away from occasional fisticuffs. At one Friday-night barn dance, Commerce men took umbrage at the attention lavished on their women by some out-of-town dandies. “Daddy stepped up, said, ‘Ain’t no women for you to pick up. Ya’ll need to leave,’” Larry said. “Sure enough, Daddy and this guy start out in a fight. Then here comes Lovell, getting in the road.”
Mutt tried to move Lovell out of the way. But, Larry sighed, “he couldn’t keep Mom out of it.”
When one of the twins got banged up on the final play of a football game, the enraged Lovell lit out for vengeance. “She grabbed ahold of my hand, and off we went across this football field,” Larry said. “ ‘Who’s the Afton coach?’ Guy says, ‘I am.’ She hit him, wham , hit him over the bench.”
Ted, Lovell’s son from her first marriage, spent much of his childhood at his grandmother’s house, his widow, Faye Davis, recalled. He suffered from osteomyelitis, the bone disease his half brother Mickey would contract. Ted told his wife that his mother had little patience with his infirmity. “When he was seven or eight years old he used to cry because it hurt,” Davis said. “But Lovell told him, ‘Shut up, people have to go to work in the morning.’”
Expressions of tenderness were few. Merlyn figured that was the reason her husband didn’t know how to show his feelings. “Mick’s family was cold,” she told me. “His mom was cold. I never heard her call her children ‘honey.’”
“She used to whip him, too, something he didn’t like to admit,” David Mantle wrote in the family memoir, A Hero All His Life .
Young as they were, Larry and Barbara don’t remember much about their parents’ marriage except, he says, that she ran everything. Were they affectionate? “No, not that much,” Barbara said. “I don’t remember them ever bein’ smoochie smoochie.”
Larry Mantle’s warmth was the exception to a familial reserve handeddown through generations of Mantle men. When he tried to hug his nephew Mickey, Jr., at a family gathering, “he almost jumped straight back.” Leaving a holiday party with Mickey, Sr., one year, Larry paused to embrace their mother. “We get outside, and Mick said, ‘I wish I could do that.’
“And I said, ‘What?’
“He said, ‘Kiss Mom on the cheek like that and hug her.’
“I said, ‘Just walk up and do it.’
“I really felt sorry for him that he couldn’t. Because, my goodness, that must be terrible.”
2.
Mutt and Lovell’s oldest son was as quiet as his father and as pugnacious as his mother. An “ornery little varmint,” Cousin Max called him.
Everyone else called him Little Mickey. He didn’t weigh but ninety pounds when he was a freshman in high school, qualifying him to play on the Midget basketball team. What there was of him was all boy. He set fire to the trash and raced the flames to the outhouse, trying to douse them with a bucket that had a hole in the bottom. He was five then. He tied himself to the hind quarters of a calf, pretending he was a rodeo rider. “That old calf bolted out the side door of the barn,” DeLise said. “We thought it killed him.”
He was the big brother who organized the games, made the rules, and played the pranks. “Usually it was fun for him at other people’s expense, like mine and Barbara’s,” Larry said. “We had this old barn with a big wasp nest. He’d do a deal where he’d go in and tear down the wasp’s nest. No one could run ’til it started falling.”
At Whitebird, he turned the porch into a fort with dynamite crates from the mines. “We used to build rubber guns from tires that had inner tubes,” Larry said. “I was on his side a lot. Cannon fodder.”
But he was scared of heights, particularly the roller coaster the twins rode to death in St. Louis, and as a little boy scared of bugs. Mike Meier’s grandma babysat for the Mantles. “Granddad used to laugh,” Meier said. “He was scared to death
Mutt tried to move Lovell out of the way. But, Larry sighed, “he couldn’t keep Mom out of it.”
When one of the twins got banged up on the final play of a football game, the enraged Lovell lit out for vengeance. “She grabbed ahold of my hand, and off we went across this football field,” Larry said. “ ‘Who’s the Afton coach?’ Guy says, ‘I am.’ She hit him, wham , hit him over the bench.”
Ted, Lovell’s son from her first marriage, spent much of his childhood at his grandmother’s house, his widow, Faye Davis, recalled. He suffered from osteomyelitis, the bone disease his half brother Mickey would contract. Ted told his wife that his mother had little patience with his infirmity. “When he was seven or eight years old he used to cry because it hurt,” Davis said. “But Lovell told him, ‘Shut up, people have to go to work in the morning.’”
Expressions of tenderness were few. Merlyn figured that was the reason her husband didn’t know how to show his feelings. “Mick’s family was cold,” she told me. “His mom was cold. I never heard her call her children ‘honey.’”
“She used to whip him, too, something he didn’t like to admit,” David Mantle wrote in the family memoir, A Hero All His Life .
Young as they were, Larry and Barbara don’t remember much about their parents’ marriage except, he says, that she ran everything. Were they affectionate? “No, not that much,” Barbara said. “I don’t remember them ever bein’ smoochie smoochie.”
Larry Mantle’s warmth was the exception to a familial reserve handeddown through generations of Mantle men. When he tried to hug his nephew Mickey, Jr., at a family gathering, “he almost jumped straight back.” Leaving a holiday party with Mickey, Sr., one year, Larry paused to embrace their mother. “We get outside, and Mick said, ‘I wish I could do that.’
“And I said, ‘What?’
“He said, ‘Kiss Mom on the cheek like that and hug her.’
“I said, ‘Just walk up and do it.’
“I really felt sorry for him that he couldn’t. Because, my goodness, that must be terrible.”
2.
Mutt and Lovell’s oldest son was as quiet as his father and as pugnacious as his mother. An “ornery little varmint,” Cousin Max called him.
Everyone else called him Little Mickey. He didn’t weigh but ninety pounds when he was a freshman in high school, qualifying him to play on the Midget basketball team. What there was of him was all boy. He set fire to the trash and raced the flames to the outhouse, trying to douse them with a bucket that had a hole in the bottom. He was five then. He tied himself to the hind quarters of a calf, pretending he was a rodeo rider. “That old calf bolted out the side door of the barn,” DeLise said. “We thought it killed him.”
He was the big brother who organized the games, made the rules, and played the pranks. “Usually it was fun for him at other people’s expense, like mine and Barbara’s,” Larry said. “We had this old barn with a big wasp nest. He’d do a deal where he’d go in and tear down the wasp’s nest. No one could run ’til it started falling.”
At Whitebird, he turned the porch into a fort with dynamite crates from the mines. “We used to build rubber guns from tires that had inner tubes,” Larry said. “I was on his side a lot. Cannon fodder.”
But he was scared of heights, particularly the roller coaster the twins rode to death in St. Louis, and as a little boy scared of bugs. Mike Meier’s grandma babysat for the Mantles. “Granddad used to laugh,” Meier said. “He was scared to death
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