Ahhhhhhhhhhh. Twins Baseball is officially here. Yes, the season already started, but it’s not official until the home opener. However, right off the bat, I was faced with a dilemma. I once bought an official Cristian Guzman jersey about 5 years ago. He wasn’t that good then. The Twins weren’t that good then. He was fast and got a lot of triples. More importantly, he was still on the Minnesota Twins.
Do I wear the jersey to the opener? I mean, Guzzie at least he left on decent terms the team failed to pick up his option. Sporting the Guzman isn’t like the guy in the Denny Hocking jersey, or the weirdo in the Scott Stahoviak “throwback.”
But at the same point, isn’t wearing the Guzzie jersey kind of like keeping up framed pictures of an ex-girlfriend? I mean, I don’t want to ruin things with a possible new chick, but I am ready to replace what was once there?
I’m not sure. I call my friend O-Town, he’s good to consult on these type of things. Of course he’s gone. He’s probably with his girlfriend right now. And this reason I’m calling him is most likely why I’m single. But I’m fine with this. Because if a woman can’t understand this moral dilemma, I can never truly understand her.
I think about it some more. I look at my other jerseys. Now my Sprewell jersey, I can’t wear that to T-wolves games at all. Never. Seriously. The way he dogged it last year is unforgivable (and he was my favorite player for more than 10 years, yes through the choking incident). So this isn’t even the first time I’ve had to go through this.
But the executive decision is this: Guzman is OK to wear. Spre is not.
Anyways, I leave my house with 2tall (in town from California), his dad Dean, (who looks like Peter Gammons and will be referenced as such for the rest of the column), and 2tall’s friend Curt (in town from LaCrosse where 2tall and Peter Gammons are originally from).
I don’t know what it is, but there are always an underrated amount of females at baseball games. Granted, they most always go with their boyfriend though, so really it’s like going to the Cadillac car lot. They’re all spoken for, but it’s nice to see what’s out there.
We were meeting three of our other friends down on the concourse. The other friends bought tickets months ago. We didn’t. The game is long sold out, except for tickets under the curtain in right field. Resisting the urge to play peak-a-boo while simultaneously battling a nosebleed, we take it the streets. Good ‘ol scalpers.
The plan is to get to stadium at 6 p.m., find a scalper and get some decent seats. Left field “Home Run Porch” if anything, but if we find good seats on the cheap, I’m game. Three blocks from the Dome and five steps from the car, a street ticket broker (I’m going to class this up a bit) offers four seats, eight rows up from the dugout. $75 a ticket. I’m definitely intrigued, but at the same time, we can find better. We press on. Walking past three more scalpers, we come up empty for left field seats. Still, we press on.
In front of Huberts, we hit. A guy has four tickets, fifth row lower deck, 10 feet from the foul pole. Or so he tells us. It definitely has the “Saved By The Bell” type of vibe, from when Zack gets a class ring deal from Gem Diamond, only to find out the rings aren’t real gold. With these tickets turn green upon finding out seats which are really right field obstructed view? Probably not, but still. Are scalpers to be trusted? I think there’s some kind of unwritten code about it.
He tells us, “Oh yeah these are on the Home Run Porch, if there is one you’ll prolly catch it.” Whatever, we take the chance, it’s only $25 bones.
As we head to plaza, we try to get a couple beers before our other friends meet us. Peter Gammons decides he’s going in the stadium now. 2Tall waits by Famous Dave’s for our other friends, while Curt and I stand in a 300 foot line for the better part of 20 minutes. In one of those, “Are we getting punk’d right now?” type moments, we look behind us to see “waitresses,” (vending workers with cash aprons) taking beer orders from people in line. So we were too far to get served, but not far enough away to get pity served. So we’re sober, we’re hungry, and we’re screwed. We’re the American Lower Middle Class of the beer line. Not close enough to get beer, but we worked too hard and got too far away to receive preferential treatment from the establishment.
After 10 more minutes our other friends make it there, and we decide we’re going to our seats. It’s 6:47 p.m. and we don’t want to miss Radke’s first inning blast. Damn - we were 40 feet away from the first official beer of the Twins season.
Anyways, we walk inside and receive a magnet schedule from the ticket taker. I press the schedule against my chest, concluding that I am in fact, NOT “twisted steel and sex appeal,” as the magnet falls immediately to the ground. Oh well. I give mine to 2tall, who is hoarding schedules for whatever reason.
We get in the beer line inside, sigh, exactly 40 feet away.
As were about to get a hot dog, a 1/4 pound of beef slab by the good folks at Hormel, 2tall notices the Dome Dog. It’s a half pound of beef, over a foot long, dwarfing our other choice. It’s massive. It’s impressive.
I mention that the Dome Dog is really the “Lexington Steel” of hot dogs. We all laugh but more so because we all get the reference. Ahh…You have to watch a LOT of internet porn to start recognizing even the male names. At any rate, we all get a beer and a Lexington Steel and get to our seats.
As we come down to the seats, the awful “Touch ‘em All Kirby Puckett” song is playing. Im not going to say who its by, and dont look it up. Screw this guy who put out that crap. No one this side of Lee Greenwood has cashed in on a tragedy like this before. I miss Puck, we all do, let’s not tarnish his legacy with some half-ass wannabe-80s ballad.
On a better note, the scalper was honest we have kick-ass seats. And while I thought the “catch a home run comment” was his sales pitch, he was actually telling the truth about that too (more on that later). Huh. Ticket scalping really is a victim-less crime.
Puckett’s kids start walking out to throw the first pitch as we sit down. It’s definitely emotional (especially with the 34 in the middle of center field), but not “trapped in a glass case of emotion.” It was a nice touch from the Twins organization. Curt theorizes the chances of someone making a diving catch inside the 34. We realize it would have to be in a pull-type situation because Torii covers ground too well to have to dive there.
Anywho, the game starts up and the first inning ends without Radke giving up a gopher ball. Outstanding. Meanwhile, our first three hitters walk up to the batters box, stand around for a couple minutes, and then wait for the umpire to direct them back to their cozy seat on the pine. Then they in fact, go walk back to the pine. We place the over under on Twins hits at four. Curt goes under, 2tall says over. I’m really thinking about betting with the house on this one, but I’d rather not even think about our lack of hitting right now. Peter Gammons scoffs he hasn’t lost hope yet.
However, hope gets sexually abused in the second inning, as Radke gives up a homer to Eric Chavez. Two more runs come across when Nick Swisher doubles, with Frank Thomas and Milton Bradley Milton fucking Bradley crossing the plate.
(Quick explanation for the Bradley hate: In 2002, losing by about 7 runs or so, Milton Bradley hits a solo homerun in the late innings of what was a meaningless game for the Indians. He stands in the batters box, takes off his batting gloves and admires the homer. At this point, he earned “bean ‘em in the head every time he bats against us” status. Every time. In the head. No exceptions.)
And then hope gets Brianna Banks-ed (two porn references in one column, shocking I know) in the top of third as Bobby Crosby launches a rocket about 5 feet from us. We were definitely blips on TV for part of a second. Now I know how Magic Johnson felt after his talk-show. (Bazzziiiiiiiiiing! Why this shot at Magic?)
2tall (6′5″ for those not in the know) could have made the catch if he jumped or stood on his chair I think. I thought it actually hit him in the hand. It didn’t. Some old man caught it behind us. Everyone in the section begins the “throw it back” chant, and while the old timer begins to think about giving it a toss, cocking his arm back and all, he recants, laughs and says, “Oh no, I can’t do it.”
Whatever. That old guy is officially a dick. And we are officially pissed. We look at the scoreboard. Radke’s already around seventy pitches. We’re down four rip, and there’s really no way we are going to get four runs. And then the bottom of the third game around.
Shannon Stewart gets on first with a weak single. Luis Castilla hits a double. The place starts to get on their feet. Mauer comes up singles in two runs. And the Dome is warming up. It’s baseball season again. Except the crowd of 48,000 lets out a collective sigh when we see Ron “D.L.” White pacing up to the plate. He’s hitting about .090 at the time. Which is horrible for any hitter, let alone the person slated in your cleanup spot.
Against his best intentions though, White bloops a single. With Mauer now at third, Torii singles, driving in another run. Now the buzzkill comes. Justin Morneau, the motivation for every high school coach to tell a player to TAKE A PITCH ONCE IN AWHILE, quickly fans, letting much of the air out of the stadium.
Now we have our third baseman up to bat, Tony Batista. He’s the one that places his feet towards left field and swings sideways at the ball. I compare watching his swing to when a co-worker’s kids draw all over the walls. It’s cute. But then your kids do it and you want to strangle them. That’s how it feels when you realize Tony Batista is your third baseman.
So as we wait for the quick one-two-three to end the inning, a loud CRACK emanates from home plate. Tony somehow not only connected, but hits a laser.
The ball keeps rising, rising, passing our heads near the wall and lands halfway up the lower deck in left field.
THE RUSSIAN IS CUT! (c) Rocky IV
I never thought I would type this: Tony Batista just made the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome explode.
We have six runs. We can win this game. People can actually hit. For the next few innings everything is great. The seventh-inning stretch comes along and we sing as loud as we can. We’re jovial, we’re loving life. Upon waiting for old Lee Greenwood to start cashing in, an apparent change in the program has been made. A video of Mudcat Grant appears on the Jumbotron.
“What a Wonderful World” begins to play, along with a photo montage of Kirby. We are now at “trapped in a glass case of emotion” levels folks. It was a very touching tribute, and there may have been dust particles in the air at the dome during the rendition. Possibly very small ones. At any rate, nicely done number two for the Twins organization.
But anywho, we bounce back into form once Joe Mauer’s hit in left is robbed by Jay Payton. As we give Payton the “right, left, right, left” taunt, a kid two rows in front turns around and stares at us. I’m not looking at him, but he seems to be agitated. I keep the chant going, realizing I might have to jaw this guy if things escalate. Just as we get to “staaaaandddddinggggg..staaaaaaaaannnndddingggggg.. ” on Payton’s activities, the unidentified lurker shouts out, “Curt! Curt!” Apparently 2tall’s buddy bailed this guy out of jail a couple weeks back, and the guy was the boyfriend of a girl Curt knew. Hadn’t met him before that, hasn’t seen him since, Curt said. That is a random sighting.
The last couple innings zoom past, with Joe Nathan staring down Bobby Crosby with two outs and the game resting on his fastball. Lasting until a 3-2 count, Crosby launches one to center, which Torii glides to, catching the ball right in the middle of center field. More importantly, right in the middle of the 34.
A fitting end to an emotional rollercoaster of a game. Baseball has officially begun.
Leave a Reply