How sad, the news of Kirby Puckett’s death at 45. Growing up in Minneapolis, Kirby was a figure of a mythical magnitude. From third or fourth grade on, everyone at school seemed to love him – even if they didn’t know what a strike or an out was. The New York Times obit alludes to “thousands and thousands of dogs and cats named after him throughout the Upper Midwest.” I know I met a few of those animals. His smile and his strange, short, chubby figure lent themselves to a cuddly teddy bear image – a summertime Santa Claus – and made his accomplishments on the field seem all the more unlikely. How did that body leap up again and again to steal those home runs?
The descent of his personal life in the years following his career-ending glaucoma seemed like a far-fetched cliche of the retired jock ala Scorsese’s Raging Bull. No one expects Santa Claus to appear in divorce court and later show up in tawdry tabloid headlines.
Here in Philly, Kirby isn’t so well known. He’s known, but not mythologized. His puppy dog appeal hasn’t totally escaped our streets though. Bizarrely, municipal recycling bins bear the image of a cartoon character named “Curby Bucket.”
