puck

My Grandma and I had a special connection through Kirby Puckett. I can still remember the white crew sweatshirt she wore when we all went down to the Dome for one of her birthdays. It was a 1991 World Championship sweatshirt and it had a resemblance to the one I had on. It's hanging in my closet at home. We loved the way Bob Casey yelled "Kirbeeeeee puck-ittttt!" so much. I was 5 and playing with a wiffle bat in my backyard, yelling that all the time. I was Kirby Puckett sometimes, when we'd all choose baseball guys to be for Home Run Derby. Someone always got Griffey, someone The Big Hurt, someone Albert Belle until he corked his bat. I usually got lucky somehow and got Puckett. The mini-slugger with speed for his size, which was always a little higher than MLB's average. He got RBIs, stolen bases, 20+ homers most years, and he got love from his fans, that's for sure. He got love from me and my Grandma, who is probably still cheering for him in her grave, in Heaven. I'm going to put that sweatshirt on when I get back to Minneapolis, and try to talk to her and see if she feels as bad as I do about his death. But knows more about death than me and, like my mom says, is finally at peace. Now Kirby Puckett is at peace, too. Death is such a difficult thing to understand. I want to cry for her, for him, for my uncle who just died. I will, and I have. The three of us are Twins fans, specifically Kirby Puckett fans. I read his book "I Love This Game!" when I was about 10 and was still emulating his stance and that leg kick and that wooden bat sweeping across the plate. Then, after every hit I got regardless of its homer potential, that three-step, fist. Three steps of my stride, then a yell of triumph and a right fist pump. The 1991 series, fresh in memory on the freshly-cut grass smell and the sunshine of childhood and the glory of Puckett's homer and joyous reaction to it. That power, that smile on the cover of that book that really shouted his love for baseball.

I read this on a blog that the StarTribune featured through its coverage of Kirby's death. I think it's beautiful. And though unlike some of my friends, I never met the man, I feel as though he was part of my upbringing. So was my grandma, my uncle, baseball, my back yard. My condolences go out to the Puckett family, my family and friends who also idolized Kirby, and the Casey family, who I know has been close with Puck throughout the years and often had the honor of his presence at Casey's Bar. God rest your soul, Kirby, and grandma, and Unce Pete.

"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."