Mariners | Whatever happened to Bucky Jacobsen?
NORTH BEND — A fierce rain blows sideways in the icy wind, reinforcing a sense that this mountain town is where folks wind up after dropping off the face of the Earth.
That would explain the hulking figure in the wool cap and drenched flannel shirt, defying the deluge and staring up at what's left of a 12-by-10-foot restaurant sign he'd been helping tear down. In another lifetime, before vanishing from public view, he was Bucky Jacobsen, a slugging Mariners rookie sensation and de facto folk hero across the Northwest for seven glorious weeks in 2004.
Now, he's a 31-year-old son working in the rain for his father's signage company, tearing down one neon display, in the parking lot of a local bar and grill, so a newer one can go up. This is how Jacobsen spends his time when not trying to resurrect a baseball career that plummeted as quickly as it soared to prominence three years ago.
Jacobsen hasn't played in the majors since 2004, and spent 2006 with an independent-league team in Long Island, N.Y., and a winter-ball squad in Mexico. He'd hoped for a professional shot in Japan this coming season, but is now on to his fallback plan of trying to play in Korea, or — if all else fails — Mexico again.
All for another taste of that elusive big-league dream and the chance to prevent his one, fleeting stint with the Mariners from becoming his lasting baseball legacy.
"To go from playing in the big leagues and being successful in 2004, to playing in the independent league in 2006 wasn't what my dream entailed," says the 6-4, 270-pounder, who gained a cult following among fans because of his improbable hitting feats over a seven-week stretch that lone season.
The dream also didn't include standing in a freezing downpour, staring up at shards of aluminum that have to be pulled apart by hand. His father, Jake — divorced from Bucky's mother since Bucky was 2 years old — has traveled to the job site from his home in Oregon and wonders aloud whether the wind is too strong to finish.
"If we put the new sign up now, it might take off like a kite," he says with a laugh.
Jacobsen's father, whose height and girth is similar to that of his son, knows Bucky isn't ready to be a full-time player in his business. That may change one day, he says, but he doesn't take any of it personally.
"He's a ballplayer," he says. "That's what he wants to do. None of this has been easy for him. He showed what he could do before. All he wants now is another chance, but nobody will give it to him."
Jacobsen erupted for nine home runs and drove in 28 runs in just 42 games with the Mariners after a July 15 call-up from Class AAA that 2004 season. He became the bright spot of a dismal Mariners team, a rallying point for fans and media reveling in the overnight success of the career minor-leaguer hailing from the wheat-and-potato town of Hermiston, Ore.
"I don't want it to end at just that," Jacobsen says. "I'm far from done."
Jacobsen and his dad adjourn inside the restaurant to wait out the weather. Bucky knows the owner of the place and is welcomed by a number of regulars.
"How's it going out there, Bucky?" the waitress smiles as he takes a seat.
No matter what else Jacobsen does in baseball, he'll always be a fairy tale to those who remember 2004. That was before a deteriorating knee condition forced Jacobsen into surgery that September, then caused him to miss almost all of the following year.
The knee has since had two more surgeries and been diagnosed as arthritic. It's a major reason few teams anywhere come calling anymore, no matter what he did that one special summer.
"It's funny, but just yesterday I went to the gym and was doing my [abdominal] crunches and there's this guy I see and he seems to be matching my pace," Jacobsen says. "I'd do a bunch of reps and he'd be trying to do them at the same time, like he was copying me. Trying to time himself to my rhythm.
"Finally, he looks at me and he goes, 'You're Bucky, right? You're him.' He turned out to be a good guy and I wound up talking with him for quite a while. But that stuff still does happen. I'll be walking down the street and people will ask, 'Hey, where have you been?'
"So, people do remember."
And Jacobsen takes plenty of satisfaction out of knowing he once did make it big. The self-described "eternal optimist" smiles plenty when recounting his tribulations of the past few years, knowing he was fortunate to even get a big-league shot after being drafted 217th overall in 1997 by Milwaukee. He played nearly 800 minor-league games in the Brewers, Cardinals and Mariners organizations.
There is little evidence of bitterness in his words. Only a lingering sense there was supposed to be more to this story than just the one act.
From DH to the DL
Larry William Jacobsen, dubbed "Bucky" as a toddler, had already drilled 26 home runs for AAA Tacoma by the time he was called up by the Mariners.
He was billed as a late-blooming, heir apparent to retiring Mariners designated hitter Edgar Martinez. The night before he was called up, Jacobsen won the home-run derby at the AAA All-Star Game, with one of his blasts measured at 500 feet.
Fans immediately took to his bald-domed head, bulging biceps and fiery red goatee.
"Part of it, I think, was that I'm from the Northwest," says Jacobsen, who used his big-league cash to buy a home in Snoqualmie, about 35 miles east of Seattle in the shadow of Mount Si. "The home runs are fun to watch, too, I suppose. I also think people look at me and they see that I care. They know how long and hard I had to work to get there. I'm also a big guy and well, you know, I do have that name, 'Bucky.' "
To some fans, Jacobsen seemed more like them than his veteran Mariners teammates. He'd wait around and sign autographs, or talk to fans at the ballpark and out on the street.
But his knee problems — caused by a collision with a tarpaulin while making a catch in foul territory three years earlier — finally caught up to him. He'd played through mounting pain, reluctant to end his Seattle dream as it was just starting, but was convinced by team officials to call it a season on Sept. 8 and undergo surgery.
Three dowels of bone were removed from his leg to plug a large divot in the surface cartilage of his right knee. The complicated procedure didn't work the first time and Jacobsen needed more surgery the following spring.
He admits he tried to rush back too soon.
"I felt like everything I'd worked for was dwindling away," he says.
His minor-league rehab began mid-summer in 2005 and saw him crank out three homers and two doubles in only six games at Class A. But the long balls stopped once he was promoted to AAA.
Independent days
Jacobsen's biggest fear while on the disabled list had been that the Mariners, on the hook for his entire 2005 salary, would think he was "milking it" simply to collect a big-league paycheck while not having to play. But that decision to return more quickly proved disastrous when, after 18 games for Tacoma, zero homers, a .136 batting average and .240 on-base percentage, the Mariners released him.
The closest he got to the majors again was when a coaching friend arranged a minor-league invite to the Chicago White Sox camp the following spring. Jacobsen played in one exhibition game with the major-league club and was sent packing.
He thought he had a deal days later to play the Cardinals' AAA team, until a physical revealed signs of arthritis in his knee. His only pro ball after that was last summer with the Long Island Ducks of the independent Atlantic League, who gave him weekly take-home pay of $350 to join their crew of has-beens and never-wuzzes, including the likes of Juan Gonzalez and Henry Rodriguez.
Jacobsen hit 21 homers and drove in 89 runs over 113 games, also going 6 for 6 in stolen-base attempts in an effort to prove his knee had recovered. He made the league's postseason all-star team, but had a hard time adjusting to the bottom of pro baseball's pecking order.
"It was hard to stay focused and not feel sorry for myself," he says. "It was tough. There were times when two, three or four times in a row, you'd experience failure at the plate and you'd think 'Wow, if I can't succeed at this level, how am I ever going to get back to the big leagues?'
"I never wondered, 'What am I doing here?' But there were times when I'd find myself wondering how you can work so hard to get the [major-league] opportunity and have it be gone so fast."
It didn't help that his wife, Jennifer, whom he'd married only a year earlier, remained in Washington working in real estate to help make ends meet. Jacobsen says his gung-ho attitude also rankled some of his Ducks teammates, who weren't all as professional in their game preparation as the former major-leaguers.
"It's such a mixture of different levels of experience," he says. "You have the major-league guys and then you have guys who never made it out of A-ball.
"It was a good experience, but not something I'd ever do again."
International game beckons
Mexico was easier because Jacobsen could afford to have his wife join him for the two months. She spent her days by the hotel pool, or on the Internet, waiting until it was time to go see him play.
She is prepared to repeat that sacrifice in Korea this summer should a baseball opportunity present itself. Jacobsen figured he was on his way to a team in Japan, but "they're gun-shy about the knee."
The best offer he has had in the United States so far is to play Class AA for the Kansas City Royals.
"I don't have too much pride where I'd say, 'I don't want to go back to AA,' " he says. "But for me right now, it may be the smarter move to go to Japan or Korea if I want to show teams what I can do."
The money would be better in those places. Jacobsen is grateful about his six-figure earnings with the Mariners, which enabled the couple to pay off debts, buy their first home, and move to Washington from Oregon. The home is where Jacobsen keeps his dogs, a pair of boxers named "Denva" and "Bronco" — a tribute to his favorite football team.
"We're getting by," he says. "Obviously, it doesn't last forever. Now, I've got to get to the point where I'm earning some money so we can keep what we've got."
Jacobsen makes the quick daily trip from his home to a gym in North Bend, where he'll do a 30-minute morning cardiovascular workout. He'll return for an afternoon weightlifting session and more cardio — he hopes to get his weight down to the 260 range — then head to an indoor batting cage at the facility.
He spends the rest of the day helping his father drum up business locally for his Oregon-based sign company. Jacobsen is reluctant to use his baseball celebrity as a selling point to clients.
"It's kind of a weird thing for me," he says. "I'm not a salesman. I don't like to toot my own horn. If they know who I am, it might be another icebreaker, I guess. But I don't use it to sell the company."
But Jacobsen realizes time is running out on his chance to sell himself on the baseball field.
"I really think that once word gets around that I'm healthy and that the knee isn't a problem, then somebody will give me a shot," he says. "Why wouldn't they? I spent a long time in the minor leagues trying to prove myself and I feel like I proved I could play in the big leagues the only chance I got. If I have to prove myself all over again, then that's what I'll do."
Geoff Baker: 206-464-8286 or gbaker@seattletimes.com
