Bud Black was kind to my mother.
Nearly a decade ago on one of my first trips down to Scottsdale, Arizona, for Spring Training, I had a chance to introduce my mom to the new manager of the Colorado Rockies.
To help save on expenses, and because she is the biggest baseball fan I know, we make the annual trip together and I go to work while she goes to ballgames. One day, we were watching the minor leaguers on the backfields when Harry Ralston “Buddy” Black came strolling by.
I had been interviewing him on a daily basis at that point but it was still the early days of us getting to know each other and I was unsure how he would react to my request but saw an opportunity for a brief introduction.
What I thought would be a quick handshake and “hello” turned into a fairly long conversation between two lovers of the game. Mom, an avid Kansas City Royals fan before the Rockies became a team, waxed poetic with the former World Series winner on the glory days of the 80s.
They talked about George Brett and Dan Quisenberry and also this new kid, Nolan Arenado.
It wasn’t a life-altering conversation, just two seamheads talking hardball, but the manager of the ballclub took the time out of his day to engage in a meaningful way. When the conversation was over, we all went back to watching baseball as Buddy headed into the dugout with a few notes for his coaching staff.
The next day, he asked about my mom by name. “How’s Barbara today?”
“She’s doing great, thanks!”
“Rooting on those Jayhawks?” (Spring Training syncs up with March Madness.)
“Always.”
“Tell her I say hi.”
“I will.”
Over the next nine years, we would have almost this exact exchange on several occasions despite the fact that their paths have not crossed since.
When she went through her battle with breast cancer (and kicked its ass!) a few years later, he would ask after her with some regularity. He marveled that while she was still in recovery, she took the train to Chicago, by herself, to watch his team play both the White Sox and the Cubs.
Even when it was just a brief moment, he always took the time. He’s potentially a Hall-of-Fame manager. He’s definitely a Hall-of-Fame person.
I will remember Bud Black’s 9-year tenure with the Colorado Rockies for many things.
In his first two seasons, the club experienced “Rocktober” baseball as he helped usher in the best pitching staff in team history despite none of them having more than two years of experience.
I will remember the respect and admiration he garnered from his players, the way he stuck by his guys, refusing to ever throw anybody under the bus.
I will remember the way he was generous with us media folk. I will remember his lexicon of witticisms, even and especially “that’s baseball” which some fans came to despise.
I will remember him sharing knowledge and experience in the game that, quite frankly, runs far deeper than his loudest critics could even begin to comprehend.
I will remember the good times filled with all-time Rockie greats like Nolan Arenado, Trevor Story, Charlie Blackmon, and DJ LeMahieu. And I will remember the bad times, devoid of star talent and desperately trying to fend off 100 losses.
And yes, I will remember the frustration of the times he felt like a politician with his answers, the times he stonewalled, and some of his more “old school” ideas standing in the way of potential progress.
I will, of course, remember the disaster that has been the 2025 season. I will remember that it was time for a change.
But I will also remember the way he treated people. Because that’s all you are in this life. We all fail. We all succeed. What matters is how you treat those around you while doing so and Bud Black is among the classiest people to ever wear an MLB uniform.
I will remember that. But more than anything, I will remember that he was kind to my mother.
