Buster became a part of our lives

It’s his life, of course, And yet Buster Posey, as so many of the athletes we chose to follow and perhaps idolize—or even dislike—became a part of our lives.

What starts almost as accidental, because of the uniform a young athlete wears-- in this case that of the San Francisco Giants—becomes personal

As if through his play as a catcher and our reaction Posey somehow owed us almost as we owed him, and that by announcing his retirement Wednesday, quite wisely but also seemingly too early, he was breaking a trust

As if he were obligated to play until management decided he was no longer useful, as happens too often, even to the greats.

Bobby Bonds, Barry’s father and a hell of a ballplayer himself would tell me. “They traded Willie Mays, didn’t they?”

And Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron. But they never traded Ted Williams or Joe DiMaggio. And now Buster Posey won’t be traded, either, unless he decides to come back—which listening to his explanation for stepping away, you doubt he ever will.

Posey did what few could hope to do, live his passion, play big league ball, help his team win multiple World Series, earn an MVP award—and then say goodbye on his own terms.

Sure at 34 he has plenty of game left, especially after this past season when he hit .304 and threw out runners at a rapid pace. But also he has plenty of life left, and four young children whom he wants to enjoy as a father and not a distant celebrity.

My favorite memory of Posey is during a spring training in either his second season or third, 2011 or 2012. He went for a workout run, returned  and almost in embarrassment told the waiting media, “That was dumb. I had my running shorts on backward.”

For Posey, that was stunning. Not the way he was dressed, but the announcement.

Buster Posey never was the type to seek attention in interviews. No outrageous comments. His recognition came from the way he played the game. He was professional;  reserved.  

Ask a question you’d get an answer but not a headline.

He played in the big leagues, for one of the historic teams, but down deep he was a small-town guy, from southern Georgia.

At the beginning of his farewell announcement, Posey made it sound as if he was the fortunate one rather than telling us how skilled and talented he had been.

“It’s such a unique opportunity to publicly thank so many people that helped me get here, help me stay here and help me fulfill a lifelong dream playing Major League Baseball,”  Posey told us.

He thanked his wife Kristen—wives in sports are the essence of loyalty and loving--his four children and various members of the Giants, the organization that made him a first-round pick out of Florida State.

Part of the joy of sport is watching a kid, out of college, out of the minors—yes,  Posey was there, if briefly—become a star. And Buster, surely a Hall of Famer, was a star.

 When the kid leaves there’s a sense of sadness and reality. We’re despondent, maybe as much about the loss of our own youth as about that of the athlete.

Think of brilliant careers we have been permitted to know from the start—Joe Montana, Tim Lincecum, Reggie Jackson—if not quite to the end.

One day the guys are young, the next they’re gone. Or so it seems.

The constant in sports is change. As the departure of Buster Posey makes it all too clear.