Terence Malley (1937-2004)

Shortly after every issue of NINE was published, Terry Malley would send me a handwritten, often highly critical, capsulated article-by-article review of the issue's contents. Terry, a self-admitted recluse and fervent Mets fan, was a valued member of the editorial board of NINE. I will miss his assistance as a critical reader of manuscripts submitted to this journal and his role as a devoted correspondent discussing the joys and woes of the game.

Bill Kirwin

Terence Malley could be at times cold, cutting, and critical. He cultivated, I contend, a curmudgeon's persona as a distancing mechanism. Once the facade dissolved, however, one discovered the true Terry: caring, kind, courtly, and considerate. A bundle of contradictions, Professor Malley and I crossed career paths at Long Island University as "fellow travelers"—he as neophyte English instructor, and I, a rookie lecturer in history. We discovered common ground: radical politics and a passion for sports, especially baseball.

Readers of NINE could certainly appreciate Terry Malley's mastery of our national pastime reflected in his sundry contributions laced with wit as well as wisdom. Perhaps they also know of Terry's early career as a gritty catcher with a rifle for an arm and a keen eye at the plate on the sandlots of Brooklyn. Few, however, are aware of Malley's skills in basketball, which netted him an athletic scholarship that brought him to Maine's Bates College. Homesick for his beloved Brooklyn, the youthful Terry returned as a transfer student to LIU. Former mentor and longtime colleague Robert Spector hectored, browbeat, and ultimately tamed the young lion, compelling him to devour whole books in a single, all-night session. Terry resented Professor Spector's snide references to him as a jock. By sheer will to empowerment, Malley became a scholar as well.

A fine writer, Terry produced a brilliant book on author Richard Brautigan. Advised to submit the same as a doctoral dissertation, he refused on the grounds, highly ethical and not a little self-denigrating, that it was not appropriately designed to obtain a PhD. To be sure, Terry fashioned many pithy reviews and insightful articles for various journals, but he never produced another oeuvre. He certainly possessed the "right stuff" for literary success. An extreme penchant for perfection, I believe, precluded additional books.

Stubborn to a fault, Terry refused to collaborate with Joram Warmund and this writer in our labor of love—Jackie Robinson: Race, Sports, and the American Dream—claiming that "it was crap." Later, he happily altered his imperious judgment and actually developed a fondness for the volume. After all, Terence Malley had played a pivotal role in the successful conference, April 3-5, 1997, that gave rise to our book. He read every essay from potential and actual participants, helping us to create a conference and fashion a collection of historical significance. In spite of his self-deprecatory disclaimers, Terry deserved an MVP.

After his retirement from LIU several seasons past, fearing premature death in the wake of male members in his immediate family, Terry moved to Tacoma, Washington, so that his beloved wife, Kathy, would be near her sister. Proving Thomas Wolfe's assertion "You can't go home again" incorrect, Terry returned to New York City every summer to visit his secular shrine, Shea Stadium, to cheer for his favorite nine, the roller-coaster Mets, just as he had rooted fervently during his salad days for the Brooklyn Dodgers at Ebbets Field, alova sholem (rest in peace).

In this summer of our discontent with Bush and his mindless minions in Red Barber's "Catbird Seat," we need Terry more than ever. No designated hitter, which he abhorred, will suffice. To echo a song from our tragic Civil War: "We shall meet but we shall miss him. There will be one vacant chair."