Pucket's exposed lies sign of times

Joe Palmersheim -- Staff Column

I remember a long time ago, maybe 10 years ago, shopping with my mother for grade school supplies.

It was one of those lazy, hot August days, and seeing as it was two weeks before the new school year, Target was busy. The lines were stretched out with crowds of mothers and children teeming about trying to find the perfect Trapper Keeper.

It was in this line that my boredom reached its full peak, and I looked around for something - anything - to read. I mean, at this point I was so bored that Better Homes and Gardens would have done.

Instead, I found a book about a man who had been a childhood hero of mine. This particular man had played for the Minnesota Twins, and in time had become an all-around nice guy, someone whom everyone loved. The book traced the story of his childhood and playing baseball, his success in the major leagues and all of his volunteer work with children.

Oh, Kirby, where did you go wrong?

The story I read in the issue of Sports Illustrated with Kirby on the cover painted a very different picture of the man I had idolized as a child. Instead of being kind and generous, this man was a mean, vindictive womanizer who was on trial for the sexual assault of a woman in a bathroom.

This very obviously was not the man we thought we all knew. The work with charities? All his wife's doing. His picture-perfect marriage? A lie. He was cheating on her within five weeks of the wedding. Looking at it now, it seems this entire legend was built on a lie.

It just goes to show me that people in the public eye are never what they seem to be. I can be jaded and cynical when River Phoenix ODs in the Viper Room, but to see a baseball player from my childhood on trial for rape and hearing what a scumbag he is just breaks my heart.

It's a sign of the times. When I was a kid, during recess at lunch all of the guys would play baseball in the narrow yard we had to play in. It was a field made of asphalt, but we didn't care. We would all take names of famous players (Kirby was always a name that was taken), and have an All-Star game of epic proportions every time.

I have a lot of fond memories of the camaraderie that developed between us from playing baseball. Whoever hit the home run or made the best play was a hero for the rest of the afternoon, basking in his glory. And every day this would start over again.

That was 1988. Today, I'm not even sure kids have baseball gloves anymore.

I give up.

---

Joe Palmersheim can be reached at [email protected]