REMEMBERING KIRBY

By: B -- 3/7/06

As everyone now knows, former Twin Kirby Puckett died of a stroke yesterday afternoon at age 45. He had the stroke Sunday at his home in Arizona and died in the hospital after emergency surgery proved unsuccessful.

Kirby was my childhood idol and professional hero. He always was and always will be, forever.

I was six years old when the Twins won their first World Series, in 1987. My memories are fuzzy, but I recall the family get-togethers during the playoffs as we huddled around the television, decked out in our oversized Twins sweatshirts (as was the style at the time), and me, thinking I'm cool by wearing my Homer Hanky as a bandanna. I remember Dan Gladden’s grand slam, Hrbek’s a few games later, and a huge swell of excitement as Gary Gaetti flung the ball over to Hrbie to seal up the Series victory. I remember my grandpa picking me up and tossing me in the air as we celebrated the first Twins World Series victory ever.

I was 10 years old in 1991 when Puck, at the peak of his game, led the Twins to their second World Series victory. I went to Game 2 of the Series with my dad, and I can still feel the energy of the Metrodome. Indescribable. It felt as if the collective exhilaration actually lifted the Dome a few feet off the ground, the field hovering in mid-air as the game was played. As for the Series, I remember Chili Davis’s home run, Hrbek’s aggressive tag of Ron Gant at first base, and of course, Kirby. His catch against the Plexiglas. His game-winning home run off Charlie Liebrandt. His giddy celebration after the Game 7 victory. He rejoiced like a little kid, with his huge smile, bear hugs and goofy handshakes. Truly, no one celebrated like Kirby.

1991 was an amazing experience. I never had so much fun following a team, before or after. I watched every game, my mom sometimes letting me stay up by myself to watch their conclusion (a big deal for a 10-year-old). When Gene Larkin hit that deep fly ball to win the Series, I remember being so dead tired that I only half-heartedly celebrated before trudging upstairs to bed. I went to the post-Series parade with my uncles, took in the celebration at the Dome, memorized the end-of-the-year Championship Video. If you called my roommate right now, 15 years later, he could still recite every last word of that 1991 video. We all can. And we’ll see you tomorrow night!

Kirby’s premature retirement in 1996 due to glaucoma was unendingly depressing. The Twins had been struggling the previous few seasons, but we still had Kirby. He’d been an absolute force in the years following the ’91 championship, winning awards and representing us at the All-Star games. Once he retired, the dynamic changed. The Twins were still My Team, as they always will be, but they weren’t the spirited squad I’d grown up watching. All of a sudden, we had no anchor. No one to count on. No one to look forward to watching every spring, hitting so many home runs into car windshields at the Spring Training facilities that he was once almost arrested. Just like that, he was done.

Kirby’s post-retirement life never once affected my memories of him on the field. There were accusations of infidelity, harassment and domestic abuse, but they meant nothing to me. I truly did not care, not one iota. I never knew Puck as a person, just knew him as the athlete that brought me and my friends and family so much happiness, so many warm memories. What he was like personally…well, that was no concern of mine. Kirby was my idol between the chalk lines, and the allegations never did much to alter those feelings.

***

I will admit this: I rarely feel depressed when I hear about the deaths of strangers. I certainly feel slight disappointment, the “boy, what a shame” variety, a feeling of lost opportunities and a life ended too soon. I remember the knot in my stomach when I heard about the deaths of Phil Hartman, Paul Wellstone, Pat Tillman and others; these were good, quality human beings that I knew I would miss. But the feeling was fleeting, and never personal.

Not so with Kirby. I never met him face-to-face, never so much as shook his hand or got an autograph, but the news of his death rattled me. I was sitting on the floor in my apartment last night, pretending to be assembling my new desk but actually just sitting on the floor and watching the telly. My roommate was on the couch, and when we saw a ticker appear at the bottom of the screen, we knew. Before the words scrolled across with the news, my roommate said, “he died.”

I got a few phone calls throughout the night from my friends and family, but I didn’t answer any of them. Not because I was too shaken to talk, but because I knew we were just going to sit there on the phone, taking turns mumbling things like “God that sucks” and “He was the best ever, man.” There really was nothing else to say, and honestly, I didn’t want to deal. I didn’t want to blubber over a person I’d never met. Better to not answer the phone. I felt the same when my co-workers asked me how I was feeling about it this morning. Better to not even get started.

And now, as I write, I have a feeling I’ll look back at this weepy tribute and blush at my unabashed melodrama. I even – get this – listened to sad music during work today. A bit over-the-top, I know, but it felt appropriate. The guy meant a lot to me, and his death was completely unexpected. I don’t know how else to react.

Kirby was a powerhouse, a round little force of nature, a superhuman … the coolest, happiest, hardest-working ballplayer we’ve ever seen. The free-swinging fool that transformed from scrawny base-stealer to tubby base-to-baser in his 12 years. The perpetual All-Star. The first ballot Hall of Fame inductee. The man who helped bring Minnesota the only two pro sports championships in my lifetime.

But, clichéd as it sounds, Puck was bigger than the game. He’s one of the few athletes who actually deserves such praise.

Kirby was more than a baseball player. His gregarious personality made us think of him as a family member. The whole state adored Kirby, for his spirited play on the field, to his friendliness towards the fans and media, to the fact that he accepted less money to stay with our ballclub. He was our Kirby, and we were damn lucky to have him.

First he left us too early on the diamond, now he’s left us too early in life. I, like so many others around Minnesota, will above all cherish the memory of Kirby’s walk-off homer in game six of the ’91 series; our hero, saving the game and the season, trotting around the bases and pumping his fist while the rest of us cheered and waved our Homer Hankies and hugged our friends and family. That image has been running through my head the past 24 hours. Kirby rounding the bases, over and over again. That is the image of Puck that will remain with me forever.

Kirby truly transcended the sport. He is the root of so many childhood memories, the subject of countless conversations, the inspiration for so many young ballplayers, the success that helped bond our families, and the soul of our beloved baseball team. He unified the entire state. Kirby was the Twins, and I will miss him.

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