"What do you mean, Jim?" Henderson said. "It's as clear as a bell out."
The retina in Murray's left eye had become detached—and that was his good eye. The right one had carried a cataract since 1978, leaving him only peripheral vision. Now both eyes were out and Murray was legally blind. Over the next year five operations on the left retina could not restore it.
"At that point, I did not care," Murray says. "I would like to have died, actually. When you're blind, there's no quality to life."
I guess I would like to see a Reggie Jackson with the count 3 and 2 and the Series on the line, guessing fastball.... Rod Carew with men on first and second and no place to put him, and the pitcher wishing he were standing in the rain someplace.... Muhammad Ali giving a recital, a ballet, not a fight. Also, to be sure, I'd like to see a sky full of stars, moonlight on the water, and yes, the tips of a royal flush peeking out as I fan out a poker hand.... Come to think of it, I'm lucky. I saw all of those things. I see them yet.
Funny, he didn't feel lucky, even as sympathies stacked up in his hospital room. Once, when Murray had just come out of surgery and was not allowed visitors or phone calls, the phone did a funny thing. It rang anyway.
"Hello, Jim? You O.K.?"
"How'd you get through?"
Reggie Jackson does, after all, have a heart.