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March 06, 2006
Goodbye, Kirby
How does a man who is only 5'8" become larger than life?
I wanted to be two baseball players when I was growing up. One was Carlton Fisk; the other was Kirby Puckett. Kirby made the Twins' major league team the year I turned 16, and he was everything I wanted to be as a ballplayer. His fire hydrant body looked like it belonged on the Vikings and not the Twins, but the man was a baseball player. He was born to it. He collected four hits in his first major league game, and never looked back. He was a great player who loved to play -- and never seemed to lose sight of how lucky he was. He was living every little boy's dream, and he knew it... so he was going to share a little bit with us each day of what it felt like. And we loved him for it. I loved him for it. I named my dog after him. She was a girl dog. It didn't matter; she was going to be Kirbie no matter what anyone said.
Those who weren't there, who didn't see him play every day, who didn't feel what he meant to the Upper Midwest.... they didn't get it. Some argue that his numbers didn't make him a Hall of Famer. They weren't there. They didn't know. We did.
I remember Game 6 of the 1991 World Series as if it were yesterday. How loud it got in the Metrodome. It's not an exaggeration to say that every one of us knew -- not hoped, but knew that when Kirby came up in the bottom of the 11th, he was going to win the game. Hell, he'd done everything else that night. We just knew. And when he swung and we heard that sound and saw the ball arc high into the night, we grabbed each other and screamed and shouted -- both with the joy of winning, and celebrating the fact that we'd all known all along that it would be Puck. "I toldja he'd do it! DIdn't I tell ya? Atta way to go, Kirby!" He pumped his arm rounding second base and shouted his glee and still looked like a fire hydrant. And we loved him.
I keep hearing Jack Buck in my head, proclaiming "And we'll see you tomorrow night!" I can't help but think that maybe last night, Jack was saying it to Kirby again.
He wasn't perfect. We learned that for sure after he retired. But he had meant so much that it was hard to let him go. Maybe we wouldn't idolize him anymore, but we couldn't dislike him either. He became that family member who was always getting in trouble; you weren't happy about the things he did, but he was still family and you still loved him no matter how screwed up he got.
I met the man once. His career had been brought to a premature end by glaucoma. I was working in DC at the time, and he was on the Hill to promote glaucoma awareness. Free eye checks were set up in the lobby of the Rayburn building. My meeting was over by early afternoon, but I kept walking around the building for 45 minutes, walking past the foyer over and over again in hopes that I might see Kirby. And then he was there, coming out from the alcove to the main area to meet and greet. I stood in the line that quickly formed around him, and I realized I was nervous.
I'd met presidents, worked for Senators and Congressmen and worked their campaigns, had been in the White House on business and not as a tourist; none of it fazed me. And yet here was this baseball player, and I was reduced to an 8 year old in his presence, nervous about meeting him and giddy as a kid at recess. I thanked him for '87 and '91, and told him he'd been my hero when I was a kid. He thanked me and asked me if I'd had my eyes checked yet. Dutifully, I walked over to the doctors that were there, and I did it. I had to; Kirby had asked me.
There are the people you look up to as a kid, and then there are the people you idolize. Kirby was my hero. Even after he retired, he was still larger than life. As a kid, you think your heroes will be around forever. As an adult, you know they won't, but you take comfort as they age more gently and more gracefully than you do. They are permanent reminders of your youth and innocence, of a time when it was still okay to believe in heroes. That's how it's supposed to be, anyway.
It's not supposed to be this way. It's not supposed to end like this. We all eventually have to say goodbye to our childhood heroes. It's just not supposed to happen when they're only 45.
Goodbye, Kirby. Maybe you weren't a hero; maybe you were just Kirby. But I loved you for who I thought you were. I loved you for who you let us believe you were, for the role you were willing to play. I think I always will.
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Comments
Since my earlier link didn't take, here's a eulogy from another Twins fan.
Posted by: Linkmeister at March 7, 2006 12:22 AM
That was really moving Chris.
Posted by: Corey at March 7, 2006 12:26 AM
It's like 9/11 in downtown Minneapolis tonight. "34" FOREVER" reads across the front of the Metrodome.
When someone famous dies, I usually just check my dead pools.
This time its as if a piece of my childhood has been disrupted. Kirby was immortal in the eyes of a 10 year old baseball card collector. Every kid was saving his money so he could buy one of the few remaining 84 Fleer update packs with the chance at the Puckett rookie.
While it's true my interest in baseball has dwindled due to the salary scales, and its real integrity shattered with steroid abuse, tonight I re-live the days of Kent Hrbek, Dan Gladden, Gary Gaetti, Frank sweet music Viola, Al Newman, Gene Larkin, Greg Gagne, and Juan Berenguer. (I wont list much '91 for rambling purposes)
Tonight we all lock away our treasured memories for good. See you on the other side Kirby, no thanks could ever be enough.
Posted by: Cuzin Jose at March 7, 2006 02:04 AM
nice job, mudge
Posted by: Marquette Hoops at March 7, 2006 05:08 PM
that was really beautiful. we loved kirby too. and we're yankees fans.
Posted by: Jill at March 7, 2006 05:46 PM
That's okay ... I needed a good cry.
Posted by: me at March 8, 2006 09:16 PM
