PuckI met Puck in 1984. He was a rookie with the Twins, I a third-grader at St. Rose of Lima. My brothers and dad and I waited on Grand Ave. in St. Paul under a hot sun along with hundreds of others. I knew he was short and fat and had chubby cheeks, looking more a teddy bear than ballplayer. I didn't know he charged $400 for the appearance, half what his teammates asked, and I didn't know he stayed hours past his allotted time to make sure every one of us got a handshake and autograph. And, more importantly, a smile.
That's my first image, and my next image, and every image forever after. Puck, grinning so wide his cheeks creased, smiling like he'd just robbed a few of mom's cookies and wanted to share with his friends.
Everyone was Puck's friend. You couldn't look at his big goofy grin and not think this guy's one of us. He was black in Minnesota, not an easy life, but one look at his smile and he wasn't black anymore. He was Puck, and he was your pal.
He would have been cute and cuddly and our friend even if Kirby Puckett didn't patrol center field like Superman or hit homers straight into heaven to win big games.
But he did. The man with the lovable name and teddy-bear mug played like no one before or since. He was always first to arrive at the ballpark, last to leave, with mischief and hustle and heroics in between. Every day of his major-league life, from the day he led off his career with four hits in one game in Anaheim to the day his eye went dark and he'd never swing at a pitch or snag a deep fly to left-center again.
In 1987 I was in sixth-grade at St. Rose. Kirby was in his fourth big-league season with the Twins. more to come.
