Note: I will add links and images to this in the morning. For now, I wanted to get this on the page. Now I’m going to bed.
I grew up in the Metrodome. Literally. My dad was a small-town sportscaster in the early 80s. I was there, in my dad’s arms, in the press box on Opening Day 1982. I was eight months old. I learned to walk in that place. I used to color on the floor under the desk. I once roller-skated in the basement. Kirby Puckett knew my name when I was five.
After my dad moved on from that job, the orbit of my life moved away from the Dome, and like many people my age, I fell away from the game in the 90s after the strike. I came back to the Twins in 2000, and back to the Dome in 2004. Since moving to the city I’ve been blessed enough to have the chance to make a whole new set of memories in that place that I loved so much as a child.
I’ve met organist Sue Nelson, who is an amazing musician whom I’ve appreciated for years and is as wonderful and gracious a lady as you could hope to meet. I’ll never forget that game; she was kind enough to let my friends and I sit in on an entire inning in the organ room (which is the best seat in the house, by the way). Sue, if you ever read this, I’ve never forgotten. Thank you for that.
I have every issue of Game Day ever released, and hope they can find a comeback themselves next year.
I got food poisoning in the bar, the only time in my life I’ve left a game before the final out. Steer clear of the nacho cheese, people.
My former roommate Jackie and I were the original Justin Morneau Fan Club. We were the ones flying the banner in right field in 2006, the year that started with the two of us shouting “LET’S GO MORNEAU” and ending with 50,000 shouting “MVP! MVP!”
I’ve met so many great people, ushers, concessionairres, employees and fans, over the last five years that I couldn’t begin to name them all. Some I’ve never introduced myself to, but have been seeing, in the same post or the same seat or the same gate, for so many years that I feel as if I’ve known them all my life. Wally the Beerman, of course. Big Yellow Walkman Guy. The six old ladies that sit in right field GA just on the fair side of the pole in row 5 every single night for probably as long as some of you have been alive. Seat Nazi. The stadium club bartenders who got to know me pretty damn well in ‘06 and ‘07.
Barb, whose last name I don’t think I’ve ever learned but I’ve known just about forever. Barb’s a redshirt, one of the brave and cheerful souls who work the concourse, tell you where the ATM is, keep the unscrupulous from sneaking off where they shouldn’t, and help you find your lost kid in the bathroom. Barb knows she’s my favorite. Barb is an engaging, witty, compassionate, and altogether wonderful lady who always has a hug for me, whose unshakable love and faith in this crazy team have apparently never once wavered (although she will occasionally voice some motherly worry for the pitching staff), and who still asks after my father.
Former team president Terry Ryan, the two brief times I had the chance to, if not properly “meet,” at least greet, was a terrific gentleman who always had time to shake a fan’s hand and exchange a few kind words. Justin Morneau seemed like such a shy and nervous kid when I met him at Twinsfest ‘06 that I had to laugh to myself a little bit.
I’ve gotten to know that place like few others ever have. In a way we grew up together, the Metrodome and me. From the loading dock to the press box to general admission, that’s Pete’s house, and that’s something special, something I try to share with everybody I’ve ever dragged to a game with me, because it is special, and it’s something I’m vain enough to think not everyone appreciates like I do.
The swastika in center field. (Once you’ve seen it, you can’t not see it.) The same wooden speaker boxes they’ve had since the place opened. “In any given year, two people will try to run onto the field, two hundred beach balls will be confiscated, and twenty thousand fucking idiots will try to open that door.”
The yellow lines on the concourse floor that once demarked smoking sections. The yellow lines in the gates that once demarked smoking sections. The pitiful corral that now demarks the smoking section. Not that I’m bitter.
Dome rule doubles. The pop fly that never came down and may still be kicking around the roof tonight for all anybody knows. The side door. Canada.
Can you understand this at all?
And my God, the things I’ve seen. 1987, game six. Johan Santana striking out 17 men. David Ortiz’s home run that wasn’t, and I’m here to tell you right now that if that thing hadn’t have hit that speaker it would be in orbit right now. Brad Radke’s final regular season game. The day Doug Mientkiewicz got traded to the Red Sox just before game time. Game 162, 2006, the day we all stayed after the Twins had won to watch the Royals beat Detroit on the jumbotron and Sue stayed the whole time and played organ for that game as though it were ours, and nobody went home until we won the pennant. The day Carlos Silva shut out the Mariners in an hour and 49 minutes. Torii Hunter’s 30th home run in 2006 bounced right between my legs. Me, Matt, and Nick were on SportsCenter that night for two seconds, and if you pause it at just the right spot you can watch three grown men’s hearts simultaneously break. Michael Cuddyer hitting for the cycle. Joe Mauer coming back from knee surgery to go 5 for 5 against the Dodgers and begin a run that would propel him to his first batting title.
Can you understand this?
This place is in my blood. I’m a part of it like it’s a part of me. And I am here to tell you that I have never in my life seen anything like what we were a part of last night.
Orlando Cabrera’s home run, Scott Baker coming back from a rocky third inning to shut the Tigers down for the next four frames, Nick Punto forcing the runner at home and Bobby Keppel coming back with a strikeout to leave the bases loaded in the top of the 12th. And would you believe it, Alexi Casilla. In the bottom of the 12th, after a four hour and 39 minute war of attrition, Alexi Casilla singles up the middle to win it all.
Last night was every amazing thing that could possibly happen and some that rightly shouldn’t. It was without question the most incredible baseball game I’ve ever been at.
But even more than that, more than any of those plays, it’s the crowd that I’ll remember. I’ve never seen it like that before. That place shook. It was like a train. The upper deck crowd just would not sit down. We were all rabid, mouth-foaming fanatics last night. We roared with every strike. We were a blizzard of Homer Hankies. From Cabrera’s home run onward, I don’t think any of us sat for an accumulated twenty minutes. When Randy Marsh called that pitch to Brandon Inge a ball in the 10th, I honestly considered the possibility that there may be a lynching. Through the late innings, I can testify that we shut down the Tiger bats by sheer force of mass will. And when Ron Gardenhire came out in the 12th and for God knows what reason did not replace Keppel with the bases loaded, I am convinced in my heart that the crowd carried him the rest of the way. And when Casilla shot that single through the hole… I mean, god damn. Twenty four hours later my voice is still wrecked.
It was beyond description. It was my whole life in that place in a night. It was every beautiful and agonizing and amazing thing that I’ll take with me forever. And whatever happens in the next week, or two or three, God willing… That was the moment. When every single one of us knew that the magic was ours, if only for just another moment. Just one more teflon October. One more run.
And I didn’t cry once.
Next stop: The Bronx. Congratulations to the 2009 American League Central Division Champion Minnesota Twins!
