"Where Fillmore County News Comes First"
Tuesday, September 23rd, 2014
Volume ∞ Issue ∞
- 6:14:51, Sep 20th 2014 - email@example.com - Since I grew up in Pilot Mound I have memories of REDS DOG PATCH ... [Read More]
- 2:10:21, Sep 19th 2014 - Barb Jeffers - The additional photos of the Dogpatch are now on the Fillmore County J ... [Read More]
- 1:41:34, Sep 19th 2014 - yorty - Parade is at 11 am ... [Read More]
- 1:00:41, Sep 19th 2014 - - Visited the facebook page of The Fillmore County Journal and was unable to find mo ... [Read More]
- 10:46:40, Sep 19th 2014 - KingslandGrad95 - Gussie, so what if the "Deputy" was asleep? Maybe he was tired. Y ... [Read More]
- 10:40:04, Sep 18th 2014 - Gussie - Well Kingslandgrad for starters how about a few nights ago on my way to wor ... [Read More]
- 9:45:10, Sep 17th 2014 - firstname.lastname@example.org - Okay they gave you the we want to help the world and full of ... [Read More]
- 11:05:24, Sep 16th 2014 - - Good and informative but wish it stated the TIME of the parade! Coming from out-o ... [Read More]
- 1:05:53, Sep 15th 2014 - KingslandGrad95 - Gussie, what's your proof that stuff like this happens at the Fillm ... [Read More]
- 10:45:10, Sep 12th 2014 - Bill Butler - The article contains the usual deniersâ€™ slogans, but as per usual is ... [Read More]
Fri, Mar 10th, 2006
Posted in Commentary
Posted in Commentary
I think it was May, 1992, but don’t quote me. We were visiting Minnesota from our home in Michigan, and my sister had given us Twins’ tickets. What I remember about the game was that Kirby Puckett hit a grand slam, and the announcer said it was Puckett’s first grand slam in the Metrodome. The crowd went nuts, rising to its collective feet and screaming. We wouldn’t even begin to calm down until Kirby stepped out from the dugout and modestly tipped his hat to us.
I remember explaining to my friends back in Michigan that Kirby Puckett was so beloved, he could get elected governor by a landslide without ever campaigning. “You see, that’s one of the big differences between Minnesotans and Michiganders,” I said, ever loyal to my home state, to the point of being obnoxious. “In Minnesota, we really love our heroes. It’s all about love.” I had a few pictures of Kirby and the Twins’ logo positioned around my office in Michigan. It made me feel closer to Minnesota whenever I missed the folks at home. Now, with Kirby’s untimely passing, commentators and columnists across the state will try to analyze that love affair Minnesota had with Puck. Even people like me who know relatively little about sports felt connected to Kirby. My husband Mike, in a former incarnation as a barber who cut hair for a lot of kids during the 1980s, said that it seemed all kids loved baseball, and when you asked about their favorite player, it was always Kirby Puckett. Always. As a language person, I have to believe part of Kirby’s magic came from his musical name. Honestly, my heart speeds up a bit as I call up the auditory memory of hearing the announcer say his name: “Batting for the Twins—Kirbeeeeeeee Puckettttt!” And part of the magic was his physique. He really didn’t look like any other player: short and squatty, with little legs that flew around the bases and defied gravity each time he leaped up against the fence to catch a would-be homer. The image of both his fists in the air is permanently burned in our memory of his homer in the sixth game of the World Series. I liked watching him in the outfield when a ball was hit in his direction. As he prepared to catch it, he did this little shuffling thing with his feet that I always thought was some kind of Baseball Happy Dance until Mike explained that he was positioning himself so that when he caught the ball, he could immediately wind-up and wing it back to the infield. Wham! Double play. He was the best, yet he wasn’t perfect. Mike and I always chuckled at the way he’d swing and miss at the low pitches, like he was golfing. If the definition of “cool” includes not showing emotions, then Kirby wasn’t cool, because his joy at playing baseball was always obvious. Perhaps the most unusual thing about Kirby was how he passed up offers to leave Minnesota for better money—a practice that’s all but unheard of in professional sports. Why did he stay? Maybe it can be explained with that archaic word, “loyalty.” There will be talk, mixed in with all the accolades, of his struggles and “fall from grace.” Now that he’s gone, it seems clear that if he fell, he never fell out of our affection. When he had to retire suddenly because of the eye problem, he took part of each of his fans with him. He had allowed us in, allowed us to be on the field with him in a way that we could share the joy of his accomplishments. I was originally going to end this column with something about waiting for the next hero like Kirby to come along. But, realistically, what are the chances of that happening? In today’s professional sports climate, what are the chances of another player coming along who loves the game more than big money, who breaks records without taking steroids, who works his hardest every time he hits the field, even after the contract is signed? I guess we can always hope. Meanwhile, we’ll comfort ourselves with the memories of #34.