Goodbye, Norma Jean... (Mike)
It's funny. When I was a boy, just learning about baseball for the first time, I had no idea what Kirby Puckett looked like. I had heard his name dozens of times, but had never connected the name to the man. As my parents and I drove to the Metrodome in 1986, I remember thinking that Kirby Puckett was a white guy who played right field, and that Tom Brunansky was a black guy who played center. And Tom Brunansky was my favorite. My parents and grandfather did their best to correct me. Soon after getting my first baseball cards, of course, I figured out that they were right. It had been Kirby Puckett that I had been worshiping.
From that point on, Kirby made so many indelible images in my mind. Like snapshots, they are not entirely accurate. They capture a part of the man and the player, but not the whole. And they fade and distort with age. But as I sift through them, they bring to life the moments and the man that had such a profound influence on my childhood.
1991. Kirby, in his white, pinstriped uniform, racing backward to the warning track, glove outstretched, jumping high above the left-centerfield wall to save a homerun (something he did 7 times in the Metrodome in 1987 alone) at the absolute last second and at the height of his leap. Bouncing off the plexiglas and running back to the dugout.
1993. A struggling team, slowly slipping into mediocrity. Kirby, crouched at the plate. His generous posterior (from which Jim Kaat claims he generates his power) extending behind him like a bubble. There's a runner at second base, two outs, and we're down by a run. We need a hit. Kirby whips his bat around at a pitch that is down and away, at least 6 inches outside the strike zone. The bat doesn't make the resounding crack it usually does when Puck hits a ball, but he sends a solid ground ball just to the left of the pitcher anyway. The ball scoots up the infield, moving too quickly for the second baseman to catch up. It's through into centerfield and the runner scores. Kirby comes through again.
1991. The sweet swing off a Charlie Liebrandt changeup sends us all home after game six. He turned on that ball so quickly and generated so much power. The ball was high over the plexiglas. Joe Buck promises to see us tomorrow night. As he rounds the bases, Puckett is screaming, pumping his fist. The apex of a career and of a 13 year old's fandom.
2000. In a dark blue suit, squinting in his right eye, the one that cost him a chance at 3,000 hits and possibly 300 home-runs (during a time when 300 homers meant something). Giving his induction speech at Cooperstown. Wishing I could be there to watch.
1997. Bill and I want to get Kirby's autograph at TwinsFest. As we walk across the Metrodome infield, toward his booth, we see the line. It stretches well past the roped-off area. It seems like every baseball fan in the state of Minnesota is in that line. It is twice as long as any other autograph line in the dome. Longer than Killebrew's. Longer than Carew's. Conversely, the line for Tony Oliva is much shorter and we might have time to do both. Besides, we'll have many more chances to get Kirby's signature. Won't we?
1994. From our spot on the first base line (thanks to the Parkers' season tickets), we watch the Twins dugout. Bob Casey yells, "Ladies and gentlemen, your Minnesota Twins." Kirby is always the first one out of the dugout and he runs to centerfield. Not walks. Not jogs. Runs. The crowd screams.
1986-1995. "Batting third, center fielder, Kirrr-beeeeeee Puckett!" Screaming. So much screaming. I feel bad for Kent Hrbek. Any love he got had to feel anti-climactic.
But more than anything else, I keep coming back to the same image of Kirby. I don't know if I got it from a baseball card or from a newspaper. Kirby is smiling. That, by itself, is nothing. Kirby was always smiling, seemingly always happy. But this smile was different. The camera had seemingly caught Kirby in mid-laugh. The smile was wider. It was more gleeful. It seemed to encompass the man and to make him shine. It communicated more about Kirby than any other picture. And perhaps it tells me more about my admiration and love for the man than any other picture. I wanted to see him happy. It made me feel good and reinforced my love of the game and of the men who played it. When I was growing up, Kirby represented everything that was right about professional sports and professional athletes.
There is no way to properly convey how much Puckett meant to the state of Minnesota. Bill is probably right that you had to grow up in the upper Mid-West in the '80s and '90s to truly understand how deep a loss Kirby Puckett's death is. He was a giant and he was a teddy bear. He was a friend and an icon. And he always seemed to come through when the team needed him most.
Of course, time and wistful remembering have probably warped some of my impressions of Puckett. In my memories, he could do no wrong on the baseball field. He never made a mistake, and was always a game-altering presence. In truth, Puckett was a free-swinger who never walked more than 57 times over the course of a season. His tremendous power from '86-'88 became mearly average for the rest of his career. And he got much larger over the course of his career, eventually leading to a switch to right field to accommodate for such great players as Alex Cole and Rich Becker. But in my mind, he never did wrong. Always came through. Always was smiling.
Maybe this is how Yankee fans feel about Derek Jeter. The convenient amnesia is possible simply because of the overwhelming, transcending images of success block out every time Jeter couldn't get to a ball to his left because of poor footwork or grounds into a double play with the bases loaded. If so, I cannot begrudge them that they would argue incessantly for their idol. No matter what anyone says, or how compelling their arguments, I'll go to my grave believing Kirby Puckett to be one of the greatest players of all time.
If Kirby Puckett was still here today, or if he can hear me now, I want to be able to thank him. I don't just want to thank him for the years he gave to the Minnesota Twins. Nor for the two world championships he brought home to Minnesota. Nor for the way he played. Nor for the way he conducted himself as an athlete. Nor for the memories he gave me. I want to thank him for, more than anyone else, making me a baseball fan. I cannot say whether, without Puckett, I would have or would not have been drawn to this beautiful game, a game that has been a constant love since I was eight years old. But I can say that, in my youth, Kirby was one part of the game that drew me closer. His smile and enthusiasm invited me in and convinced me I wanted to watch and to know more about it. Baseball has made my life more fun and more interesting, and I owe a great deal of that to Kirby Puckett.
Please, rest in peace, Kirby. I know that your life was difficult toward the end, but hopefully, like me, you'll be able to let the memories of all the times you smiled so beamingly overrun those darker moments. I wish you could still be with us here, but as long as the generation of baseball fans who watched and loved you continue to enjoy the game you played, your legacy lives on. God bless.
From that point on, Kirby made so many indelible images in my mind. Like snapshots, they are not entirely accurate. They capture a part of the man and the player, but not the whole. And they fade and distort with age. But as I sift through them, they bring to life the moments and the man that had such a profound influence on my childhood.
1991. Kirby, in his white, pinstriped uniform, racing backward to the warning track, glove outstretched, jumping high above the left-centerfield wall to save a homerun (something he did 7 times in the Metrodome in 1987 alone) at the absolute last second and at the height of his leap. Bouncing off the plexiglas and running back to the dugout.
1993. A struggling team, slowly slipping into mediocrity. Kirby, crouched at the plate. His generous posterior (from which Jim Kaat claims he generates his power) extending behind him like a bubble. There's a runner at second base, two outs, and we're down by a run. We need a hit. Kirby whips his bat around at a pitch that is down and away, at least 6 inches outside the strike zone. The bat doesn't make the resounding crack it usually does when Puck hits a ball, but he sends a solid ground ball just to the left of the pitcher anyway. The ball scoots up the infield, moving too quickly for the second baseman to catch up. It's through into centerfield and the runner scores. Kirby comes through again.
1991. The sweet swing off a Charlie Liebrandt changeup sends us all home after game six. He turned on that ball so quickly and generated so much power. The ball was high over the plexiglas. Joe Buck promises to see us tomorrow night. As he rounds the bases, Puckett is screaming, pumping his fist. The apex of a career and of a 13 year old's fandom.
2000. In a dark blue suit, squinting in his right eye, the one that cost him a chance at 3,000 hits and possibly 300 home-runs (during a time when 300 homers meant something). Giving his induction speech at Cooperstown. Wishing I could be there to watch.
1997. Bill and I want to get Kirby's autograph at TwinsFest. As we walk across the Metrodome infield, toward his booth, we see the line. It stretches well past the roped-off area. It seems like every baseball fan in the state of Minnesota is in that line. It is twice as long as any other autograph line in the dome. Longer than Killebrew's. Longer than Carew's. Conversely, the line for Tony Oliva is much shorter and we might have time to do both. Besides, we'll have many more chances to get Kirby's signature. Won't we?
1994. From our spot on the first base line (thanks to the Parkers' season tickets), we watch the Twins dugout. Bob Casey yells, "Ladies and gentlemen, your Minnesota Twins." Kirby is always the first one out of the dugout and he runs to centerfield. Not walks. Not jogs. Runs. The crowd screams.
1986-1995. "Batting third, center fielder, Kirrr-beeeeeee Puckett!" Screaming. So much screaming. I feel bad for Kent Hrbek. Any love he got had to feel anti-climactic.
But more than anything else, I keep coming back to the same image of Kirby. I don't know if I got it from a baseball card or from a newspaper. Kirby is smiling. That, by itself, is nothing. Kirby was always smiling, seemingly always happy. But this smile was different. The camera had seemingly caught Kirby in mid-laugh. The smile was wider. It was more gleeful. It seemed to encompass the man and to make him shine. It communicated more about Kirby than any other picture. And perhaps it tells me more about my admiration and love for the man than any other picture. I wanted to see him happy. It made me feel good and reinforced my love of the game and of the men who played it. When I was growing up, Kirby represented everything that was right about professional sports and professional athletes.
There is no way to properly convey how much Puckett meant to the state of Minnesota. Bill is probably right that you had to grow up in the upper Mid-West in the '80s and '90s to truly understand how deep a loss Kirby Puckett's death is. He was a giant and he was a teddy bear. He was a friend and an icon. And he always seemed to come through when the team needed him most.
Of course, time and wistful remembering have probably warped some of my impressions of Puckett. In my memories, he could do no wrong on the baseball field. He never made a mistake, and was always a game-altering presence. In truth, Puckett was a free-swinger who never walked more than 57 times over the course of a season. His tremendous power from '86-'88 became mearly average for the rest of his career. And he got much larger over the course of his career, eventually leading to a switch to right field to accommodate for such great players as Alex Cole and Rich Becker. But in my mind, he never did wrong. Always came through. Always was smiling.
Maybe this is how Yankee fans feel about Derek Jeter. The convenient amnesia is possible simply because of the overwhelming, transcending images of success block out every time Jeter couldn't get to a ball to his left because of poor footwork or grounds into a double play with the bases loaded. If so, I cannot begrudge them that they would argue incessantly for their idol. No matter what anyone says, or how compelling their arguments, I'll go to my grave believing Kirby Puckett to be one of the greatest players of all time.
If Kirby Puckett was still here today, or if he can hear me now, I want to be able to thank him. I don't just want to thank him for the years he gave to the Minnesota Twins. Nor for the two world championships he brought home to Minnesota. Nor for the way he played. Nor for the way he conducted himself as an athlete. Nor for the memories he gave me. I want to thank him for, more than anyone else, making me a baseball fan. I cannot say whether, without Puckett, I would have or would not have been drawn to this beautiful game, a game that has been a constant love since I was eight years old. But I can say that, in my youth, Kirby was one part of the game that drew me closer. His smile and enthusiasm invited me in and convinced me I wanted to watch and to know more about it. Baseball has made my life more fun and more interesting, and I owe a great deal of that to Kirby Puckett.
Please, rest in peace, Kirby. I know that your life was difficult toward the end, but hopefully, like me, you'll be able to let the memories of all the times you smiled so beamingly overrun those darker moments. I wish you could still be with us here, but as long as the generation of baseball fans who watched and loved you continue to enjoy the game you played, your legacy lives on. God bless.