Here's how we should really remember Bill Buckner
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Red Sox icon Bill Buckner died Monday at the age of 69. He played for 22 years, piled up more than 2,700 hits, and won respect at every level of the game. But if you know Buckner, you also know him for one single, ignominious play — that "little roller up along first," as Vin Scully put it, a ground ball off the bat of Mookie Wilson that gave the New York Mets a victory in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series.
Buckner didn't cost the Red Sox the series with that play. In fact, Boston even posted a 3-0 lead in the series' seventh and deciding game. But Buckner's error represented the apex of the "curse" that generations of Boston fans wrapped themselves in with perverse pleasure, and E-3 thus vaulted into sports history alongside Scott Norwood's missed field goal and Chris Webber's phantom timeout, mistakes that came at the absolute worst possible moments.
It's not fair that Buckner is remembered mainly for that stumble, and yes, I'm contributing to the problem with this little post right here. But that's the cruelty of sports: for every game-winning home run, there's a pitcher who served up a meatball; for every game-winning touchdown catch, there's a cornerback who missed an assignment. It's not fair, it's not right, but it's the game, and every player starts every night knowing they could end up on the wrong end of a crucial, even career-defining play.
Buckner, by all accounts, was a good and decent man who never ran from his galactic faceplant. Boston eventually embraced him — it became much easier once the Red Sox had a couple championship rings — and "behind the bag" is now a bit of Boston lore rather than an open wound. (Buckner even got a bit of redemption with a "miracle catch" in a episode of "Curb Your Enthusiasm.")
Seven years after Buckner's error, I was at Camden Yards for All-Star Game festivities, and at the Old-Timer's Game, the retired Buckner was playing first base. A slow roller came his way ... and he fielded it cleanly and stepped on first for the out. The shudder that went through the crowd was unlike anything I've heard before or since ... a rippling if only that everyone understood on an elemental level. And down on the field, Buckner waved to the crowd as if to say, I know what you're thinking.
Bill Buckner wasn't the first player to have his worst moment at the worst time, and he won't be the last. But he showed the world how to handle a permanent burden with grace. He deserves to be remembered for that, too.
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