Baseball's brightest light fades

I spent Monday with a monumental toothache. The kind of that leaves a grown man slack-jawed, drooling and mumbling curse words at nobody in particular.

I was worthless all day and left the office that evening having accomplished nothing productive whatsoever. I stopped on my way home for something soft for dinner.

Slowly gumming my way through some beans and Spanish rice, I saw something on the TV that made me put down my fork.

Kirby Puckett was dead of a stroke at the age of 45.

Puckett was loved by a mass of fans. But he was special to me for multiple reasons.

As a kid from Pittsburgh, I was born a Pirates fan. The Pirates have won four World Series and made a strong bid in the National League Championship Series three times in the early '90s, but each time to no avail.

So, occasionally, my heart wandered over to the American League and those mighty Minnesota Twins.

Guys like Puckett, Danny Gladden, Kent Hrbek, Greg Gagne, Dave Winfield, Frank Viola, Don Baylor and Jack Morris (what a fork ball that guy had!) made the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome the brightest diamond in baseball's sky.

Behind only Pirate centerfielder Andy Van Slyke, Puckett was my favorite player to watch.

Ultimately, Puckett was the supreme underdog. At five foot eight inches, Puckettwas small in stature but large at heart.

Puckett played with intensity and instinct. He played with a radiating, bright, white smile that lit up the field and fans alike. He was a hunter tracking balls in the outfield and a marksmen firing doubles from the plate.

In a time when free agency ran amok and players hastily hopped fences for greener pastures, Puckett spent his career speedily grazing Minnesota's bright green astroturf.

I watched Puckett as one might watch a painter. Stroke by stroke he created a picture of perfection.

I saw Puckett win two World Series, in 1987 and 1991. The latter is arguably the most exciting Series ever, with the Twins going into game six down 3-2. With a leaping catch in the eighth inning and a walk-off homerun in the bottom of the 11th, Puckett won the game nearly single-handedly.

In 1997, I took a job as a sportswriter in Meadville, Pennsylvania. After six months of covering high school sports and bowling leagues, my editor came to me and told me to write my first editorial. It was the day Puckett retired; I wrote one of my finest pieces to date, calling him "the last loyal man in baseball."

So tonight, I write again. This time, with a much heavier heart.

I sit on a barstool, nursing a beer and watching Puckett's highlights on ESPN. I know baseball will never be the same.

Thanks for the memories, Kirby.

And know that tonight I go to bed with both a toothache and a heartache.