So there I was sitting in a chair near home plate with players tossing balls all around me. The Twins had been having some pitching problems and I was questioning the catcher, little Lenny Webster, on why John Smiley and Scott Erickson weren't performing up to snuff. He said some noncommittal baseball blah blah blah about finding their rhythms and "coming around" and whatnot.

Then I talked to a somewhat hostile, and large, Erickson, who didn't much want to hear that he wasn't being all he could be, and who definitely didn't want to discuss that his velocity seemed to be down (no public radar guns in stadiums then), nor that he might be injured. Erickson had gone 20-8 in '91 - he ended up at 13-12 in '92, so this wasn't an empty line of questioning.

Next I talked to Smiley, who was less articulate but much more pleasant than Erickson. Somewhat amazingly, Smiley had also gone 20-8 the year before (for the Pirates) and had talied off some (though he ended up at a very respectable 16-9 in '92). He was forthcoming about nagging injuries and the change in leagues holding him back a bit - a very stand-up guy. I really felt for him when a severely broken arm cut short his career in 1997.

As my conversation with Smiley was ending, I noticed Kirby Puckett rather flamboyantly mock-pitching to Webster. I also noticed I was in the line of fire should Puckett misdirect one. The interview ended, I thanked Smiley and turned around to pick up my chair.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Puckett, and his enormous flank, wind up and uncork a screamer in the dirt. Webster barely touched it as it skimmed the grass just to the left of the third base line and hit me smack in the right forearm. It hit so hard I thought my arm was broken - immediately there was swelling and an expanding purple bruise.

Smiley and the video crew jumped toward me in alarm; Webster ran toward me apologizing; Puckett just stared at me with a strange half-smile on his face, shook his head and walked away to the outfield. He never apologized, never came over to see if I was okay, which fortunately I was: no breaks, no permanent damage, but damn did it hurt. After several slaps on the back and words of encouragement, practice was over and that was that.

One encounter does not justify an overly harsh judgment - maybe he was having a bad day - but the recent bad news fits my image of Kirby Puckett much more closely than the happy-go-lucky friend to all men and dogs of his media persona. Kirby Puckett was a great player and I'm sorry his career was cut short, but I'm much more sorry for John Smiley.