"Are You Really Kirby Puckett?"

Pitchers and catchers reported this week to spring training in Florida and Arizona. I'm not sure if this means anything to a lot of you. It means a lot to us whose psyches are fed by the idea of being outside, throwing, running, hitting and witnessing the magnificent art of baseball.

Knowing baseballs are flying from the hands of hundreds of young people who are working on their throwing mechanics and cultivating joy for the game means a lot to stem the doldrums of long, hard winters. Hot stove fantasies carry visions of sun-filled summers of our youth. We live the joy of seeing young bodies carry that everlasting youth on the field of immortality.

We don't keep the youth alive by fooling ourselves into thinking we could take the place of the kids. We keep it alive when we remember and emulate the joy that we see in a child's eye, in their enthusiastic dash across the diamond or between the bases. Kids are our role models.

Even as adults, as we did as kids, we are emulating our heroes on and off the diamond. We mimic what we see on the field and the trappings of their status off the field. We do this for better—and sometimes for worse, and sometimes we just have to ignore the worse to keep ourselves from advocating bad behavior, to keep ourselves from the disillusionment of being grown up and facing the real world of mortal beings and gods of clay feet.

One of the gods was Kirby Puckett: Mortal, flawed god who brought more joy to kids and adults than today's reputation of professional sports can support. It was not fair to Kirby that we made him into a god. The day I met him, he was human enough, maybe just in God's image.

I worked at the famed Hungry Mind Bookstore for most of the 1990s. David Unowsky, the store owner, had a healthy appreciation for and relationship with baseball and baseball players. This was seed enough to urge the publisher of Kirby's autobiography to send Kirby to the bookstore for a book signing one spring afternoon a few days into the season. I remember two things about his visit.

The first is that when Kirby arrived, he did not strike me as the god that he had been made into. The man I saw stepping out of the car in the ally behind the store struck me with the kind of familiarity that one has when seeing one of the baseball stars who is a two or three years ahead of you in your high school. And in those moments, he was superhuman nice, as was his reputation.

The second memorable thing about the signing was the people who came. It was during a school day. Not many kids. I stood next to Kirby, opening each book to the page which he was to sign, a common convention of convenience to speed the process we use when there is such a big crowd for any famous author. Most of the participants were men, a few moms and other women getting an autograph for their husband or their kids. There were the collectors, showing up with a box of books, hoping that the signed copy will bring a nice price some day in the future (especially if Kirby were to die a heroic death, either on the field on a Roberto Clemente-type demise, which, of course, was far from the true track of history).

Also in line to meet Kirby were a small boy and his mom. When it came time for the boy to meet Kirby, he stood back, not moving forward into the large open space before the table where Kirby sat. The boy was slightly frightened, anxiously peeking from behind his copy of I Love This Game: My Life in Baseball. (See http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/531748.I_Love_This_Game.) The boy's mother bent down and whispered to him. She gently nudged him forward with her hand. He studder-step resisted and then he slowly, tentatively made his way to the table.

The boy was small for his age. He wore glasses that made it clear that he was never going to see well enough to hit a curve ball, and maybe not even a fastball. He was never going to emulate this god-like image in a fashion that even resembled his peers' level of accomplishment. But, like many of us, he was there to emulate and celebrate in spirit.

When the boy arrived at the front of the table, he received a most cheerful greeting from Kirby. The boy stood slack-jawed, still protecting himself from the glare of stardom with his book. “Hey, man, want me to sign your book?” Kirby asked. I think the boy managed a slow nod. I gently took the book from the boy's hands, which I placed squarely on the signing table, the boy's mouth still agape, eyes wide open, breathless.

Kirby signed the book. The boy, hands still planted on the table, found the strength to utter the words, “Are you really Kirby Puckett?”

“Yeah, man,” smiled Kirby with his trademark grin. “I'm really Kirby Puckett.”

“Really?” the boy asked again.

“Yeah, it's me. I'm Kirby Puckett.”

The boy turned to his mom who was standing back with the other patrons waiting for signed books. With eyes bigger than the glasses on his face, he looked to her and said, “It's really Kirby Puckett!” He turned back to Kirby and said, “You're really Kirby Puckett!” Kirby held out his hand, I think going as far to pry the boy's hand off the table to shake it. With a slow, stunned hand shake, he was meeting the real Kirby Puckett.

There are many reasons I love this moment. One, for this boy, Santa Claus, at that point, became totally unnecessary. He met the Real Kirby Puckett.

Another reason is that by meeting this young man, I gained another role model. He reminded me of why baseball is important. I remembered for whom baseball is most important. That boy was my role model, our role model because he showed us—reminded us that there are good, healthy and important places from which to access and practice joy.

I have to say that most of us adults at the event were making a small attempt to access that joy, the joy that belongs with baseball, with the kid inside us and with the hope that comes with every spring. This is the hot stove time of year when we really start to look forward to tasting that cup of joy, the trigger that can often turn our winter depression into one of those things that gives us new life.

Baseball is, at its heart, a kids' game. When the Twins played at the Dome, it seemed that most of the people who filled the stands where there for one or more of baseball's joys. As much as baseball purists scoffed at baseball indoors, most still showed up to experience one of their childhood loves.

Now there is a new stadium—or I should say ball park. Seats are more expensive, more than a kid can afford. Tickets are hard to get. Looking at the patrons who make their way through the gates, they are just as likely to be guys taking a date who they intended to impress by sending at least three times the steep ticket price. Like at any park, old or new, Metrodome or Target Field (and why it is not called Hennepin County Stadium is beyond me, since that is where/who the money for it came from) the hot dates and business clients are still the ones with the best seats, close up like the side lines at a Los Angeles Lakers game—next to Jack Nicholson or some other movie star. Maybe one day, those seats will be filled with boys and girls aged eight to 15 and the tycoons can sit in the nose bleed section of the field with their corporate claim: “No bad seats in the house.”

But who am I to talk—on several counts. For one thing, I had a front-row seat to see a boy make the best use that anyone could ever make from meeting one of the most memorable baseball players in recent history. Over the years, Kirby Puckett's image has acquired its share of tarnish, a failure of godliness that wakes us up to who we really are after we have devoted ourselves to media's graven idols. Still, the reality that I cannot take away for the world of realities is the one that I saw that day, in the eyes of the boy and in the person of Kirby Puckett: that is Kirby's ability to bring that kind of joy, excitement and positive energy to a game that has enough foibles to make us jaded; to a society filled with mortals and mortal limitations; and to anyone who needs to remember to pursue our life's joys and all the seemingly compromised sources that help us make that joy.

In places all over the country, all over the Americas, not just in Florida and Arizona, but in other warm places, in gyms and field houses, and on scraggly, weedy fields, you can hear the sound of balls popping in leather mitts and the chatter that propels the happiness of play, games and life. Boys and girls asking for autographs, even from guys who will spend the next six years in the minor leagues or who will never make it further than the college squad.

Baseball is important for a lot of reasons. I could go on about its place in society, how it is a profound expression of American culture and the deep social and economic justice struggles of our country, the style and attitudes of the people, and as an impeccable marker of history. I could talk about all the great personal stories of triumph and tragedy that express themselves like in no other sport. But today, baseball is important for this fact: For the coming spring, we have the chance to find at least a little corner of happy on more days than not—because of a terribly far-sighted boy and because Kirby Puckett was really Kirby Puckett.

Idleness is the Devil's Workshop

Sharing with you on a weekly basis reminds me that there are things I tell you and other things (at least to this point) I do not. It has been a long week, full of things to ponder and things about which I would rather not have to think. Telling and not telling: are these sins of omission, attempts to make my life easy or just taking care of myself?

Not thinking: it is a handy survival technique. It is handy to sweep aside the multitude of cognitive dissonances. Helpful to ignore the compromises. Lamentable to recall all the times when I could and maybe should have spoken out, feel unforgivable to think of the times when I did speak with low-level conviction that left me feeling petty—or not feeling the righteousness of any conviction.

Our silences and words: they reveal and conceal more truths than we have the time or energy to contemplate. Too many things on our minds and hearts, and we find ourselves sliding down just as many paths of least resistance. It is said that Yogi Berra uttered the words, “When you come to the fork in the road, take it.”

Along these paths, do we lose ourselves? Do we lose our identities? Or maybe these paths define us, tell us who we are, and make us who we are.

Who am I? The other day, I went for a walk. I gave it a purpose, to get a roasted chicken, because they are cheaper on Tuesdays at Whole Foods. Whole Foods? Was this trip a path of least resistance? The trip got me out of the house and a little exercise on a nice, sunny day. It allowed me to do better than the usual roasted chicken deal, especially given that I did not have to drive and that I did not want to find myself without a chicken, while my son and I tried to cobble together supper's menu.

Should I be telling you this? If I am silent, will my unexamined life allow me to stand not charged with any transgressions? If I explain, speak up with tons of rationalization, do I absolve myself from trespass? Or maybe it would have been better to not even think about it, create an internal ignorance.

But I cannot help but think. Moral hazard. Vital encumbrance. Here are the list of rationalizations I can use to mete out my earthly, momentary salvation:

• I think I will be forgiven by my fellow “member/owners” at the Mississippi Market co-op, but maybe my acquiescence to “Corporate Foods” marks me as less than a true committed neighbor. I think I will not be scolded for a lapse in thriftiness for not going to Rainbow or Cub Foods, especially since the price was not any different on this day. Did my trip mark a desire to eschew the less hip and blend in with a more monied, better tended, more conspicuously maintained, better coiffed-but-too-casual-to-let-on-how-hard-we're-trying crowd? Did I just want to pretend identity with the crowd that poses as more pretty without the bling? Did I pass?

• I don't really care if I passed. I passed enough not to draw too much attention, ire, or a companion set of employee eyes: the eyes that follow the usual suspects around the store to make sure items found their way into my basket and checkout rather than my pockets.

• I just wanted a walk. I wanted the sun on a rare warm February day. I wanted a chicken. I wanted to keep as much money in my pocket as I could keep and still have protein.

Whether I should have gone to my co-op, whether I could really “hang” with the people who can afford to shop at Whole Foods on a regular basis, whether I really deserve to describe them as different from me—or I as not them, and to figure out why either they or I have invested in that social stratum, it was easy. At least on Tuesday it was. Why do I worry?

I just spent an awful bit of space rationalizing my actions, protecting myself from guilt, mostly imposed by my own warped moral compass of insecurities. My protestations are indications of a strange fear. Are the paths of least resistance really slippery roads to damnation? The idealism of my youth allowed me more time and energy and conviction to contemplate that truth. Yes, there is hell to pay at the end of these roads, no matter what fork you take, but there is also grace along the way.

Maybe it is my Baptist upbringing that wants to demonize something else or someone else—someone other for my perceived transgressions. Maybe it is that same upbringing that lets me decide that Corporate Foods and the people who shop there are okay, now that I've decided that I am one of them, and we can choose someone else to demonize—manufacture categories for others' transgressions.

Maybe it is enough that the next day, I made my trek to Mississippi Market, stood in the short line at checkout, and let my son remember our member number (because I keep forgetting), then made our way home for supper and homework.

I am still thinking of something to write, which sins of mine and others I want to expose to the world. The “sad man behind blue eyes” “bites back hard on his anger.” I bite back hard on words of some of my sins and those of others. Still, the “pain and woe show through” in spite of my desire to protect myself from guilt and the breadcrumb sins of a manufactured morality. In the mean time, I will dwell on the moral imperative that tells me we have to eat (chicken) and take care of our neighbors (co-op) and think ourselves as good.

The best Valentine's story (re: comments)

There is one other important Valentine memory that I left out in "Hoping for a Letter from St. Valentine."  It is amazing what becoming hardened to social realities will do to one's memory.

One year, in high school, the student council was selling roses that people could buy for another student to express their feelings with either a white, pink or red flower.

My dear sister Charlotte, who knew that neither of us were going to get a rose from anyone, bought one for me. I think it was $2--that's in 1979 dollars. For her, that meant one day without hot lunch. It was so powerfully dear. It speaks to the connection we have that shows why she is still my best friend.

Of course, I was too big of a kid (boy) to cry--and we had enough other stuff to cry about in those days, hidden tears, but it strikes me with that emotion, today.

Thanks Barbara and Valerie P. for sharing your Valentine's stories and reminding me.

Also, here is some Valentine's Day trivia via MythBusters and thanks to Esther:

If you want to profess your undying love to your sweetheart, it's best to stick to red roses, lest she be versed in the language of flowers. Yellow roses signify friendship, dark pink roses express gratitude, and white roses are a sign of purity and reverence -- not necessarily appropriate sentiments for Valentine's Day.

There were several St. Valentines, all of which might claim influence on today's holiday. One was a priest in Rome, the second a bishop of Interamna (modern Terni, in Italy), and the third was in Africa. Little is known about any of these men. While it is possible that both of the Italian saints are meant to honored on Feb. 14, it is unclear which one, if any, inspired the romantic flavor of Saint Valentine's Day.

There are many legends about Saint Valentine -- secretly marrying young lovers, sending love notes -- but none of them can be substantiated. There were at least three different saints named Valentine, and very little is known about any of them. The church established a feast day for St. Valentine on Feb. 14 in order to "Christianize" Lupercalia, a pagan fertility festival celebrated by the ancient Romans on Feb. 15, during which men and women were paired off through a lottery. Although these pairings often led to marriage, the church did not approve and put a stop to it, but the association of the holiday with love and mating stuck.

It was also once commonly believed that Feb. 14 marked the beginning of the mating season for birds, adding to the romance of the date.

Hoping for a Letter from St. Valentine

I used to hate Valentine's Day. Did I say “hate?” How about quietly absorbing barbs of hostility? Maybe they were just misfired arrows of cupid that are as likely to be fired out of hate, missing their mark. They were not intended for me, but I was injured by the careless volley of arrows.

The one fortune cookie message I remember from all the cookies I have cracked said this: A good friend is a gift that one gives one's self. I am not so sure the same can be said for falling in love, hence the cupid analogy, but it might be healthy to adopt that mental construct.

Regardless of the construct I choose, it can be said that I have spent many Valentine's Days, and a good portion of other parts of my life, being neither a recipient nor giver of that gift. It was not that I did not have the desire, but, depending on your philosophy or construct, I was not sufficiently desired—by myself or anyone else. And I hated Valentine's Day.

Many years past the trauma of grade school Valentines in the cereal box, the holiday became one of heightened loneliness. It was one thing not to be able to afford a lot of the goodies that conveyed the evolved meaning of Valentine's Day and the kind of love that seemed to count. It was bad enough to not have anyone to whom to give them.

Yes, I used to HATE HATE HATE Valentine's Day, for a lot of reasons.  It has been a long journey to get to a place where it is a benign celebration of recognition and to let it give me a space where I can just get the designated space to acknowledge my relationships, with my son, at times a couple of healthy, unambiguous  friendships, and maybe two or just one relationship I've had. 

I know my spin-off emotions from my bad experience was as damaging to the good spaces others have had around it.  Even now, I can see that it is an institution that is charged with mutual and unmutual sexual exploitation, just plain exploitation. We still live with the expectation that people will measure the significance of love based on the amount of money they spend on their object of desire. Most persistently for me, it has been a reminder that so many people were into the day, had objects of at least manufactured desire, and that it was a game that I largely did not get to play. 

The first thing that happened that allowed me to at least participate in uttering the word "Valentine" was finding out that St. Valentine was a noted, prolific letter writer. When I was in graduate school and for a while after, I too was a prolific letter writer. I would celebrate that around the holiday rather than the other crap. 

Many years later,one of the sweetest things that happened around Valentine's Day was getting a ficus from Ginger.  This was long before there was an inkling, in my mind, that anything romantic would ever happen between us. Her gift was a very kind gesture from a friend: it was so sweet. 

The gesture was also profoundly symbolic of the fleeting hints of romance that visited our friendship in later days: not just the giving, but the vehicle of demonstrating affection.  A ficus? 

A ficus is very, very hard to take care of.  I have no green thumb.  It started to fade.  I tried keeping it up, but... well, it's a ficus.  It's end came when I went away for a week and left my brother Michael to take care of it.  When I came back, it was done for.  It was a ficus.  It should have been a sign to me of what she was capable of in love and relationship. 

And I did recognize that getting this ficus wasn't much different than the common practices of the living institution. Flowers and chocolate—those are the currency of love too often.  But flowers are dead.  They are cut and are not sustainable expressions.  They look fantastic for a while, but they whither and die.  Die soon. 

Chocolate does not provide nourishment.   Sugar and caffeine.  It won't make us strong.  It won't do much if we have it in any quantity that will fill our stomachs that won't wind us up being very unhealthy.

Flowers and chocolate just being two of the items along the continuum of more expensive items and some very unfortunate expectations that have taught us to believe that love is a function and measure of what we buy.

So, I've been trying to build something different around the holiday.  It has not been a good one for a lot of us.  Honestly, for the past 30 years, with the exception of a couple, it has been a relief that I did not have anyone for whom to perform such obligations.  Secretly, though, being left out dug into my heart.

I don't know how this Valentine's Day will turn out. It has to be a balance between my highfalutin moral objections and taking the excuse to express some joy. The day is arbitrary,  but at the same time,  my reaction against it is just as contrived and maybe I should not let it keep me from taking and benefiting from one of those social goods that is rightfully mine. I have some Valentines to write and some people who should get them. Time to pull out the cereal box.

Girls and Guitars

My son's guitar is better than mine. This is a point of satisfaction. I am excited at his recent motivation to learn to play. He received the guitar for Christmas. Looking at his guitar, thoughts and memories run through my mind. I wish he were here with me, that he was waiting to pick it up to practice chords, or idle after he'd already made his music.

Right now, I wish I had someone for whom to play, a love, a small crowd, anyone who could catch at least the joy in the ring of steel strings. Why do I want this?

A few years ago, I found myself at a bar. There was an open stage, a warm, live microphone and maybe a few warm, live bodies. My friend Julia asked if I might want to sing. I said, “No guitar.”

She turned to me and said, “Jim has a guitar in the car.”

I looked at her askance and muttered, “I don't think it's such a good idea.” The connection between Jim and me was as convoluted and uneasy as the twice-removed lingerings of a past relationship he had with Julia—and the treacheries around how much of his old space I now sat in. Julia must have had a lapse in awareness—not remembering why guys learn to play guitar; not remembering why Jim's guitar existed and for whom he carried it.

There are a few reasons why guys learn to play guitar. For the most part, the reasons fall into two categories: One is about the love of making music easily— our favorite music. The other is about impressing women.

I was never one of the guys who thought I would gain favor with a woman by playing a guitar. I was sufficiently thrilled to belt out the opening chords to “Lola,” as a handful of dorm mates learned to do that freshman year in college or, soon after, strum all the Neil Young songs that buffeted my lonely-boy angst.

But Jim was clearly one of those who picks up his guitar to impress the girls. Julia knew this.

She could have seen that it would be with epic reluctance that Jim would go out to his car to fetch his guitar so that I could play it. Maybe she had one or two too many scotch and sodas. Maybe she forgot that she was a woman for whom he played guitar in order to gain favor.

I sat next to her, with my hand tentatively on her arm, slightly transgressing without song. I politely and diplomatically declined her suggestion. The mic remained silent.

Right now, my son's guitar is silent, waiting for a moment of earnest thrill and determination: waiting for my son to engage in his newest inspiration. He is 11. He has no girlfriends. Today, his playing is totally innocent. No treacheries.

MPR's News Cut Blog: "Who are you?"

This is a story by Molly Bloom at Minnesota Public Radio for which I was interviewed.  It is part of a our public discussion of race, identity and how we identify ourselves. Click on  or copy and paste the link below.

http://minnesota.publicradio.org/collections/special/columns/news_cut/archive/2011/02/who_are_you.shtml

Also see my blog entry http://theclarencewhite.blogspot.com/2011/01/one-of-many-thoughts-on-mlk-holiday.html.

Hope your week is going well. I'd love to know what you think.