#CardCorner: 1972 Topps Curt Blefary

There is a strange irony to those baseball cards that showcase photographs of poor hitters holding bats in their hands. Similarly, it seems incongruous when a player with a reputation for below average fielding is shown wearing a glove or a mitt. That feeling comes to mind whenever I see Curt Blefary’s 1972 “In Action” card.

The card is one of the final two cards that Topps produced of Blefary, whose career came to an abrupt end in 1972. The photograph shows him wearing a mitt and the so-called catcher’s “armor,” most notably the bright green chest protector used by the Oakland A’s of that era. By the time this card came out, Blefary had long since earned a reputation as a clunky defender. After all, he was nicknamed “Clank,” which represented the imaginary sound that a ball would make as it clanged off of Blefary’s mitt. Blefary wasn’t just known for subpar catching, but also for his struggles at other positions, including first base, third base, and the outfield.

That is not to say that Blefary was a bad player, not at all. The man could hit; he had legitimate power from the left side of the plate and a knack for drawing walks. He also played hard. Blefary might not have been a skilled defender, but he brought enthusiasm and determination to the job. Blefary played wherever his managers asked him, and always put forth a strong effort, but he just didn’t have the skills to prevent him from being a defensive liability everywhere he played.

I like the Blefary card not only because of the irony that it presents, but also because it epitomizes the tenacious and resolute role of the catcher. There’s just something cool about a catcher in his full gear on his baseball card. With his mitt on his left hand, the ball in his right hand, his cap turned backwards, and old-style lampblack visible under his right eye, Blefary looks very much the part of a gritty receiver who is ready for action and prepared to get a little dirty over the next nine innings.

It was largely because of Blefary’s action card that I became interested in learning more about him. Research into Blefary’s career and life have proved fascinating, presenting us the story of an outspoken player who struggled with alcoholism, but eventually found a way to overcome his personal demons. And then, he was gone – taken from us at too young an age.

Blefary’s career began in 1962, when the New York Yankees signed the Brooklyn-born youngster as an amateur free agent. Blefary spent a season and a half in the Yankees’ minor league system, but a technical error on the part of the Yankees’ front office exposed him to waivers, allowing the Baltimore Orioles to put in a claim. Thrilled to have a top prospect for the meager cost of the waiver fee, the Orioles assigned Blefary to Elmira of the Eastern League and converted him from outfield to first base. They also counseled Blefary about his temper, which had become a concern during his days in the Yankee farm system. Blefary didn’t hit much for Double-A Elmira, but the Orioles still promoted him to Triple-A Rochester in 1964.

Splitting his time between first base and the outfield, Blefary exploded as a hitter with the Red Wings. He belted 31 home runs, drew 102 walks and assembled an OPS of .924. Hoping to make the Orioles’ roster, Blefary reported to Spring Training in 1965, but began to complain that manager Hank Bauer wasn’t giving him enough playing time in exhibition games. “Sometimes my mouth would get into gear before my brain was engaged,” Blefary explained to the Baltimore Sun. “I did not get to the big leagues being shy. I got the attitude from my father.”

In spite of his verbal complaints, Blefary made the Orioles’ Opening Day roster and emerged as the regular right fielder against right-handed pitching. Blefary hit 22 home runs and coaxed 88 walks to earn American League Rookie of the Year honors. He also impressed Bauer with his hustle and work ethic. His colorful personality, which showed itself through his patented “Cadillac Trot” on home runs, made him popular with Baltimore fans.

Over the next two seasons, including Baltimore’s world championship season of 1966, Blefary remained a force in the Orioles’ lineup. His batting average dipped, but he continued to hit home runs and draw walks, while playing the corner outfield positions and first base. Blefary’s defensive shortcomings also started to become the stuff of legend. One day, Orioles star Frank Robinson dubbed Blefary as “Clank”. According to an oft-repeated story, the team bus drove by a pile of scrap iron one day, prompting Robinson to yell toward Blefary, “Go get yourself another glove.” The Orioles’ players erupted in laughter.

Thanks to his power production, Blefary looked to be solidly entrenched in Baltimore, but then came the stumbling block of 1968. It was the Year of the Pitcher, with conditions including an expanded strike zone and increasing ballpark dimensions conspiring to make life difficult for many hitters. The Orioles also experimented with Blefary as a catcher, while still using him as a first baseman and outfielder. The constant switching of positions seemed to affect Blefary, who saw his batting average fall all the way to .200. His power also dropped, as he hit only 15 home runs in 137 games.

Blefary’s struggles, combined with a tendency to lose his temper and some sparring with new manager Earl Weaver, convinced the organization to shop the young slugger that winter. One rumor had Blefary headed to the Chicago Cubs, but ultimately the Orioles settled on a different trading partner. They sent Blefary to the Houston Astros for left-handed pitcher Mike Cuellar and infielder Enzo Hernandez. Rather than use him in the outfield, the Astros made Blefary their starting first baseman. On the surface, his Astro numbers – a .253 batting average and 12 home runs – looked modest, but a deeper examination revealed something else. Blefary drew 77 walks and reached base at a clip of nearly 50 percent. His offensive numbers also looked better in the context of the extreme pitching conditions of the Houston Astrodome, a stadium what was not exactly tailored to a power hitter like Blefary.

Off the field, Blefary made news because of his friendship with African-American pitcher Don Wilson (also profiled in a recent edition of Card Corner). In 1969, Blefary and Wilson became roommates on the road. In so doing, they made history as the first interracial roommates in the history of the National League. The arrangement drew praise from the media, but it angered some racist fans. Blefary received hate mail berating him for daring to room with a player of color.

Blefary also drew praise from some of his teammates in Houston. In his iconic book, Ball Four, Jim Bouton lauded Blefary as an ideal teammate, the kind of guy you wanted to have in “a foxhole.” Bouton also credited Blefary for the off-season work that he did with children of special needs.

All things considered, Blefary did decently for Houston, but he clashed with manager Harry Walker, who tried to force the slugger to cut down his swing and use the entire field. Bristling at such a suggestion, Blefary preferred a pull-hitting approach and eventually asked for a trade. After the season, the Astros accommodated him, sending him back to his original organization: the Yankees. In exchange, the Astros acquired the ever-colorful Joe Pepitone.

After the trade, Blefary received sharp criticism from the Houston media. Longtime sportswriter John Wilson offered this assessment in the Sporting News. “Blefary has failed to see eye-to-eye with his last two managers, Harry Walker at Houston and Earl Weaver at Baltimore. He showed a lack of restraint in expressing displeasure with the way he was being handled and asked to be traded from both teams.”

Blefary completed the program successfully, but damage had already been done to his body. He suffered from pancreatitis, a disease brought upon by heavy use of alcohol.

On Jan. 28, 2001, Blefary died from the effects of pancreatitis. He was only 57 years old. When I heard the news, it hit me hard. Blefary had just come to Cooperstown for an autograph signing the year before. I had wanted to meet him, but for some reason, I didn’t make it to the signing. I thought to myself, “I’ll get him next year.” Next year would never come.

I regret never talking to Blefary about his fascinating and often difficult career. I missed out on hearing from the man who had roomed with Don Wilson, visited terminally ill children in the hospital, battled the effects of alcoholism and worked with the mentally challenged.

All that’s left for me is Curt Blefary’s baseball card – and the important memories that come with it. I guess that will have to do.

Bruce Markusen is the manager of digital and outreach learning at the National Baseball Hall of Fame