the heck was that?”

Moby tipped his cap.

He could laugh at himself – a quality I much admire.

Post-game, a bunch of us found ourselves in a semi-circle outside the stadium behind where home plate was.

Somehow, Moby was on my right.

In giving his critique of performances, he pointed in turn to each of the half dozen or so players, starting on his right.

He bent toward each player, first extending his right hand, index finger out, to give the review:  “You’ve lost it!”

Then retracting somewhat to pivot slightly and berate the next victim.

I expected to be excluded from scrutiny but he surprised me by turning to face me with a head splitting grin.

“You” he said, somewhat more graciously “haven’t lost a thing!”

Godspeed Moby.

I am sure now all the calls will go your way.