The Red Sox Let a Star Slip Between Their Legs

"He doesn't know yet."

Bill Buckner opened the Globe yesterday to read that he didn't know yet, but Boston was sacking him.

Buckner always reminded me and my brother of the cartoon character Asterix, with his bushy mustache, but then again Jerry Remy did too. Is it better to be fired outright than to disappear mysteriously like Remy did? Remy was in new Britain last summer, a hitting instructor for the Double-A Britsox. Not even Pawtucket.

Buckner will always remind me of Asterix, may be because I'd rather think of a spunky little Gaul than the sixth game of the 1986 World Series.

"These Romans are crazy," Asterix and his friend Obelix used to say. Then they'd go out and smash the Romans.

Buckner can't dismiss the Red Sox management that easily.

Ten summers ago, in 1977, my friend Sue called the hotel in Chicago where the Red Sox were staying on road trip. She asked for Butch Hobson's room. She talked to Butch Hobson. I was jealous, but never stopped to question why an 11-year-old could carry on a perfectly normal conversation with an older man she had never met, halfway across the country.

I used to bake cupcakes for Yaz's birthday. I sped down the left lane of Rte. 128 a few summers ago to catch up with a car driven by Bruce Hurst. My brother and I approached Bob Stanley in Polcari's restaurant and told him that our Mom used to take piano lessons in his hometown.

I never felt like I was imposing when I'd hang over the dugout for and autograph. After one game at Fenway about six years ago I stopped Damaso Garcia as he walked out of the parking lot. "You don't want my autograph--I'm not on the Red Sox," he said. "Yes I do," I said, "because you're Damaso Garcia, the second baseman for the Blue Jays." He smiled, and signed.

Fan and player will always share a unique bond, whether or not the player chooses to acknowledge his audience. Rick Burleson is still my all-time hero, even though the one time I shouted encouragement from the stands he scowled and looked down at the infield grass. I never knew why, but I'd like to think he appreciated the recognition.

But there's something wrong with my being able to pick up the Globe read, "He doesn't know yet." It is something that exposes the dark side of the intimate fan-to-athlete link.

And it was Billy Buck--known to all Boston fans whether or not they've ever met him. Known to all who can close their eyes and see a lone figure hobbling across the outfield, forcing himself through a pathetic regimen of wind sprints. Known to all who can close their eyes and see a ground ball rolling into right field.

When we opened the newspaper, we knew more about Bill Buckner than he knew about himself.

The other day, I was walking down JFK St. away from the Square, and as I approached Urban Outfitters a woman in a bright green outfit crossed the street. For a moment I thought that one of those blow-up Gumby figures had come to life. That night, during the seventh-inning stretch at Fenway, I looked out to the right grandstand and saw a bunch of people tossing one of those same plastic Gumbys around.

You've got to stop and think about coincidences like that Things you just can't figure out.

Like the fact that a man who helped bring Boston to the World Series last year is gone already.