Slick-fielding, light-hitting 1980s Giants shortstop Jose Uribe was killed in an auto accident late last night; he was 47 and living back home in the Dominican Republic:
Uribe owned a hardware store and other businesses in his hometown of Juan Baron in recent years, and ran unsuccessfully for mayor earlier this year.
For some reason, I found this description especially touching, symbolizing both the importance of ballplayers to the Dominican and the bond between generations of players:
Uribe’s death prompted an outpouring of grief in his hometown, where Los Angeles Angels outfielder Vladimir Guerrero led thousands of mourners through the streets.
Guerrero blasted music out of a van as they marched from the Uribe family home to the town’s baseball field. Among the mourners was Chicago White Sox shortstop Juan Uribe, a second cousin of Jose Uribe and from the same town.
The article mentions that Uribe’s widow is named Guerrero as well, so Vladimir may also be some sort of kin. Pinto notes that his first wife died in 1988. A postscript, not to blame the dead but as a reminder to the living: like Derrick Thomas, Uribe wasn’t wearing a seat belt.
2 thoughts on “Jose Uribe, RIP”
I grew up a Giants fan in the late ’80s and will never forget the loud chants ringing through Candlestick: OOOOOOH- rebay. As the prototypical no-hit slick-fielding shortstop, Uribe would nonetheless come up with base hits in unlikely situations. He will be missed.
EVERY TIME someone famous dies in a car crash, we find out he wore no seatbelt. I don’t “blame” him either, just saying . . .
Anyhow, here’s my one-and-only Uribe memory. Somewhere in the middle of the ’86 season, when it became clear the Mets were really good and would steamroll the NL East, it became something of a spectacle to see how’d they manage to win: extra-inning grand slams, pitchers playing the outfield, brawls, etc.
One night at Shea they played a lackluster game against the Giants, yet managed to hang around within striking distance. The Giants led in the bottom of the ninth, and who came up for the Mets with men in scoring position and 2 outs but our own slick-fielding, no bat, SS, good ‘ole Raffy Santana.
Who promptly popped up to the infield. Santana threw down his bat in disgust, and started to jog to first. Well . . . rookie infielders Uribe & Robby Thompson collided at second base, the ball fell in, and the winning runs trotted home for the Mets.
At that point I figured we had a magic season on our hands. Little did I know that another run would score at Shea in a similar manner months later.
Anyway, RIP Jose.
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