I have mourned Kirby Puckett three times in my life.
The first was in 1996 when he was ripped too early from the game that he loved. It was such a tragedy, such a ridiculous, terrible end to a glorious career. I couldn't imagine baseball without Kirby, or Kirby without baseball.
Maybe he couldn't either. The second time I mourned him was when the allegations hit. Infidelity. Domestic abuse. Harassment. It couldn't be true. We all struggled to put together the rumors with Kirby—the teddy bear shaped hero of our most glorious baseball dreams. We shook our heads and said the myth is just a man after all. We said we created him and now we are facing the consequences. We said that there are no heroes. Kirby was acquitted, but still the cloud of suspicion hung over him. Not a myth, just a man.
And now I am mourning Kirby Puckett for the third time. And it is horrible. And I wish so much I could go back to mourning him the way I had before.
I could never reconcile the two Kirbys, reconcile my beloved number 34 with that strange dark-clouded man. Maybe he couldn't either. Maybe that's why he disappeared from us, why he so tragically destroyed his body. What Kirby did not know, it seemed, is that it didn't matter anymore. We didn't want to reconcile them, didn't care about the dark clouded man, for the first Kirby has meant too much to us. Nothing else mattered. We wanted him back—the myth and the man. We had tried life without Kirby Puckett and we didn't like it one bit.
As Bert Blyleven said on a broadcast a couple years ago, "If you don't love Kirby Puckett, you don't love life." That is the thing with Kirby Puckett, you just love him. Genuinely, truly love, like a friend, a family member. And Bert was more right than he knew, because something about Kirby showed you how to love life. Kirby was joy, personified, and his joy infected everyone around him. We are all happier people for having had the privilege of having him play for our team, having had the privilege of knowing him.
And now Kirby's life, like his career, was just cut horribly short. We never will get the chance to welcome him back, to tell him how much we love him. And it is our very great loss. Not Kirby's though, for, as someone said in the comments yesterday, right now Bob Casey is announcing his arrival in heaven. And everyone stands and cheers as he says, "And now, number thirty-four….KIRRBEEEEEEE PUCKETT!" And up there man and myth are one and it is beautiful.
Kirby is still with me, and always will be. Somewhere in the back of my mind he is still jumping up and grabbing homeruns, still circling the bases pumping his fist, still smiling his Kirby-smile. Jack Buck says, "We'll see you tomorrow night," and we ride on Kirby Puckett's back all the way to glory. He is there with us, reminding us why we love baseball, reminding us to love life. And still, a hero.
Batgirl will return to regularly scheduled blogging later in the week.