BASEBALL AND ME

From the time I was a young man old enough to swing a bat, and agile enough to catch and throw a baseball, I lived for the sport. I was just a little guy when it came to sports. Football and basketball were out of my league, but size has no boundaries when it comes to baseball. I was quicker than the big guys, a smaller target at home plate, and I held my own on the diamond. I spent countless hours throwing the ball at the neighbor’s cement garage wall—into a twelve-inch target I painted on the wall—fielding it when it bounced back to me, and throwing to an imaginary first base. I went down to the gravel pits and hit rocks that I threw up in the air. All of the time, that imaginary noise of the crowd was in my head. Then, one summer, a badly broken leg ended my career and I never caught up again, but I never lost my love for the game. I still lived and breathed baseball. I moved to the cities and Killibrew, Oliva, and Mud Cat Grant became my heroes. I got out to the old Met whenever I could to watch my beloved Twins. Then they moved to the Metro Dome and life became too busy for me. So, for fifteen years I coached and went to a game or so a year. The twins, until 1987, basically sucked.

But today, for the first time in four years, I have dug out my old Twins tee shirts and sweat clothes. There has been an epiphany of sorts, and at least for now, our Twins are winning again. We know how to lose, in Minnesota, in almost every sport you choose to support. Yes, the baseball season is only one third over, but for now, I get a little giddy when we talk about our Twins and I remember 1987 and 1991.

In my mind, I go back to 1991 when I was still living in the cities and our Twins were in the World Series with the Atlanta Braves and it was game six.. I had sat glued to the TV set that night and tears had run down my speechless face when Kirby Pucket had climbed the plexi glass to take away a home run from Ron Gant. Then, my hero capped it all off by hitting a walk off home run in the bottom of the eleventh inning. I was rendered speechless and I went in and woke up my sleeping wife, who just shook her head like she felt sorry for me, and put the pillow over her head. Things like this just didn’t happen in Minnesota. Four games had been decided by one run, but none was better than this one. I tried to drive downtown to join the celebration that night, but all the roads were blocked. I just wanted someone to celebrate with and ended up going home unfulfilled.

Then, the next night it was game seven and how was anything going to top game six? This was for all the marbles, and it was the Twins Jack Morris against John Smoltz. The grizzled old veteran, for the Twins, against the young rising star for the Braves. They dueled each other for nine innings and it was still scoreless. Then in the tenth, the Braves brought in their closer, Pena. The rest is history. Dan Gladden got a hit and moved to third, then Gene Larkin hit the ball over the drawn-in outfield and the Twins were the World Champions and I was flabbergasted. This kind of thing happens in New York or L.A, but not in Minnesota.

I have in my mind a list of regrets. Things that happened during my lifetime that, not only am I ashamed of, but so very sorry for. But, not one to beat up on myself, I have a matching list of highlights. I think it’s only fair to do that. Somewhere, in those highlights, are those two nights of baseball in 1991. Can it happen again? Let’s hope.