Goodbye, Mr. Puckett

by Rob Nishihara

You probably remember the smile more than anything else.

There was glory and heroism in that smile. In the 1991 World Series, the man with the glorious smile seemed to rise above the limitations his short, stocky body should have allowed. In one marvelous afternoon during that series, he leapt above the place he was supposed to be while chasing a fly ball from Atlanta's Ron Gant, making a gravity-defying catch against the left-centerfield wall. And eight innings later, he used his greatest attribute, his sheer force of will, to launch a game winning homer. He gave hope back to his teammates that afternoon, and he brought a Game 7 with him, which the Twins would go on to win and claim the championship.

And somewhere in that smile, he brought the kind of hope that exists on every baseball diamond. Hope and renewal are a vital part of baseball, no matter who takes the field, whether it is a bunch of kids playing sandlot or elite professionals playing at the highest level of the sport. And one man's brilliant smile seemed to embody that powerful part of the game all by itself.

But, on March 6, that smile went away. Forever.

Kirby Puckett, who survived a childhood in one of the roughest parts of Chicago, who defied baseball critics unconvinced of his abilities and overly concerned with his unconventional body type, who put a pair of World Series rings on his fingers and a bronze plaque up on the wall in Cooperstown, passed away at the age of 45 after suffering a massive stroke.

Sadly, his legacy is a complicated one.

As a player, his skills were marvelous. He somehow turned himself from a light-hitting rookie who hit no homers in 557 at-bats in 1984 into a run producing terror who hit 20 or more homers six times and slugged over .500 four times. In the field, he won six Gold Gloves despite looking more like a plucky third-string fullback than a star centerfielder. In the post season, he seemed to be able to raise his considerable skills even that much higher. In 24 post-season games, he slugged at a pace nearly 60 points higher than his career mark, and he was never a part of a losing post-season series.

But he wasn't entirely defined by the entries on a stat sheet. Beyond the numbers, he played with a joy that magically embraced teammates and fans alike. His energy and passion for the game included laughter and celebration. And fans took to celebrating right along with him. He was somehow able to distill everything fans treasure about the game of baseball and take those fans along with him as he practiced his magic on the field. It was a dizzying, fascinating, joyous ride that ended one spring morning in 1996.

After a horrific end to his 1995 season (he was hit by a Dennis Martinez pitch in late September that broke his jaw and burst an artery in his mouth), Puckett seemed ready for another stellar season. He had hit .360 in spring training but woke up one morning unable to see clearly, and the one thing a baseball player absolutely cannot do without is superb vision. When Puckett was ultimately diagnosed with glaucoma, his baseball career was suddenly over.

There have been some who have tried to tie that Dennis Martinez fastball that rode up-and-in and struck Puckett in the jaw to his later vision problems (though, I am not sure how an injury to the mouth would affect one's vision several months later). Some have even unfairly labeled Martinez as the villain in the piece, as somehow responsible for taking Kirby Puckett away from baseball. But even if there is any sort of plausible connection to be made between the injury caused by the errant pitch and the development of a degenerative eye disease, hit batsmen are a part of the game. And pitches that sail away from pitchers usually happen more as a circumstance of physics than nefarious intent.

But the fact that something as energizing and engaging as watching Kirby Puckett playing baseball could just evaporate in an instant was unnerving. It was, perhaps, more suitable for some to attribute the end of his career to something that happened on the diamond rather than having to deal with the vagaries of the human body and the even more mysterious maladies that can afflict it.

Whatever the cause, the effect was the same. Kirby Puckett wasn't be able to play baseball ever again and fans were not be able to watch him. The symbiotic joy his playing days provided turned to symbiotic heartbreak with his sudden exit from the sport. It was hard to see the images of his tearful press conference where he announced his retirement, his right eye covered by a thick swatch of bandages, and not think about how sad it was for someone who brought so many good things to the game have to leave it under such rotten circumstances.

Without the game, the shadows seemed to overtake him. The man with the glorious smile seemed to smile less. He turned to alcohol, which never delivers the comfort it promises. His once rotund but beloved shape now degenerated into massive obesity. Allegations of sexual misconduct and a messy public divorce sullied his once-sparkling reputation. All the while the place where he found the most joy and solace was not there for him anymore. That place, the sanctity of the baseball diamond, was out of his reach forever.

A national sports publication delivered another cruel blow by publishing, in painstaking detail, the more unflattering episodes of his life. The smiling, beloved hero was now being reshaped by some as the unmasked villain. He was portrayed in some circles as a charlatan who had gained the public trust and affection without revealing his true nature. But we should all know that nearly everyone resides somewhere in between absolute heroism and vile debauchery, that assigning anyone absolutely one way or the other nearly always isn't a true reflection of that person's character. But, sadly, we continue to make those designations and we continue to leave some among the wreckage in the wake.

With the game out of his reach, his critics taking his private life apart, and his health failing, Kirby Puckett lost one of the last things he had left. His life.

But his legacy, while blurred with some parts mistake and regret and other parts heroism and joy, is to be celebrated, in large part, for what he was able to give to the game of baseball. His days on the diamond should not be completely obscured by what may or my not have happened off of it. His were bright, glorious days in between the lines. The happiness he brought to people during his playing days was a real and palpable thing.

His baseball playing brilliance was real. His kindness to the legions of kids who adored him was real. His exuberance on the field was real. His camaraderie with his teammates was real. And I know that smile of his was real.

Godspeed, Kirby. I hope that smile will endure among baseball fans as a sign of what is best about this game we love.