THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, March 8, 1995 TAG: 9503080622
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: C1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY PAUL SOUTH, STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: HERTFORD, N.C. LENGTH: Long : 124 lines
Jim Hunter sits in the kitchen of his comfortable brick home, signing stacks of baseball cards for the Upjohn Co. It has been more than 15 years since he threw his last pitch in the big leagues.
But baseball is never far away for the man former Oakland A's owner Charles O. Finley christened ``Catfish'' when he signed the then 18-year-old Perquimans County High School pitcher, and sent him straight to the big leagues.
Now 48, streaks of gray color Hunter's hair like a good curve caresses the corners of home plate. All around him are reminders.
A 1978 New York Yankees World Series ring hangs on the rack of a buck's head mounted on the wall in his den. ``I wear it when I go out,'' he says of the ring.
Bats used by Hunter's major league teammates - Lou Piniella, Reggie Jackson and Thurman Munson among them - support a banister leading upstairs.
Photographs line the stairwell. The young Hunter, clean-shaven with a buzz cut in a Kansas City A's uniform in 1965, his first year in the big leagues; a later photo of the ``Catfish'' most of us recognize, moustache and long brown hair, with Munson. On another wall, Jackson and Hunter are smiling on the pitcher's last day as a player on Sept. 30, 1979. Jackson is handing him one of the two World Series championship trophies now in his den.
The framed faces are what Hunter misses most about the game that made this small-town boy a legend.
``I was down in Orlando not long ago, with (Rollie) Fingers, (Gene) Tenace, Bill Mazeroski, Hank Bauer and `Moose' Skowron,'' Hunter says. ``You know, Hank Bauer and Moose are like two peas in a pod. You never see one without the other. I don't miss the game. I miss the guys.''
Hunter smiles as he retells the stories of his reunion with the greats of the game. His deep blue eyes still burn with a competitive fire, and dance with a bit of mischief worthy of the rollicking clubs he helped turn into champions.
Hunter's eyes flame, too, when he talks about baseball in its current state. In another part of the country, baseball players are trying to resurrect a sport whose ``hot stoves'' were cold over the winter. What does Hunter, one of baseball's first big-money free agents, make of the game today?
``When you sit down and negotiate an agreement with someone, both sides can't have everything they want,'' he says. ``The players and the owners are greedy. If they'd just sit down and talk, and realize that you're not going to get your way all the time. ... Both sides have to give and take.''
When Hunter signed a free-agent contract with the New York Yankees in 1975 for $3.5 million, complete with deferred payments and incentive clauses, it paved the way for big-bucks contracts. But Hunter says that salaries in the 1990s are out of hand.
``The owners are paying too much money,'' he says. ``I mean, even while the strike has gone on they're signing guys to $20 (million) to $30 million contracts.''
Hunter is also distressed about what he sees as an effort to gouge even the youngest fans.
``They're talking about wanting a fee for each Little League uniform that has the name of a big league club, like the Yankees or the A's or whatever,'' he says, a touch of disgust in his voice. ``They're trying to squeeze every bit of money out of everything they can. That's wrong when some kids' families have to worry about how they're going to pay for registration.''
Hunter's life in baseball today centers around youth work in his hometown of Hertford. Even with the big money, the glamour and the fame that came in New York, he never thought about settling anywhere but in the county seat of Perquimans County after his career ended. Now he farms, raising corn, cotton, peanuts and wheat.
``My Daddy always told me not to go into farming,'' he says. ``There's no money in it. It seems like if the price of a crop goes down, the cost of fertilizer and stuff like that goes up.''
While Hunter acknowledges that playing in New York for the Yankees helped him make it to the Hall of Fame, the Big Apple was not for him when it came to life after baseball.
``The writers in New York really control who goes into the Hall,'' he says. ``But I decided from the beginning that I would come home after baseball. My family was here, and my friends were here. It's a good place.''
And unlike poor prophets of old, and some mega-rich ballplayers of today, Hunter is held in high esteem in his hometown. The high school baseball field is named for him. So is a road that runs nearby.
``Jimmy's never changed,'' says Charlie Ward, a lifelong friend. ``No matter what's happened to him, he's always been the same. He's not `Catfish' here. He's Jimmy.''
Hunter ended his baseball career in 1979, at 33. In the context of careers like Nolan Ryan and Tommy John, it seems a young age to hang up the glove. But 1979 was a hard year.
``I lost my Daddy, Thurman (Munson, who died in a plane crash) and Clyde Kluttz (the scout who recommended Hunter to the A's in '65 and the Yankees in '75),'' he says. ``It was too much.''
As Jim Hunter takes a visitor around his house, he points out a picture of his parents - Abbott and Lillie Hunter - more than once. As he talks of his parents, and Thurman Munson, and the late Pigham Walker - the Wanchese man Hunter calls his ``second Daddy'' - the fiery blue eyes take on a mist.
``When Mr. Walker told you something,'' Hunter says, ``he told you straight. He didn't shoot you a curve. He loved baseball more than anyone I've ever seen. He made us love it, too. We'd come down to Wanchese, about seven of us, and we'd play all weekend.''
Now Hunter coaches youth baseball. A diabetic, he does work for the American Diabetes Association. Earlier this year, he made an appearance on behalf of Dare County's successful drive to land the 1996 Babe Ruth Boys 16-18 World Series. His name still conjures up the magic of the great A's and Yankees teams of the 1970's. Grown men still ask him for his autograph.
Jimmy Hunter remembers his first day in the big leagues, playing for Kansas City in Yankee Stadium. He remembers hearing later about television cameras zooming in on the 19-year-old blowing bubbles in the dugout, and Dizzy Dean saying to Pee Wee Reese: ``Pee Wee, that is Jimmy `Catfish' Hunter from Perk-ee-mans County, N.C.''
``My Mom watched every minute of it,'' he says with a smile.
She's gone now, and so is his dad, but family still means a lot to Hunter.
``I love seeing my kids do something well,'' he says. ``When I was growing up here, we learned to respect older people. Now I am one of the older people. But you've got good people here. You've got the water. You've got everything.''
Jimmy Hunter is home. ILLUSTRATION: Color photo by Drew C. Wilson, Staff
Hall of Fame pitcher Jim "Catfish" Hunter, shown firing away during
a benefit last year, says major league baseball is in today's mess
because "the players and the owners are greedy."
KEYWORDS: JAMES AUGUSTUS HUNTER PROFILE BIOGRAPHY by CNB