Celebrate imperfect athletes or withdraw fan club membership?
By Isaac Huss
My favorite athlete as a child, hands-down, was Kiiiiiiirby Puuuuuuuckett. I was a rather impressionable six year old during the 1991 World Series, and boy did he leave an impression. Imagine my sublime delight, then, when I found out that I had been chosen to appear in a promotional poster along with my idol when I was seven (!). The poster was to advertise for the Kirby Puckett Eight-Ball Invitational in support of Children’s HeartLink, his preferred charity. Yeah, I had some modest success as a child model/actor, and while I had the fortune of appearing in a few other higher-paying spots, you couldn’t have paid me to stay away from this one.
Kirby showed up late, hardly said boo to me, and the poster never saw the light of day, thanks to an apparent dispute between the charity and Puckett’s wife. All things considered, I got my signed baseball, a meeting with my hero, and couldn’t have been happier. But it was the first time I realized that these sports stars I adored were not perfect, and it wouldn’t be the last time a dispute involving Mrs. Puckett caused me to think twice about idolizing her husband. But more on that later.
Selective Memories
Last Sunday, March 6 marked the ten-year anniversary of his death. Patrick Reusse of the Minneapolis StarTribune wrote a nice column reminiscing about Puckett through the eyes of former Twins teammate and longtime radio broadcaster Dan Gladden. He also said this: “We prefer to remember the great times and great laughs with Puck, rather than the public troubles that surfaced in the final 2 ½ years of his short life.”
I’d like to as well. In fact, I rarely prefer to remember the bad times I’ve undergone or witnessed of others. And the purpose of reliving these memories here is not to beat a dead horse, nor to color a dead man’s legacy.
Instead, I’m seeking something else: clarity. As in, what do I make of these conflicting sentiments that I harbor, essentially simultaneously, in my mind and heart? How do I reconcile the fact that perhaps my favorite athlete of all time was also, at least at times, a terrible human being? That even when he was at his most publicly likable he was very possibly also his most privately despicable? Is any reconciliation possible?
A Star for the People...
In the years following that magical 1991 season, Kirby’s play remained at a very high level, although his team went on the decline. That made him all the more endearing, really, as his greatness was even more impressive compared to his teammates and the overall state of the franchise. But then again, his numbers would have stood out on any team. After all, through his first ten seasons, he produced more hits than anyone in the modern era.
But of course the numbers couldn’t possibly tell the whole story. People adored Kirby. There was just something about him that endeared people to him: teammates, coaches, and fans alike.
So when his 12th major league season was cut short because of a pitch he took to the face, we were all crushed. When he was forced to retire the following season because of an irreversible case of Glaucoma, it hurt. The weird thing, though, was that we hurt for Kirby as much as anything.
...Now a Falling Star
But none of that compared to the gut-check I experienced when I learned about the accusation against him of sexual assault, and then subsequently of domestic abuse of his wife (and mistress too). Because Kirby wasn’t just a great player. He was a great guy. That was a huge reason he was a first-ballot Hall of Famer, because he was a humanitarian, a community-builder, and a great friend. Or so we were told.
In Frank Dedford’s landmark column, The Rise and Fall of Kirby Puckett, the author recounts with great candor how Kirby somehow won our hearts with a sparkling public persona and meanwhile, behind closed doors, was abusing his wife--when he wasn’t cheating on her, that is.
Not quite three years later, Kirby passed away after suffering a massive stroke. But it was as if he was already gone. His weight had gotten out of hand to the point where he hardly looked like himself, and the public fallout of his criminal transgressions had led him to leave Minnesota, where he had made his home since first coming up in the big-leagues in the mid-1980’s.
Tarnished Legacies or Revisionist History?
Last Monday, March 7, Peyton Manning retired from the NFL. Had he retired a year earlier, or even after his numerous neck surgeries left his career in the balance, he could have ridden off into the sunset a first-ballot Hall of Famer himself and with his pristine reputation as all-american man intact. Sure, he would only have one of his now-two Super Bowl wins, but he also would have retired before being famously accused of using performance-enhancing human growth hormones which were delivered to his residence under his wife’s name. He also would have dodged the re-emerging of a scandal from his college days at the University of Tennessee, where he was accused of sexually harassing a female trainer.
Manning’s statistical greatness as an NFL quarterback is unquestioned. But should we now remember him differently? After all, his likability (not to mention marketability) from his championship Manning family pedigree to his aw shucks good guy reputation has been larger than life--and maybe just as impressive as his playing heroics. As it is now, there simply can be no comprehensive overview of his legacy without mention of scandal. But heaven forbid he were to be more credibly linked to HGH, much less formally charged?
That doesn’t mean I root for players and teams indiscriminately. And there’s a big difference between wearing around a Darren Sharper jersey and an Onterrio Smith jersey nowadays, even though both players are now likely be remembered more for their missteps as opposed to anything they did on the field. But what about a Manziel jersey? Would I be pulling for a guy to conquer his demons and live up to his potential? Or implicitly acquitting his (alleged) alcohol abuse and domestic violence? That probably have more to do with my own intentions than anybody else.
But the lingering question for me, then, is the same as it is for Reusse: how should I remember these stars? Can I “choose” to remember someone for what I liked about them? Perhaps the nobler thing would be to do so. Or do we have a moral obligation to remember the missteps as well, so as to not be doomed to repeat history?
Times They Are a-Changin’
In this new world of 24 hour news cycles, social media, and secular yet hyper-moralism, we may not even have the option to choose to remember the great times we *shared* with these athletes without also simultaneously remembering their sins. This will certainly keep us from forgetting their moral frailty, sure. But to what end?
It was the late Cardinal Francis George who observed in 2003 that, “In the United States, everything is permitted, even encouraged: 'Go for it, try it, do it,' and we are urged, no matter what the 'it' might be. But, while everything is permitted, practically nothing is forgiven.”
We give these professional athletes everything: fame, fortune, power, and moral license (within the law, of course), and rush to worship at their altars as soon as they wow us with their talent and athleticism and finish on top in our championship rounds. We’ll even, for the most part, accept their physical limitations if they let us down on the battlefield (with some exceptions; see Blair Walsh for a recent example).
And we rightly distinguish between moral missteps and athletic failings. But what about true forgiveness? Which, of course, is not the same as, “Well, he’s on my team and he’s better than our other options at running back, so I’ll ignore the fact that he still doesn’t seem to think he did anything wrong.”
To this day 34 is still my favorite number. I wore it proudly in any sport it was available, including a brief but forgettable high school varsity basketball career. If people ask “Why 34?” Well, it all started with a man named Kirby Puckett. Although Herschel Walker had something to do with it too, as did Isaiah Rider. I thought the best player on the team wore 34 and by the time I found out it was merely coincidence that those players all chose the same number, it was too late. Much later did I realize Kirby Puckett wasn’t the perfect player from whom to inherit a number.
But then again, is any?
