The most newsworthy part of a person’s entire life

On October 25, 1986, I sat on the carpet in my boss' living room in Phoenix, Arizona. There a few friends had gathered after work to watch Game 6 of the World Series. The score was tied, 5-5, in the tenth inning. The Boston Red Sox had blown a two-run lead, but their opponents, the New York Mets, were down three games to two in the series. The Mets were at bat, with a baserunner on second and two outs. Boston's best relief pitcher, Calvin Schiraldi, was on the mound. All the Red Sox had to do was hold the tie and score one more and the Mets would be done.

As a Californian who grew up rooting for the Angels, I hated the Red Sox. I also hated that they had beaten my team in the championship series and gone to the World Series instead of the Halos. So I was rooting for the Mets all the way.

Mookie Wilson hit a bouncing ball to the right side. It looked like the third out. Bill Buckner, the Red Sox' first baseman, moved to his left to field the ball. But he didn't get down in front of it, like they had taught us in Little League.

The ball squirted through his legs and rolled down the right field line.

The Mets' baserunner, Ray Knight, scored from second, the winning run. The home crowd in Shea Stadium went bananas. So did the Mets, who could scarcely believe their good fortune. They joyously jumped up and down at home plate in the grown-men-as-little-boys dance of victory familiar to baseball-watchers everywhere.

Buckner and the other Red Sox walked off the field, seemingly in a daze.

As a fan, I felt a jolt of perverse joy. But I felt bad for Buckner. The term millennials might have used to describe his moment might be "epic fail." The Red Sox went on to lose Game 7, much to the chagrin of their self-obsessed, masochistic, bitter fan base. Many of them tormented Buckner in public for years afterward, with catcalls and insults to Buckner's face while he was minding his own business walking down the street. Even his name, Buckner, became a synonym for blowing it at the worst possible moment, his gaffe frozen forever in time in blooper reels played endlessly on ESPN and YouTube.

When baseball first fascinated me, during the early '70s, Bill Buckner broke in with the Dodgers at age 19. Our family lived in the Los Angeles area. Dodger games were broadcast free of charge on local television and on radio. Vin Scully narrated everything in his perfect golden baritone. I liked Buckner. He had a big mustache and looked like a tough guy, and he was from California.

Buckner had over 2,700 base hits, won a batting title with the Cubs, and played for 22 seasons. By any measure he had a fine career.

Buckner died over the weekend, at age 69, of Lewy body dementia, a cruel disease.

Many of the headlines were predictable:

BILL BUCKNER, FOREVER KNOWN FOR OCTOBER ERROR, DIES AT 69 (San Diego Union-Tribune)

BILL BUCKNER, A HITTING MACHINE KNOWN FOR A FIELDING ERROR, DIES AT 69 (Los Angeles Times)

BAY AREA NATIVE BILL BUCKNER, KNOWN FOR WORLD SERIES ERROR, DEAD AT 69 (San Jose Mercury-News)

The writers of the obituaries I read took pains to mention Buckner's many accomplishments in a 22-year career. They, at least, had the candor to put their names in the byline. The same cannot be said for the editors who crafted the headlines atop their stories. They had sat anonymously at their computer screens, purveying a poisonous and stupid idea: The most newsworthy part of a person's life is the worst day of his life.

I wonder what words the editors who remembered Buckner with headlines memorializing the worst day of his professional life might write about some other people who were high achievers but suffered a few bad days:

JOHN MCCAIN, WHO CRASHED THREE NAVY AIRCRAFT DUE TO PILOT ERROR, DEAD AT 82; ALSO HAD SENATE CAREER

WINSTON CHURCHILL, AUTHOR OF COLOSSAL MILITARY FIASCO AT GALLIPOLI, DEAD OF STROKE AT 91

JOHN LENNON SHOT DEAD OUTSIDE APARTMENT; RELEASED GODAWFUL "UNFINISHED MUSIC NO. 3: WEDDING ALBUM"; WAS ALSO A BEATLE

GEORGE H.W. BUSH, FOREVER REMEMBERED FOR VOMITING ON JAPANESE PRIME MINISTER AT STATE DINNER, DIES; WAS PUBLIC SERVANT FOR 25 YEARS

The biggest trial lawyer of his time may have been the late Edward Bennett Williams of Washington, D.C. He defended Mafia chieftains accused of racketeering, government officials charged with corruption, Jimmy Hoffa, Frank Sinatra, William F. Buckley, Jr., and other luminaries. Mostly, he won. You might call him at least as good at his profession as Bill Buckner was at baseball, if not better.

And, of course, he lost a few. A jury convicted his client, Bobby Baker, of fraud and tax evasion in 1967. And yet, after his death in 1988, no headlines like this one appeared:

WILLIAMS, WHO LOST BAKER TRIAL, DEAD AT 68; ALSO REPRESENTED OTHER CLIENTS

I never knew Bill Buckner. I only watched him play baseball. I got mad when I heard about dopes in Red Sox hats insulting him in public.

Perhaps only a talent like Larry David's was equal to righting the wrong.

In 2011, in season 8 of "Curb Your Enthusiasm," David cast Buckner to play himself in an episode entitled "Mister Softee." Larry meets Buckner by chance at a baseball memorabilia-signing event, and befriends him. As they walk down the street, Buckner hears jeers and coarse putdowns from passersby. He shrugs them off and wishes his tormentors a nice day. Later, in a hotel room, when Larry playfully tosses Buckner an autographed baseball intended as a gift to his friend, Buckner bobbles the ball, and it falls out the window onto the street. Perhaps Buckner was a defensive liability after all, even in retirement while trying to catch an underhand toss in a hotel room.

In the last scene, a crowd has gathered beneath the windows of an apartment building which is on fire. A hysterical woman appears at a fourth-floor window. She is screaming, holding a baby in her arms. Smoke pours from the apartment. As firemen deploy a giant jumping sheet on the street below, the crowd exhorts her to toss the baby down. As she does, everything slows down into slow motion. The baby, swaddled in a white blanket, descends toward the target. Alas, the fabric is stretched too tight - the baby bounces into the air at a 45 degree angle, away from the outstretched arms of the crowd. But Bill Buckner is there!

I cringed, anticipating the worst. Who could trust Bill Buckner to catch a flying baby safely?

Tracking the baby in midair like the outfielder he was, Buckner turns and goes back on the ball. At the last second, just before the baby hits the pavement, Buckner lays out, diving to make a miraculous catch, cradling the baby on his chest.

The baby is crying but is unharmed. The crowd goes wild. They hoist Buckner onto their shoulders and parade him around.

One journalist closed his obituary of Edward Bennett Williams with this: "Williams was not invincible, but his batting average was high."

That could have been, and should have been, Bill Buckner's epitaph too.