Over the weekend, I read this: "After battling the disease of Lewy Body Dementia, Bill Buckner passed away early the morning of May 27th surrounded by his family. Bill fought with courage and grit as he did all things in life. Our hearts are broken but we are at peace knowing he is in the arms of his Lord and Savior Jesus Christ." I'm not sure I would garner that last bit about the arms of his Lord and Savior, and I hope I can avoid dementia of any sort. At least the kind that could kill me.
But if you've been alive as long as I have, or longer, once you read the name "Billy Buckner," you probably thought, "didn't he play baseball?"
Yes he did.
And you might even remember that he played for the Red Sox.
And if you made it that far on the memory train, you probably got to the part where, in the 1986 World Series, Bill let the potential first championship for the still-cursed team from Boston slip through his fingers. Or between his legs. His error allowed the Mets to score the winning run, and go on a couple of nights later to win game seven, keeping the Red Sox on the Bambino list for another eighteen years. That was the accomplishment that was splashed all over Al Gore's Internet. Not his twenty-one years in the major leagues. Not his lifetime .289 batting average.
The powers that be posted video of the one that got away.
For the record, Bill Buckner deserves a spot in the Hall of Fame, and he did in fact stomp on the Terra. He will be missed.
Which is why I'm pretty sure I need to find that picture of me with a mouthful of McDonald's.