Lost for Words
The phone rang three times before a voice on the other end answered.
“Yeah?”
That’s all it took. One word. I wilted.

The voice was Harmon Killebrew’s. Nicknamed “The Killer,” Killebrew was one of the most prolific power hitters in Major League history. That guy “can knock the ball out of any park, including Yellowstone,” observed an opposing manager. In a career spanning 22 seasons, most of them with the Minnesota Twins, Killebrew amassed 573 home runs between 1954 and 1975.
At the time of his retirement, it was the most home runs by a right-handed hitter in American League history, an achievement that helped put him in the Hall of Fame.
And now I was on the phone with him.
It was intimidating. Part of it was knowing I was dealing with a genuine star, a God of baseball.

Heavens, I even had Killebrew’s baseball card, the one printed when he began his career at age 17 with the Washington Senators. . .and I was just eleven.

But the other reason I felt out of my league was the brusque way “The Killer” had answered the phone. Maybe I had interrupted something; maybe he’d been taking a nap. I have no idea. What I do know is that I was so nervous I could hardly speak. Nevertheless, I needed a favor.
“Uh, Mr. Killebrew?”
“Yeah?” he said again.
I introduced myself, explaining that I was a reporter for WCCO TV in Minneapolis. I paused, hoping he would say something like “What can I do for you?” Instead, he remained silent. So I stumbled on, or tried to.
“I’m, uh, doing a story and, well, I was kind of wondering if, uh, maybe you could, um. . .”
“Yeah?” That made three yeahs. Killebrew sounded impatient as he waited for me to get to the point.
What I wanted to say was that I was doing a story about a boy dying of cancer and hoping Killebrew could visit him. The boy loved sports, especially baseball, and such a visit would lift his spirits. But I was too tongue-tied and at a loss for words. After a minute or so, I quickly thanked Killebrew and apologized for disturbing him.
Yeah!” said Killebrew, for the fourth time. He must have thought I was a total idiot. I certainly felt like one.
In my defense, I had just graduated from college — that was in 1967 — and was working my first job.

WCCO was one of the best television news stations in the country, a station that had garnered numerous awards for journalistic excellence and was a prime recruiting ground for the major news networks, especially CBS.

Being a complete novice, I was lucky to be there. Unlike other TV stations, no one was ever fired from ‘CCO because of low ratings, declining revenue or screwing up. Everyone had the opportunity to learn and grow.
One of my opportunities arose when I began working on a series dealing with death and dying. It was called “Living With Death” and addressed a subject many people found uncomfortable but which experts said should be treated more openly. Our main story was about a 17-year-old cancer victim named Tom Nelson. When I first met Tom and asked if a cameraman and I could spend time with him as he underwent treatment, he readily agreed. “Maybe it’ll help someone else,” he said.
That is what I wanted but failed to convey to Killebrew. The moment our “conversation” ended, I approached WCCO’s sports director and described what happened. “I really blew it,” I said. The sports director told me not to fret. “Harmon is one of the nicest gentlest guys in baseball,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll want to help but you’re better off going through the Twins’ media relations department first. Just give them a call.”

I knew the sports director was right. After all, when Harmon was asked what his hobby was, he said, “Just washin’ the dishes, I guess.” Nonetheless, the call was never made.
In the days and weeks that followed, Tom’s condition steadily worsened. The cancer had spread throughout his lungs. Radiation and chemotherapy proved useless and doctors held out little hope. Tom, however, remained upbeat. He said he wasn’t scared and that he didn’t feel cheated. “There are a lot of people worse off than I am,” he said, “a lot worse.”
We had become close during this time and I think Tom, as well as his family and physicians, had grown comfortable with the constant presence of a reporter and cameraman. I also think they drew comfort from it, knowing that someone else cared. In everyone’s mind, however, was the conviction that Tom wasn’t going to make it. His primary doctor promised to call when the end seemed imminent.
It was on a Friday night, a cold November evening, that the phone rang. “It’s time,” the doctor said. “You might want to get over here.” Eight months had passed since I had begun working on Tom’s story. I called my cameraman and we raced to the hospital.
When we entered Tom’s room, he looked stricken, his eyes darting back and forth. He was wearing an oxygen mask and gasping for breath. He saw us but said nothing. Tom knew why we were there.
Tom’s father arrived minutes later. It was an awkward moment and I wondered what he would do. Grab our camera? Tell us to stop?

Instead, he approached the bedside, leaned close to his son and said, “Shall I ask them to leave?” Tom shook his head no. Tom’s father then left the room to await the rest of the family.
I wanted to say something to Tom, to comfort him somehow and let him know he wasn’t alone. But words failed me. This time it was not because I was tongue-tied but because I was scared. Retreating into my journalist’s shell, I struggled to shut out the emotionally wrenching scene that was unfolding and just concentrate on my job.
Tom’s breathing began to quicken and machines monitoring him began to beep. And then, just like that, his eyes closed and his head rolled to the side. He was gone.
Minutes later, his family accompanied by a priest burst into the room. Sobbing uncontrollably, they hardly noticed us as we continued to record this most touching and private of moments. “If you want to kiss Tom goodbye,” the priest told the Nelsons, “this is the time, the last time.” One by one, Tom’s family moved to the bed to embrace him.
Tom’s story was picked up by CBS News and broadcast nationwide. In terms of television news, it was a powerful moment, and I pray that the story accomplished what Tom hoped it would: that it would comfort and help others.
However, I was filled with regret. I’m sorry he never met Harmon Killebrew; I’m deeply sorry I didn’t make that happen for him. To be honest, it still bothers me; just thinking about it again, I can hardly write about it. Looking back, I still scold my youthful self over and over for my behavior.
After eight years at ‘CCO, I became a foreign correspondent for CBS and ABC News. During that time, I interviewed dozens of famous figures. Among them was South Africa’s Nelson Mandela who’d just been released from prison, Israel’s president Yitzak Rabin just before he was assassinated, Mother Theresa shortly before her death, the Soviet leader Mikail Gorbachev and Libya’s Colonel Muammar Gaddafi. Not once in the presence of those people did I shrink or feel intimidated as I did that day on the phone. Then all I needed to do was ask Killebrew to visit a dying boy. Such a simple thing, but an important one, and I couldn’t do it.
Killebrew himself was also to die of cancer. That was in in 2011, but he remains a revered figure, especially in the Twin Cities where he spent so much of his baseball life.

At the Mall of America, which was built on land that was formerly the home of Metropolitan Stadium, the longest home run “the Killer” hit there is marked high up on one wall. It is a red chair from the old stadium and it’s placed exactly 520 feet from where home plate was and at the angle his home run took.

The location of the orginal home plate is marked with a brass plaque set into the Mall’s floor.

But when I stood on that brass plaque and looked up at the red chair, it was not Harmon Killebrew I was thinking of. It was of a young man who never got to meet him: Tom Nelson.
The Mall of America is today the largest shopping center in the world. It’s address? Killebrew Drive.


