Events of the last 15 years have eased the sting of seeing the ball go through Bill Buckner’s legs in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. But the memory of that moment cannot be completely obliterated.
But it is not for the reasons you might think.
As any Red Sox fan can tell you, the team lost that game when Buckner let a Mookie Wilson ground ball go through his legs with Ray Knight on second base in a tie ballgame. Knight came around to score the winning run on the play.
Fans also know that the Red Sox went into the bottom of the 10th inning with a 5-3 lead, and reliever Calvin Schiraldi got two fly-ball outs before giving up three singles and a run. Then, Bob Stanley relieved him, and threw a wild pitch to send tying run home.
All of this came before Buckner’s error. Yet, he is the physical reminder of that evening. He took the hit.
And it was unfair. If ever there was a unified effort to lose a baseball game, that was it.
Schiraldi couldn’t get one more out. Stanley couldn’t keep from throwing a pitch to a spot where Rich Gedman could receive it. Gedman, with the World Series on the line, couldn’t at least block that ball to prevent it from going all the way to the backstop. It was scored as a wild pitch, but I don’t know about that. I’ve always considered it a passed ball.
And manager John McNamara, whose overall disposition was that of a man whose shorts were inadvertently starched, succumbed to sentimentality at the worst possible time and kept the virtually immobile Buckner — who had the worst set of wheels on the planet — on the field, whereas Dave Stapleton generally played defensive caddy for Billy Buck in the late innings.
And, of course, we were left with Vin Scully’s “a little roller up along first, behind the bag! It gets through Buckner. Here comes Knight and the Mets win it.”
Bill Buckner got a bad rap. He became the poster boy for all of Red Sox failure through the ages. And he lived with it. I don’t know how, but he did.
It may interest people to know that Buckner knocked in 102 runs in 1986. He was one of the big reasons the Red Sox even got to that World Series. Red Sox fans forever target players not so much for their lack of ability, but their lack of hustle, and perceived lack of heart. Buckner was all heart. He played in pain. He had to stick his feet into buckets of ice just to keep the inflammation down. If Roger Clemens and Jim Rice were the visible exteriors of the 1986 Red Sox, then Bill Buckner was the heart and soul. You looked at Billy Buck, with all his physical issues, and thought to yourself “if he can go out there in his condition, my sore back shouldn’t be much of an obstacle.”
In a 22-year career, Buckner batted .289. Players have made the Hall of Fame with lower averages. He had 2,715 hits and 498 doubles. He could spray the ball to all fields, and when he was going well he was a line-drive machine. That kept his home run totals down (174), but he did knock in 1,208 runs. Three times in his career, he had 100-plus RBI seasons.
The man was no slouch. I always thought the Red Sox stole him when they got him from the Chicago Cubs in exchange for Dennis Eckersley, who, by then, looked to be winding down (this was before Tony LaRussa recast him as a closer).
What happened to Buckner, who died Monday, is perhaps the ultimate symbol of how demented fans can get when their teams lose, and how personally they take it. Buckner made an error and the Red Sox lost a game. But people reacted as if he put strychnine in the water supply.
The Red Sox made a big deal when they “forgave” Buckner in 2008 with their Charles Steinburg opening day extravaganza. He played the good sport and took part, and it was an extremely moving day.
But it was unnecessary to the point of being crass. He never had to be forgiven because he never did anything for which to be forgiven.
Billy Buck was a man whose accomplishments — and there were many — were dwarfed by one moment. That moment defined him forever and ever. And what we fans did to that man because of that moment was inexcusable.
That error was in the lead paragraph of his obituary. Enough said.
