Kirby Puckett: 1960-2006
by Cary Broder

When Kirby Puckett died recently, his death hit me harder than the deaths of some of my own relatives. Like any Minnesota baseball fan who grew up during the late '80s, I cherished Kirby as the heart and soul of the small-market team I love, and was saddened by his tragic downfall and death at the young age of 45. Puckett played the game with a child-like love and exuberance that has nearly become extinct in the money-dominated era of baseball.

In contrast to today — when Johnny Damon plays a pivotal role in helping the Boston Red Sox break the curse of the Bambino, then signs unashamedly with the Bronx Bombers two years later, and where bats-for-hire like Alex Rodriguez play a surgical game seemingly devoid of emotion or character — Puckett garnered the respect of Minnesota Twins fans through ceaseless hustle and fierce loyalty to his organization. Despite becoming baseball's first $3 million a year outfielder in 1989, Puckett in 1992 accepted less money to remain with the Twins despite lucrative offers from other clubs. In 1995, he re-signed with the Twins again as an unrestricted free agent to finish his career with the team.

For Minnesota sports fans, Puckett's death was especially painful, both because he died young and because of publicized personal travails and humiliation he went through in his post-baseball life. Exiled from the typical post-retirement career track after being accused of physical and emotional abuse against his ex-wife, Puckett fell from grace in the Twin Cities, a one-time superhero disgraced and scorned. Accounts in the Twin Cities say that shortly before passing away in an Arizona hospital, Puckett was finally putting things back together and was preparing to marry again when a major stroke killed him.

Before Puckett's arrival in Minnesota, the Twins were a pitiful franchise with a horrendous pitching staff and notoriously stingy owner, playing before tiny crowds in a bizarre plastic and cement structure with a giant Hefty bag for a right field fence and a loopy white ceiling that made even routine fly balls a challenge for outfielders. They finished 70-92 in 1983. At that time, the team was led by such noteworthy baseball greats as lifetime 50-game winner Ken Schrom and second baseman John Castino. Starting pitcher Brad Havens had an ERA of 8.18 in 1983. The only memorable thing about the Twins was 68-year-old knuckleballer Joe Niekro getting caught scuffing baseballs, and giant plastic beer cups featuring line drawings of Kent Hrbek and the Metrodome.

When Kirby arrived in 1984, his short, chubby teddy-bear physique and relentless hustle immediately made him a fan favorite. Kirby played the game the way we all say we would play it if we got a chance, as if each game were our last. Puckett's charisma, winning smile and rags-to-riches story — he was born and raised in the notorious Robert Taylor homes on Chicago's South Side — endeared him to Minnesotans, whose predominantly Lutheran and austere work ethic affords little tolerance toward bling-bling, show-offs, or outspoken, prima-donna athletes. Puckett took extra time to sign autographs for fans and ran out every ground ball.

"My best memory of Kirby comes from his rookie year," said Bob Griggs, a Unitarian minister living in St. Louis Park and a longtime Twins fan.

"He was scheduled to sign autographs at [suburban Minneapolis shopping mall] Knollwood, got lost, and arrived maybe 45 minutes late. No problem. He sat at the table, signed, and posed for pictures until everybody in line had a chance to meet him. I'm sure he stayed well over an hour past the scheduled stop time to make sure nobody went home disappointed.

"To me, the remarkable thing about Kirby is that the most popular baseball player in Minnesota history was a chubby African-American guy from the projects of Chicago. I respected how he re-signed with the Twins when he could have gotten more money to sign elsewhere."

But it wasn't until 1987, the year the Twins won their first World Series, that Puckett would emerge as a Twin Cities hero the size of Bob Dylan, Prince and Rod Carew rolled into one. Thanks to a weak division, the Twins managed to do the unthinkable and back into the playoffs in 1987 with an 85-77 record, taking advantage of a nasty hitting lineup made more potent by their offense-friendly stadium.

By that time, Puckett was hitting for power and contending for the batting title. In one game, he went 6-for-6 and robbed Robin Yount of a grand slam. His young teammates Kent Hrbek and Gary Gaietti had matured into excellent players, and the Twins had a lineup that could compete with any team in the league.

Still, with only two passable starting pitchers, the playoff-unproven Frank Viola and aging Bert Blyleven, who that year set a major league record for home runs allowed thanks to hanging curves and the Homerdome (as the Metrodome had come to be known), their postseason prospects didn't look good. However, to the surprise of baseball pundits, the Twins quickly dispatched with a heavily favored Detroit Tigers team in 5 games in the '87 ALCS. Puckett hit only .208 in the series, but Gaietti and blue-collar outfielders Tom Brunansky and Dan Gladden beat up on the Tigers' pitching staff. With Puckett as the team's emotional leader, the Twins found themselves headed towards the World Series for the first time since 1924, when they were the Washington Senators. What was going on? Minnesota sports fans, unaccustomed to the idea that their team was even allowed to participate in a post-season series, were suddenly living a dream.

In the '87 World Series, The Twins faced an incredibly tough Ozzie Smith-led St. Louis Cardinals team. Just like in the LCS, the Twins were heavy underdogs. But the Twins took a two-game lead in the series, thanks to their usual grit plus the advantage given to them by their bizarre stadium — reportedly so loud that the Cardinals' coaches had to keep a hand on the phone in the dugout to feel it ringing.

Once they arrived in St. Louis, baseball probabilities took over and the Twins quickly fell behind 3 games to two. It was over. No team in history had ever won a series by winning all games at home, and the Twins were down to their No. 3 starter, little-known rookie Les Straker. Thanks to Kent Hrbek's grand slam in Game 6, Frank Viola's pitching in Game 7, rabid fans ferociously waving white homer hankies and a resilient lineup, the Twins shocked the world in 1987 and won the series. Puckett had 10 hits in the series and dominated defensively.

My family, like nearly every Minnesota family, still has homer hankies and the Wheaties Box commemorating that event somewhere. NBC announcer Bob Costas named a son after Kirby. For the first time, Minnesotans, accustomed to contenting themselves with good-natured aw-shucks also-ran stories, ice fishing trophies, Vikings hubris and squandered opportunities, and franchises leaving their city for warmer pastures, had an improbable and loveable championship team.

Had KP led the Twins to the Promised Land once, that would have been enough for the Minnesotans. By 1991, Puckett's numbers had started to tail off, but he remained an All-Star and the team's leader. Twins fans quickly slipped into indifference, but in 1991, the Twins made the playoffs again, finishing the season 95-67.

Puckett's hot bat ripped apart the Toronto Blue Jays in the ALCS, and the Twins found themselves in the series again for the second time in five years. This time it was against the vaunted Atlanta Braves, seemingly unbeatable favorites whose starting rotation featured four outstanding starters including two Hall-of-Fame candidates (Tom Glavine and John Smoltz), and whose fearsome lineup boasted MVP Terry Pendleton, David Justice and power-speed demon Ron Gant. As in '87, most people dismissed the Twins' chances against a perceived juggernaut.

If Puck was a rock star in '87, he became a Twin Cities sports god in the 1991 series. Just as in '87, the Twins won every game at home and lost every game on the road. In the third inning of Game 6, a game in which he had four hits, Kirby made a legendary leaping catch by scaling the plexiglass wall in left-center field — his defensive trademark— that quite possibly prevented the Braves from taking the series in 6. He later won the game with an 11th-inning home run against Charlie Liebrandt — described often in sports broadcasting as one of the greatest individual moments in baseball history — circling the bases and pumping his fists to a sea of frantically waving homer hankies that cleared the fence just above the spot of his game-saving catch.

"I was there for arguably the greatest event in MN sports history, Kirby's '91 Game 6," said New York filmmaker and writer Nat Bennett, who grew up in Minneapolis.

"My stepfather and I were seated in the outfield just right (from the plate) of center field. That meant we could see most of the field, most of the game, but nothing that happened closest to us. Due to the bizarre sightlines in the dome, Kirby often disappeared from view to chase down deep flies hit to center. Usually, we had to see what he was doing on the Jumbotron screen, even though we were the closest people to him in the stadium.

"I've always said being at that game was the ultimate post-modern experience. I didn't see Puckett's 11th inning home run land because it landed below us over the wall in dead center, exactly the place that Kirby had stolen so many home runs with his improbably airborne catches. Instead, what I saw was thousands of people leaping to their feet, filling the room — the Metrodome is really just a large one, after all — with a deafening roar."

That home run led them to the storied Game 7 where Jack Morris pitched his equally celebrated 10-inning shutout to bring the Twins to their second series victory in five years.

Rose petals lined the street when Puckett walked; streets were named after him. Kirby Puckett teddy bears lined the walls of every Target store. Another Wheaties Box. More homer hankies. Glory. Minnesota sports fans' cups had runneth over.

"I recall going out to dinner with my family in late elementary school and popping into a restaurant that was absolutely packed," said Maple Grove resident Ryan Olson. "We couldn't even get our names on a list and decided to go elsewhere. As we hurried out of the place out of the corner of my eye I saw Kirby Puckett sitting in the corner with his wife having dinner. This was the winter after the 1991 World Series and Puck couldn't have been bigger in the Twin Cities. Seeing him in person was one of the most mind-boggling experiences I can recall from being a kid."

"I had only seen him that close on his Topps rookie card that I coveted or through the restrictive plexiglass of the Metrodome outfield. I recall feeling strange that Kirby just ate at regular restaurants like the rest of us — I thought he should have lived in a castle and was served on hand and foot! I since have seen a handful of Twin Cities sports icons close and personal (Garnett, Moss, Culpepper, Modano) ... but none of those guys mattered to me like Puckett did. He just smiled, played hard and won huge game after huge game and seemed as though he was doing it all for the fans of the Twins."

After the '94 strike and discovering that beer and women were amazing, my interest in baseball diminished significantly. I went to college. The Twins slipped into obscurity and baseball was dominated by Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa ballooning up on elephant testosterone and chasing Roger Maris' home run record. After being struck in the face on Sept. 28th, 1995, by a Dennis Martinez fastball, the last pitch he would ever see in the majors, Kirby had to retire suddenly because of glaucoma that left him partially blind in one eye.

After baseball, few were prepared for the scandal about to unfold in the local and national press. Kirby let himself go physically, and stories began circulating that Puckett had become a sexual predator, keeping a mistress while physically and emotionally abusing his estranged wife, Tonya. In 2003, he was accused of groping a woman in a restaurant. (He would later be tried and acquitted in the incident.) But it wasn't an isolated incident.

In a Dec. 17, 2002, St. Paul Pioneer-Press article titled "The Secret Life of Kirby Puckett," Tonya Puckett alleged that her husband had subjected her to a Patrick Bateman-esque array of torture and abuse, including putting a cocked gun to her head as she held their then-2-year-old daughter; trying to strangle her with an electrical cord; locking her in a basement; and using a power saw to cut through a door she was hiding behind.

Even though he was cleared of all charges in the incident, his loveable image as a hero had tarnished. Without baseball, Kirby was a sleazebag, a barroom joke. Twins' Radio announcer Jon Gordon's famous home run call for Kirby, "Touch 'em all, Kirby Puckett," became a mocking refrain.

Another superstar, another asterisk. Puckett faded from the public spotlight, resigning his post in the Twins' front office to retire to Arizona. His already pudgy frame had become enormous, a farce of his former self. He was no longer cute or cuddly; he looked sad, bloated and depressed. Puckett's accomplishments, his jersey hanging from the Metrodome rafters, would always serve as a reminder of his accomplishments, but also the accusations of sexual abuse that marked his post-baseball life.

In 2003 and 2004, when the Twins played the Yankees in the American League Divisional Series, my interest in baseball rekindled and I sat in the Yankee Stadium bleachers wearing a baby-blue throwback jersey with Kirby's number on it. I felt vaguely ashamed, and if they had made a Hrbek throwback I would have worn that instead. Yankees fans in kind pelted me with beer and pretzels and treated me with their usual courtesy, saying things like "Kirby Puckett is a faggot molester," "Kirby Puckett sucks cock!" and other equally blunt remarks.

So when Kirby died, it was doubly tragic: the death of a hero and sports icon, and the premature death of a torn man who, unable to cope with no longer living life as a sports legend, turned his own self-hatred and insecurity on those closest to him and lashed out at the world in a vicious way.

How could someone with such loyalty and charisma as a baseball player be such a flawed and incomplete human being off the field? Maybe if Puckett had known how loved he was after his retirement it might have helped avert his tragic downfall.

After his death, loving tributes to Puckett were all that could be seen and read on ESPN, the Minneapolis Star-Tribune and other media. Tearful memorial tributes were given to him from fans and former teammates. It was a sad reminder that sometimes only in death are people forgiven for certain misgivings or deeds. Or at least the state of Minnesota and the baseball fans who loved him allowed themselves to forget about it for a few days. It's hard to forgive Puckett for his alleged mistreatment of his wife, clearly the actions of someone who had utterly lost perspective and lashed out at the world in depression. Maybe some who view Puckett's acts as criminal or were hurt by him will never be able to forgive him.

Baseball validated his existence as a human being; without it his life was lost and out of balance. My thoughts also were with Tonya Puckett. What was going through her mind after Puckett's death? How much of her own life did she sacrifice as she dealt with a fallen hero? Coming forth with allegations of sexual abuse and violence must have required a tremendous amount of courage.

Today in professional sports, Barry Bonds unceremoniously announces to his fans in press conferences that he doesn't enjoy playing the game anymore. Coddled NFL rookies like Eli Manning refuse even to report to teams with losing records before ever taking a snap. Invoking a need for "respect," stars accept offers from the highest bidder with an air of inevitability that has rendered team loyalty an anachronism. Puckett in Minnesota did what few athletes in the money ball era would dream of doing or have the patience or perspective to do: elevate a sad sack franchise through love of the game, determination and sheer force of will into a two-time champion, donning the same uniform the entire time. True, the game was different 25 years ago, but not that different.

Few of us will be fortunate to witness a combination of talent, charisma, loyalty and hustle in our lifetimes. Puckett's post-baseball life was also a harrowing reminder of a greater need for balance and perspective in one's individual life. His death a lesson that life is brief, and that even the most flawed among us could use some forgiveness along the way.

E-mail Cary Broder at djcary at hotmail dot com.