So, this weekend Houseboy and I (yes, I'm importing nicknames from my other blog, deal yo), decided to be whimsical and pack up the Blueberry and trek out to Minnesota for the 20th Anniversary of the 1987 World Series. There was a weekend of bobble heads, homer hankies and autographs in store for us. We enjoyed pizza and beer at the Leaning Tower, 3 blocks from our first apartment, wandered downtown in the drizzle and ate an Irish Breakfast at a pub on Nicollet Mall. Sunday morning we trekked over to the Metrodome around 10:15 am and stood in line in the rain for our Twins Hall of Famer Gary Gaetti Bobble Head Doll. Doors opened at 11 am and we were easily in the first 10,000 fans, through the door by 11:07 am. Once inside, I stopped to buy a Michael Cuddyer t-shirt. This process took slightly longer than it might have needed to since I had to agonize over whether I should be allowed to buy a Torii Hunter shirt given my track record with favorite players (as I stood there in my Eddie Guardado jersey). But, even so, I was in line for my Frank Viola autograph, heart aflutter, by about 11:13 a.m. We inched and we inched and we compared Wheaties boxes and commemorative plaques and made fun of the guy with the merry-go-round horse (how did he get that thing in there anyway), and generally there was a good atmosphere of fun and memories. Around noon a guy with a shit-eating grin informed us we were "on the bubble." About 12:15 pm he said that from the family in front of us back, we were "Probably not getting in." People started dropping out of line. But we also starting moving more quickly. I was nervous, but I had hope. At 12:29, I could see the table... there were only 30 people ahead of us and maybe 20 people behind us. Sure, he couldn't get to them all in one minute, but surely they could extend the deadline just a few minutes. But no. They shut it down. Just like that, at the stroke of 12:30 p.m., no ifs, ands or buts, it was over. And here's where it gets weird. I get this chokey feeling in my throat. My eyes are burning. And all of a sudden I have to crouch down by the wall and pretend to be figuring out how to fit all my memorabilia back in my backpack so no one will see me tearing up over not getting a 6' 4" man with a mustache to scribble on a piece of cardboard for me.
So, to go back to the beginning and possibly begin to explain this phenomena. I was born in Macon, Georgia in 1979, but I only lived there for about 9 months. The first home I knew was in what was then a small town in southern Minnesota and is now a sort of far-flung suburb. In 1985 we moved to Alexandria, Virginia for my mother to go to seminary. So, I went from half-day Kindergarten and a more-or-less stay at home mom, a small safe community with occasional loose farm animals and clean air and lakes, to a full day at school where they wouldn't let me bring my doll, my mom away all day, and I wasn't allowed outside of our apartment complex. The kids said "Coke" instead of "Pop" and "Cuss" instead of "Swear." There was almost no snow in the winter and, worst of all, seminary housing didn't allow dogs, so my Inky had to go live with my grandparents. Yes, my parents were hauled in for questioning at Child Protective Services on more than one occasion. Anyway, one bright spot in this was that on the walk to school there was a crossing guard who handed out baseball cards. At the ages of 6, 7 and 8, collecting the Twins players on these cards was like a lifeline to my parents' promise that this was temporary. We WERE going home. And, in the summer of 1987, we did. We moved to a smaller town, further south, in June or July of 1987. And as if they KNEW how much I had missed it and how much they had meant to me, the Twins went ahead and won a World Series that October, my first October in my second new school in 3 years. And if you know a thing or two about that series, you know that Frank Viola was one of its superstars. He continued to play for the Twins in 1988 and then got traded mid-season in 1989 and I swear I can remember the day I saw the headline, sitting on the stoop of a business on main street as I walked by... though that might be a completely manufactured memory, the feeling is the same. It nearly broke my heart.
So, cut back to my supreme embarrassment at being a 28-year-old verging on weeping in a sports complex. I gathered myself, went and bought a lemonade and found my seat, gazing down furtively at the card I had lovingly mutilated to make it say "Twins Win! Twins Win!" by folding down the "T" and "S". I was disappointed. I was almost determined to call the weekend a failure. But then, Johann Santana took the mound. It might be surprising to hear, but this was my first time seeing Santana live outside of Spring Training. And at the first pitch I knew everything was going to be all right. Ground out. Strike out. Strike out. Strike out. Strike out. Strike Out. MICHAEL CUDDYER HITS A F-ING HOME RUN. My heart just about exploded. There I sat, with the incriminating t-shirt in my bag. My admission that I was less worried about losing him than I was about losing Hunter. But he forgave me. He even went so far as to hit a home run to prove to me that I am NOT a curse. He is a lovely, lovely man. And the rest of the game recap goes something like this: strikeoutstrikeoutstrikeoutstrikeoutstrikeoutstrikeoutstrikeoutstrikeoutstrikeoutstrikeoutstrikeoutstrikeout
That's 17 strikeouts. That's a team record. The man is a freaking miracle. We barely sat down the whole game. The feeling of the crowd was so odd... there was audible disappointment at the few ground outs. Downright uproar at Sosa's single. Someone behind me started the chant "Check his bat! Check his bat!" People forgot themselves and accidentally booed when Joe Nathan came in to close in the 9th. Then they remembered who he was and cheered psychotically. Then there was an error, and fans went tumbling down the stairs head over heels. It was pandemonium. I've never witnessed anything like it.
Moral of this entire story is, so help me Mike, if you say a WORD about Santana, his contract expectations, the likelihood of him going to the Yankees or anything like that in the next, oh, millennium, I will END you.
Postscript-- Here he is, in all his glory:
1 comment:
I know that Mr. Frank Viola is sad to have missed you. Beyond that, you can't jinx any player, in time they will come through. And Tori loves you, and Minnesota, really he does...
It's a wonder you did so well, with all the East coast snow days and all...
Post a Comment