The above post is a fiction piece inspired by a real story. All thoughts, opinions, or emotions portrayed by Mr. Buckner were contrived by the author for dramatic effect. All other contextual facts and quotations are accurate.
The year was 1986. A cool October breeze gently grazed my face as I readjusted my baseball cap and smiled a deep, satisfying smile. I stole a glance at some of the faces in the thick sea of people at Shea Stadium, 55,078 strong. Dark, sunken, solemn faces. Faces that had once contained such fervor and hope, now delightfully blank. I had never been a Sox fan growing up, but the fans have grown on me. Their raw passion pulled me in. It was only just that after 68 years of despair, of pain, and of Calvinistic clouds of self-doubt, they would rise. After losing game seven in '46, and the 14-game collapse in '78, after the Bambino set his ugly curse in motion, Boston would rise once more. I took a long look at the center field screen where in static blue read the words, 'CONGRATULATIONS BOSTON RED SOX, 1986 WORLD CHAMPIONS.' We had done it.
The '86 season started just like any other. It was, after all, my 17th season in the majors, mostly played in my hometown Los Angeles, and now, Boston. We had won 96 games with tough pitching and creative playmaking, and were solidly in the post-season mix. After narrow escapes in round one and heroic home run efforts by Dave Henderson in the ALCS, we found ourselves in a World Series matchup with the highflying New York Mets.
Let's be clear, the Mets were not the Yankees. Nothing can replace a Bostonian's ingrained hate for the Yanks. Yet they were still New York, a place that people around here fondly call the "Ahmpit of America." The Mets deserved the hate, too. They were a brash group of high-fiving, chest bumping, trouble making punks. But they were also really, really good. Carter and Strawberry and Hernandez. A mix of talent and speed and swagger I've rarely seen on a baseball field. Nobody in the country would deny that they were the odds on favorite to win it all.
We started the series up two games to none. The Mets then rallied back, and tied the series at 2. After a masterful complete game from Bruce Hurst in game 5, we were now in the driver's seat. It was the clinching game six, and after a long 10 innings in the raucous Shea Stadium, we held a secure lead of 5-3. My body was aching. After multiple ankle operations and Achilles problems, I had given everything I had.
After two quick outs and two strikes to Gary Carter, a single strike was all that stood in the way of our date with destiny. Manager John McNamara curiously took Roger Clemens, the National League MVP and CY young winner, out of the game after a fiery 7 innings, but it didn't matter. We were there. Fans started heading for the exits, the stadium went eerily quiet, and even the screen operator at Shea seemed to give up, displaying a sign in center congratulating us for the victory before the game was over. I could taste the champagne; feel the smooth gold trophy on my fingertips.
With one strike away, Calvin Scheraldi was on the mound, a crazed look in his eyes. Gary Carter fought off a fastball and looped it to left field for a single. Kevin Mitchell smacked a curveball into center field and Ray Knight belted a shot for yet another base hit, with Carter coming in to score. It's OK, I thought. We still have one run lead. The crowd generated some sporadic cheers.
McNamara stepped onto the field and brought in Bob Stanley, who had been reliable for us all season long. After a desperate Mookie Wilson wrenched every pitch he saw foul, Stanley caved, throwing a wild pitch that nearly took out Wilson's legs from under him and skidded past the back stop. Kevin Mitchell frantically raced home to tie the game.
The crowd suddenly came to life. They were searching for any shred of hope to claw onto, and now they had it. The tension mounted. Teeth grinding anticipation set in. The stadium rocked with electricity in the air. I looked over at the faces in our dugout to see pure quiet, angst, and nerves. Please, I prayed. Please.
Wilson stepped back to the plate, and with the 10th pitch of the at-bat, he made contact, and the ball dribbled toward me. Time slowed down as I limped toward the ball, readied my glove on the ground, and waited. Yet when I looked down, the ball was gone. It had rolled clear through my legs.
Ray Knight, on his way to third, now came flying into home plate. Hands on his head in euphoria he touched the base, as the delirious crowd erupted in exhilaration. The game was over, and the Mets had miraculously survived. Ok, I thought, onto game seven.
We came back to the clubhouse in a daze and met a sobering scene; balloons and cameras filled the room, cold bottles of champagne sat untouched. We were a single strike away from victory. In game seven, the Mets rallied and overcame a 3-0 deficit to take the championship. The series was over. I quickly discovered that around Boston, Massachusetts, storms were heading my way, soon to cast an eternal cloud of infamy over my head for the rest of my life.
To the people of Boston, that ground ball had been a wicked, evil thing that I had done personally to them. The focus was not that the Mets won or even that the Red Sox lost, but that I had lost it for them. We lost not because we had left 14 runners on base in game 6, or because McNamara inexplicably took a fire-throwing Clemens out of the game early against his will. We did not lose because Calvin Sheraldi had given up three straight base hits with 2 outs, or because Bob Stanley threw a wild pitch to bring in the tying run. We lost because of me. My mind flashed back to a pregame interview days before the championship series where I faced the camera and said, "The nightmare is that you will let a winning run score on a groundball through your legs." A premonition jarringly confirmed. I would soon pay for that error, thrown into the fire of unrestrained hate and torment.
I was not remembered for my years of work, or my arguably hall of fame career. My nearly 3,000 hits, 1980 batting title, and consistency throughout that season had vanished, only to be reduced to a single, split second moment that had now defined my life.
My wife Jodi and I spent the next few years in a battery of harassment. Ignorant people saying I can "Rot in hell" and that I should "Jump off a bridge". I was instantly transformed into the enduring symbol of Red Sox futility. After some time, I drew the line. Jodi and I packed up our belongings, gathered our three children, and moved to the farmland of Boise, Idaho. We went to no man's land, to a town one fifth of the population of Boston, 2,663 miles away from Fenway Park.
We had escaped. Yet sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I could still hear Vin Scully sing, "Little roller along first...behind the bag!! It gets through Buckner!!" Those words have been mercilessly echoing in my mind ever since.
Until today. It is April 8th, 2008. Streaks of clouds jet through the blue sky as I cross the heartbreakingly green grass of Fenway Park, once again. I am here, standing on the pitcher's mound while forty thousand fans erupt to the sound of my name over loudspeaker. My body is trembling; tears slowly welling up in my eyes as I wave to the crowd. I prepare to throw the ceremonial first pitch months after the Sox had finally broken the curse; banished the ghosts and healed all wounds. "We forgive you" read a sign held by a young fan. No, I thought, I forgive you. I looked up, took a deep breath, and fired a fastball home.