Kirby Puckett, a Nation Turns Its Lonely Eyes to You

No, BallWonk is not celebrating the new ballpark. Not just because the world has broken his heart by taking away Kirby Puckett decades -- decades -- before his time. No, BallWonk is not celebrating Emperor Selig and his dark minions' acceptance of the lease because the District Council still has to approve one more piece of legislation before this all becomes official. Which means the the likes of Marion Barry can still mess this up. When does the hurting stop?

But about Puckett. He was 45. He's been in the Hall of Fame for five years now, which means he's been retired for ten, but in a just world Kirby wouldn't even be eligible for Cooperstown yet. He should have been playing into his 40s, but instead he woke up one morning and his eye was gone and he was 34, the number on his jersey, and that was that. BallWonk was an intern in Senator Wellstone's office when Kirby had to quit and that day you'd have thought the president had died by the somber mood in that corner of the Hart building. Paul went before his time too, and now Kirby, and BallWonk hopes that there's some heaven where inspiring Minnesotans go when they die too young.

BallWonk was lucky enough to have been around Kirby a bit when BW was a boy and Kirby was still playing. A friendlier man you will never meet. He loved people, loved the smile his mere presence brought to people, and he had a soft touch for children. He was, at heart, a child himself, and a bit childish at times, and sometimes lost, but a boy nonetheless full of wonder and determination who dreamed of playing baseball and being the best until he did and he was and oh how we all loved him for it. He drank the love of Minnesota's fans as though he was a parched man at an oasis, and at some point he started giving back, making us happy and inspiring us to reach for our dreams and in Minnesota we weren't so much Twins fans as we were Kirby fans. Sure, we loved the G-Man and Gladden and Bert and especially Hrbek too, and even Chuck for a while, but in those years the Twins outdrew the Yankees and that was Kirby's doing.

Then one day, just like that, Kirby could play no more. And he kept on giving. His time, his energy -- he was gone from the field of play but always right there in our hearts, at Twins events and charity gatherings still giving back all the inspiration and adulation we'd given him, with interest. Sure, he had some trouble, lashing out at times and being a boor and maybe even hurting some of those he tried to love the best. But think of Peter Pan, taken from Never-Never Land, stuck in a flat in London and told to get a job driving a delivery van and cheer for Arsenal on Saturdays. You think he might have trouble getting along in the dreary, everyday world of a real-life grownup? Sure he would have, and Kirby did too, and you wish him better but you understand even if you leave the forgiving to his family whose business that is.

When Kirby made the Hall of Fame on the first ballot -- see, Mr. James, sometimes they do get it right -- BW grabbed Ms. BallWonk and drove north to see Puckett get his plaque. Hilton Smith was in that year, as were Dave Winfield and Maz. Everyone loves a Negro Leaguer, Winfield was gracious, and a happy minority had come to see Mazeroski, who everyone feared might never get in. But the truth is that if there were 100,000 people suffering through the sweltering heat of that cloudless midsummer day, and there might have been, 90,000 of them were there for Kirby.

This is what Kirby had to say that afternoon when baseball bestowed upon him the greatest honor it has:

"There may be a few people out there who remember a time when the word on Kirby Puckett was that he was too short or didn't have enough power to make it to the big leagues. Well despite the fact that I didn't get to play all the years I wanted to, I did it. And to any young person out there, if anyone tells you that you can't do what you want to do and be what you want to be. I wanted to play baseball ever since I was five years old. And I want you to remember the guiding principles of my life: You can be what you want to be. If you believe in yourself , and you work hard because anything, and I'm telling you anything is possible. It doesn't matter if you're 5'8" like Kirby Puckett or you're 6'6" like my man Winnie, you can do it. And don't feel sorry for yourself if obstacles get in your way. Our great Twins World Series teams faced odds and we beat 'em. Jackie Robinson faced odds and made this game truly the national game. And I faced odds when Glaucoma took the bat out of my hands. But I didn't give in or feel sorry for myself.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again: it may be cloudy in my right eye, but the sun is shining very brightly in my left eye. And just think how the sun has shined. Right up to the door of this great Hall, the shrine for the greatest game in the world and the greatest players in the world, baseball.

"We call it the national game because of its great and unique history. And it doesn't matter where you came from. From the projects like me, in Chicago, or the gated communities of Beverly Hills. And because it doesn't matter what race, creed or national origin you are: black, white, Hispanic, Japanese, or whatever. It just matters how you play the game. And I played it with all my heart, with all my soul, and with all my might."

If there is an alternate cosmology of the national game, in which Babe Ruth comes like Moses to lead baseball back to righteousness and Jackie Robinson comes to proclaim a new, universal covenant of baseball, Kirby Puckett is the patron saint of playing the game right, with respect and love for teammates, opponents, fans, and the game itself.

What a man. What a loss.