Well Damn. And Shame on Me

Is everybody corrupt?

While pregnant with my son Alex, some 14 years ago, my husband and I attended a Mariner's game with our elderly collegue from Nordstrom, Bob. A sweet man, who genuinely cared about Jim and his future with the company. He was sort of a fatherly mentor to Jim when it came to selling men's clothing. Bob's career was long and esteemed. Jim learned a lot from Bob. Bob made sure of it.

Naturally, with a paternal connection like that, Bob felt compelled and entitled to help us name the growing bubble of life in my stomach. He was always lobbing potential names our way, hoping for approval and for just one of them to stick. None of them ever did, until that night back at the Kingdome, when the M's were playing the Twins.

One name appeared on the big screen that night, a name that Bob aggresively lobbied for and, to his great delight, succeeded in placing on the A- list of potentials. A name that ultimately was not chosen but has remained in our hearts to this very day.

Kirby ... as in Puckett.

I am truly saddened by the premature death of one the great major leaguers of modern times. Just 45 years old and gone. Not only did this kid put up great numbers, he, more importantly in my mind, brought life to the game, and fans too. His enthusiam was infectious, who could not like baseball when Kirby was in town?

In this past week following his death, the blogosphere and all the other media outlets, have been awash with glowing stories of Puck. While I agree with every radiant word I read and can add nothing more, I do admit an overwhelming sense of disappointment.

In him, and then later, in myself.

Turns out Kirby wasn't perfect. I only learned of his dalliance with domestic violence while researching this post. I was disappointed, to say the least. I thought Puck was one of the few players that lived the dream without abusing his power and mucking up what could be the perfect story for a mother to pass on to her own little leaguer. A real rags to riches story that was born of hard work and honing a talent.

Not so. In the years following his career, also tragically cut short, this time by glaucoma, his life spiraled a bit, to the point of allegedly threatening to kill his wife. Criminal charges were never filed. Later, more serious accusations sent him to court, again forceful conduct towards a woman, he was found not-guilty.

But there it is. The chink in the armour.

As my sister wisely reminded me when I was sharing my frustration about Puck's fall from grace, nobody is perfect. I've said as much myself (see Bye, Bye Boonie, an earlier post in the bon blog). I'm certainly not perfect, when y'all are writing my eulogies, you'll reveal some chinks. That's a promise.

In the wake of Kirby's death, I'm left wondering why our sports heroes can't be perfect and why we should even expect them to be.