5 June 1989, Mariners v. Royals, the game is tied in the bottom of the 10th. Seattle speedster Harold Reynolds gets a thief’s jump off first on a line drive to the left field wall. Bo Jackson gallops to the spot to grasp the ball off the carom with his throwing hand. He turns, steps and fires the ball at a long bowman’s steep trajectory. It flies over the upturned face of the cutoff man and lands in the catcher’s mitt to meet in time the sliding Reynolds’s cleats inches in front of the plate. “Out!” is the call for what ought to have been the game-winning run.

Reynolds spikes his helmet off of home plate. It bounces spinning high into the air. He shouts, “Who caught that ball?” Seeing Bo still standing on the dirt of the warning track, Reynolds points accusingly and shouts out to anyone who will listen, whether players, umps, fans in the stands, gods on Olympus, or angels in heaven: “He’s not supposed to be able to do that!”

But Bo changed forever how we think about what a human is and is “not supposed to be able to do.”

The Kansas City catcher admitted later that when he saw the ball fly to the wall, he started to walk off the field to avoid getting awkwardly caught in Seattle’s celebration, and only when he saw Bo turn and heave the ball, did he run back to dive and catch it right in front of Reynolds’s slide. Of course, the Mariners’ manager and coaches argued with the umpire. But even the hometown commentators were incredulous at first. The expert explained how “the Royals caught a break,” how a mispositioned ump can miss a call. Until the replay revealed the truth, and his colleague interrupted, “I think they had him though, don’t you?” The corrected expert opined anew, “I think they had him too.” 

Bo’s Royals went on to win the game in extra innings. Kansas City fans still refer to Bo’s play as “The Throw.” Now is the Throw’s thirty-fourth anniversary. Thirty-four is the number Bo wore playing football, when he won the Heisman Trophy.  Thirty-four was retired at Auburn his alma mater. And thirty-four is the number he wore when, playing for the Oakland Raiders, he broke his hip, an injury that (nearly) retired him. Random numbered anniversaries seem different than round numbered anniversaries. 150 years ago, on June 5th 1873, the British navy forced the Sultan of Zanzibar to close the great slave market at Stone Town. 140 years ago, 5 June 1883, economist John Maynard Keynes was born. The thirty-fourth anniversary of the mighty throw of Vincent Edward “Bo” Jackson is meaningful. Indeed recalling his throw and reflecting upon his throw in light of this random anniversary reveals what meaning actually means.

Thirty-four years ago the Royals beat the Mariners, but so what? The meaning of a particular play is estimated or explained in light of the game, the season—did it lead to a win or championship?—or a career—how does it add to one’s overall stats? Yes, the Royals beat the Mariners, but they would not win the World Series that year. And the meaning of Bo’s play cannot be fairly measured against his career, which was marred by injury, but against what his career might have been. We still wonder, what if Bo had never played football? Bo’s career was cut short like other great players, like Shoeless Joe Jackson or Satchel Paige, other greats whom circumstances, whether it was their own damned fault (“Say it ain’t so, Joe”) or the fault of a society that failed to live up to its own declared ideals (“No Colored Allowed”). But there is no one to blame for the shortening of Bo’s career but the cosmos. His injury happened by chance. Fortuna, that fickle goddess, frowned upon him. Bo was unlucky. It was just random. Like this 34th anniversary of the Throw. Playing baseball, of course, Bo wore number sixteen. 

Bo Jackson gave us indelible images of incredible feats. He presented epiphanies of unprecedented excellence. Bo belting one higher into the upper deck. Bo running up an outfield wall after making a catch. Bo breaking a baseball bat over his knee. The Throw. Cut short while we were still imagining what might be, Bo’s career is all highlights, like lyrical fragments from some unfinished epic. The old Nike ad said, “Bo knows.” Bo knows baseball. Bo knows football, alas. Bo knows hockey, racing, lacrosse, all sports. We’ll never know how good Bo might’ve been. Yet Bo shows that we still do not know what we are supposed to be able to do. We do not know how good we are even capable of being. Bo inspires us to imagine unrealized potential. Remembering Bo’s feats still makes us wonder at what he did, at what might have been, yes, but also at what might yet be from someone we don’t even know yet. Oh, Bo, he is, was, and always will be a wonder!