Kirby

I don't know if I like the word "idol." Especially when it's applied to athletes. But at the moment, it's a word that comes to mind.

One of my boyhood idols died today.

Kirby Puckett -- Minnesota Twins outfielder, Hall of Famer -- went before his time. He could have lived 1,000 years and still not been done milking the marrow out of life. He was an exuberant ambassador for baseball. And now he's gone.

Glaucoma cut short his playing career. He played his last game in 1996. He gained a lot of weight. He was in the news for the wrong reasons -- something about a woman he mistreated -- the kind of stuff that makes you realize we dole out that word idol way too easily.

But on the field, his career was the stuff of hero worship -- a 5-foot-9, 220-pound barrel chested bundle of unbridled enthusiasm. He was short and pudgy and hit the snot out of the ball. A .318 career average. One of the most dramatic home runs in World Series history to end Game 6 in 1991. And a ridiculous leaping catch against the wall that kept the Twins alive in that game.

A smile on his face. Always.

Bob Costas once astutely suggested that Puckett's small stature made him a fan-favorite with children. His free-swinging style at the plate should have made him a favorite of opposing teams as well. He once said he never saw a pitch he didn't like.

Rest in peace, Kirby. We'll miss you.