One cold January night in New York, Bob Costas shared a dinner with Mickey Mantle. As they finished their meal, Costas noticed something curious — Mantle asked for a doggie bag, something uncharacteristic for the famous ballplayer. They left the restaurant, walking briskly toward their hotel through the biting cold.

But then Mantle veered off course.

He led Costas to Madison Avenue, to a familiar spot where a homeless man huddled in a cardboard box. Mantle tapped gently on the box.

The man’s head popped out, wary and startled — until recognition softened his face. “Oh, hi, Mick,” he said. Without a word, Mantle handed over the food he had saved, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. From the way it happened, Costas could tell: this wasn’t a one-time gesture.

Mantle had been doing this for a long time, quietly, without fanfare.

Mickey Mantle was no saint.

He battled alcoholism, struggled with guilt over the hurt he caused his family, and endured anxiety attacks that sometimes left him shaking and breathless.

In 1985, the toll on his body grew harder to hide when severe headaches struck during public appearances.

But moments like that cold night revealed something deeper: a heart that, beneath all the flaws, still knew how to reach out in simple, human kindness. 1 Mickey Mantle wasn’t just a hero in the stadiums — sometimes he was a hero when no one was looking.