Taking her out to the ball game ~ June 4, 1992

David Heiller

How do you define baseball? If you are a six-year-old girl, it’s by the length of the licorice, and the taste of the pop, and Kirby Puckett’s first grand slam.

I took Malika to her first game last Friday. Before the game, I tried to engage her in Baseball Talk (BT). This is the second most boring language in the world (behind the mating noise of a three-toed ground sloth). You say things like, “Wow, Puckett has seven hits in his last 12 at bats.” And your friend answers, “But Lieus can’t hit worth beans with men in scoring position.” Boring.

Fortunately Baseball Talk on Friday was tempered by Kid Talk (KT), which has all the logic of a computer that just fell off a desk. It almost makes sense. Here are some samples of our dialogue, which I jotted down on the back of my scorecard.

Daddy~Daughter Dynamic Duo

BT: Larkin is playing right field.

KT: Who’s Larkin?

BT: You know, Gene Larkin.

KT: Who’s Larkin? What’s a Larkin, Dad?

KT: I see Kirby—the guy cleaning the area out there (around the pitcher’s mound).

BT: No, that’s the groundskeeper.

KT: How many more minutes (till the game starts)?

BT: Twenty

KT: You already said 20.

BT: No, I said 30.

KT: Oh.

KT: I want pudding.

BT: Where’s pudding?

KT: That guy’s holding it.

BT: That’s not pudding. That’s beer.

KT: Oh.

KT: I’m hungry.

BT: (Silence.)

KT: I’m hungry.

BT: (Silence.)

KT: I’m hungry.

BT: (Silence.)

KT: I’M HUNGRY.

She talked about a zillion other things too. She admired in a loud voice a woman’s earrings, which were shaped like little baseballs. (Now THERE’S a good birthday present for Cindy.) She checked out ladies’ purses, and told me (in a loud voice) every time she saw one she liked, or one that resembled her own 47 purses.

Noah and Malika working
 on their Twins imitations

She ogled a baby across the aisle, a kid all of one month old, who was passed between Mom and Dad while they ate pretzels and drank beer.

In between talking, Malika ate. It was a miracle. Her stomach normally holds half a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich, max. But at the game, where food prices are inflated as much as the stadium, she consumed a can of orange soda, three strips of button candy on paper, 67 peanuts, and a licorice rope two feet long.

She finished it all by the fifth inning. “I want a hot dog,” she said. Sure, for another $3, I thought. I put my foot down (on a carpet of peanut shells) and said no. But not until I’d bought myself a glass of “pudding” for $3.25.

We did manage to talk a little baseball, thanks to the idol of every kid who plays catch in Minnesota, Kirby Puckett. Kirby came through. He moved from groundskeeper to hero when he came up with the bases loaded in the fourth inning, and lined a homerun over the right-centerfield fence. We stood and roared with 26,000 other fans. Malika gave me a high-five and hollered, “A grand slam!” I didn’t even know she knew what a grand slam was, but she yelled it. I heard her. There’s hope for her yet.

We didn’t quit clapping until Kirby stepped out of the third base dugout and tipped his cap. A true hero, for the umpeenth time. Then at the top of the fifth, the crowd rose again as Kirby ran out to center field. The scoreboard announced that it was his first grand slam in the majors. It showed a replay, then a close-up of Kirby, who modestly doffed his cap again, and gave it a short swirl to the crowd.

My spine tingled. It was a special moment, one I’ll remember for a long time. Malika won’t. But I’m glad she was there with me to share it.

The Twins ended up winning, 17-5. But they could have LOST 17-5 and Mollie wouldn’t have known the difference. She had her food and her questions and her purses and earrings and her Kirby and her Dad. What more to baseball is there?

When we were leaving, she showed a new dance step to anyone who cared to watch, something between the Radio City Rocketts and some Nazi Storm Troopers. Then she tiptoed down the sidewalk, missing every crack for two blocks in honor of her mother’s back.

In the car, she made the predictable announcement: “I don’t feel so good.” Stomach hurt? “Uh-huh.” But no disasters would end this adventure. The car rolled northward through the night, and the dash light soon wrapped a sleeping girl in its warm, green glow.

The next morning, I asked Mollie what she thought of the game. “I just loved it,” she said dramatically.

“What’d you love about it?” I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. “The Twins won. I want to go to another game next time.” Sounds good to me.

Important things, like baseball ~ June 2, 1994

by David Heiller

 Taking an eight-year-old to a ball game is a lot like taking an eight-year-old fishing. You don’t catch many fish, but that’s OK because you don’t expect to anyway.

You hope the eight-year-old catches the fish. You hope they enjoy it and take it up as a past time. Anyone who likes to fish can’t be all bad.

That’s the way I feel about baseball. It drives my wife crazy, the biggest scuzz-ball in Pine County is all right with me if he likes baseball.

What if Jeffrey Dahmer liked baseball? Cindy will ask. She likes to throw philosophical curve-balls. Would you like HIM?

I have to stop and think about that one for a few minutes. Well, he can’t be ALL bad.

Malika on her way to the big game with daddy.
Her daddy would be so proud to know that it
 did stick, that his daughter is a Twins fan!

So I took my daughter to a Twins game on Friday night, May 27. She brought a huge appetite. She won’t eat beef stroganoff that Cindy works on for an hour on Sunday. But take her to a Perkin’s Restaurant before a Twins game and she’ll order ground steak with cheese on toast with French fires for $6.95.

At the Metrodome the prices were as crazy as her appetite. A rope of licorice for $1.25, a box of popcorn for $2.25, a glass of pop for $2.25. (Not to mention my beer, which cost $3.50.)

She was disappointed about her pop too: no straw. She asked the vendor, “Sir, do you have any straws?”

“Sorry, no straws,” he answered. What fun is it to drink pop without a straw? What kind of a ball park is this?

Malika asked a ga-zillion questions. “Did that ball that one guy hit ever come down?” she asked as we approached the stadium. I’ve told her enough times about the time Dave Kingman hit a ball in the Metrodome that never came down. It became stuck in the ceiling. The story is etched in her mind.

“No. Maybe we’ll see it tonight,” I answered.

What holds the ceiling up? Why are those guys stretching? Can I have ice cream like that girl? Why are there so many empty seats? Is this the Twins Metrodome?” Ad infinatum.

Baseball is important business.

Sometimes I would forget that I was sitting next to an eight-year-old. I’d make some shrewd baseball comment, like: “Bases loaded. Three and one count. Man he’s going to get a good pitch to hit.”

To which Mollie would answer, “I’m hungry, Dad.”

In the seventh inning, manager Tom Kelly took the starting pitcher, Kevin Tapani out of the game. I shrewdly pointed this out to Mollie. “You mean Scott Erickson isn’t going to be the pitcher any more?” Mollie asked.

“No, Tapani is pitching.”

“Where’s Scott Erickson?”

“He’s on the disabled list.”

“What’s the disabled list?”

AAAAGH!

In the eighth inning, Mollie asked, “What’s the score?” Five to two, I told her.

“Who’s ahead?”

How can you not know who’s ahead? I thought. Then I stopped. That’s when it finally sank in. I was fishing with Mollie. I didn’t need to catch any fish. I wanted Mollie to catch some fish. I wanted her to like fishing. Anyone who likes to fish can’t be all bad.

So it is with baseball. We play catch at home, and my daughter can hit the ball all right too. We go to a game once a year or so. Maybe, if the stars line up just right, she’ll learn to love the game.

She’ll remember the starting lineup of the 1987 Minnesota Twins. She might not remember her husband’s birthday, but by golly she’ll know that Joe Dimaggio hit in 56 straight in 1941. The same year that Ted Williams hit .406. The last player to hit .400. Important things like that.

Like going fishing, and taking your eight-year-old to a ball game.

[Cynthia's note: I used to ask David, "What's the score." He would answer by saying JUST the score... two numbers separated by the word to. So then I would have to ask which number was currently assigned to which team. He always thought I should just KNOW these things. Just a David-ism...]

Some lessons from America’s pastime ~ April 11, 1991

David Heiller

Ghosts of baseball past and present are mingling like a couple of old timers at the ballpark these days.

For the present, baseball is haunting the four kids in our household, ages 4-7, my own two and the two we have temporarily adopted.

Two or three times a day they ask, “Can we play ball now?” And you can’t just answer “Sure,” not when you’re the only one that can throw the ball across the plate.

The American League has its designated hitter. The Birch Creek League has a designated pitcher: me. I’m also the entire infield, outfield, and umpire.

Actually, it’s pretty fun, if you don’t mind dodging a winter of dried dog droppings, retrieving balls from the sinkhole in the driveway, and most of all, being patient.

All the rules apply, except 
you can't strike out in family ball!

Patience, as with all kid activities, is the main requirement, mainly because you can’t strike out in our game, which is lucky for Tyson and Mollie. Ten or 12 swings before bat meets ball are not uncommon with them. When they are in a slump like that, any contact, fair, foul, or tick, is a hit.

When they get a hit, they all run the bases like mad, and often don’t stop even though I’m bearing down on them, ball in hand.

Slowly they are learning some; basic rules, like don’t run out of the base path, don’t pass another runner, don’t let a hit ball hit YOU, don’t run on a fly ball that might be caught.

They are learning, because when I tag them out, or force them out, or catch a pop fly, the kids are OUT. Sometimes they get angry, pout, even cry. But once they are called out, they stay called out.

That’s the way baseball is: The rules are sacred, and you don’t bend them even for a kid. Besides, the lure of the game, the laughter, the thrill of seeing a ball fly over the old man’s heat for a sure homer, is enough to keep kids from worrying about making an out or two.

You can learn a lot from baseball. (Here come: the ghost of baseball past.) I remember one time in a grade school game, my brother Danny was batting. He hit a ground ball to the left side, and raced to first so fast that his legs outran his body, and he went into first base like he was falling from a tree.

Concentration, as well as a sense of 
humor work well in baseball and life.

It seemed funny for a split second, until we realized that Pete Scanlon was playing first base. Even in eighth grade, Pete was about the size of a garbage truck. He caught the throw, like he always did, just as Danny smacked into him. Then he glanced casually over his left shoulder to see what kind of insect had bit him. It never dawned on him to get out of Danny’s way.

Danny lay crumpled on the ground in a cloud of dust at Pete’s feet. We all held our breath for a second, waiting to see whether he would come up swinging or crying or whether he would come up at all.

Danny instead rolled over onto his back, threw his arms out to the side and rolled his head back in a dying scene that would make John Wayne jealous.

We all laughed. Even Pete laughed, and no one had seen him laugh in three years. Then Danny got up, brushed himself off, and limped back to the bench.

It was a great lesson that Danny had learned on the spot and had taught us just as fast: A little humor goes a long way in a tense situation.

I usually grumble to myself when the kids ask me to play ball these days, because there’s always some work to be done or a book to be read or a nap to be taken. But it never fails that after a few pitches, I’m enjoying the game as much as them. It’s as good a family activity as you’ll find.

And like my brother Danny found out, it might teach you a lesson or two: Don’t take yourself too seriously, and watch how you run when Pete Scanlon is playing first base.

Following the beat of the Twins ~ May 4, 1989

by David Heiller

When I was a high school student, my dream was to be a beat writer covering the Minnesota Twins. I covered high school sports in Caledonia to prove that I could be another Dave Mona or Sid Hartman, two of my heroes.

One time when I wrote a baseball column for the “Smoke Signal”, a grocer in town came up to me and shook my hand. “It’s just like something Don Riley from the St. Paul paper would write,” he said with a laugh. Don Riley became my new hero. I’ve never forgotten that compliment.

But after writing sports at the University of Minnesota, I ran into one too many muscle-bound egos, and gave up my dream of beat writer for the Minnesota Twins. I ended up as beat writer for the Askov American.

But last Friday night, the old dream came back for a couple hours when the Twins gave me a press pass to cover the Minnesota-Cleveland game. I usually do this once a year, and come up with a column on how not to interview people like Kent Hrbek or Frank Viola (the ego-factor again).

So this time I wanted to do a story on what it was like to be a beat writer covering the Minnesota Twins. I tried to arrange an interview with Mark Vancil, who covers the team for the Star Tribune, newspaper of the Twin Cities. I left two messages with Mr. Vancil, saying I was a reporter for the Askov American, newspaper of Nor­thern Pine County. He didn’t return either call.

When my brother Glenn (my photographer) and I checked into the press box, I greeted Charlie Crepeau, an old fellow who used to live in Finlayson some 50 years ago. I did a column on Charlie a couple years ago, after Kent Hrbek had snubbed me. Charlie told me that he had cut the column out and put it on his refrigerator. That’s another compliment I’ve never forgotten. To be pinned by a magnet next to first-grade art work is a writer’s greatest honor.

Charlie’s co-worker in the press box, Hardy Smith, looked me over as I picked up the stat sheets for reporters. One of the sheets was a seating chart for the press box. “I don’t think you’ll need that one,” Mr. Smith said. I braced myself, because this is usually the time I get booted out of the press box. (The press passes of Askov American beat reporters usually entitle you to sit in a vacant seat of the stadium, but not the press box.)

“Why don’t you grab a seat over there?” Mr. Smith said, pointing to some empty seats. At first I thought he was pointing outside the press box.

“You mean, over there?” I asked, pointing 20 yards away. No, over there, those empty seats,” he said, pointing to_. some seats in the press box. Then he added with a smile: “Next to Sid Hartman.”

Wow. We had just been invited to sit in the press box, and next to my old hero to boot.

We took our seats, then glanced around, trying not to gawk at the 20 other reporters. Behind us to the left were celebrities like Mark Rosen from WCCO TV, next to Tom Bernard, a commentator from KQRS-FM radio. Right behind us sat a row of veterans, guys in their sixties and seventies who looked like they stepped out of a ^“Shoe” comic strip. On our left was an empty chair with the name ^“Sid Hartman” bolted onto the table. In front, the first row, sat the beat reporters: Tom Powers, Mike Nadel, Steve Aschburner, and many more familiar names to newspaper readers. Right smack ahead of us was Mark Vancil from the Star-Tribune.

I didn’t introduce myself.

We learned a few things about press box etiquette during the game. In the first inning, for example, when Gary Gaetti hit a three-run homer, my brother and I both leaped out of our

chairs and started cheering. We quickly noticed that no one in the press box had risen from their chairs,or was even cheering. A few glanced our way, rolled their eyes. Most just sat there and typed into their lap-top computers. “Gary Gaetti hit a three-run homer in the first inning for a lead,” Mark Vancil wrote.

“I think we’d better be a little more neutral here,” I whispered to Glenn. He checked himself, which wasn’t hard the way the Twins were playing. When Kirby Puckett hit one out in the third, Glenn only half-rose from his seat, and raised his arms up to his ears, shouting a subdued, “Yay!” The rest of the stadium rose to their feet, but the press box gang sat like so many Buddahs. “Those fans really like Kirby Puckett,” Glenn apologized, and for a second I could see that he wanted to be out there with the other 37,600 fans, screaming and clapping.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much more to cheer about. Gary Gaetti made two errors in one inning, and Mark Vancil changed his sentence to read: “Gary Gaetti hit a three-run homer in the first inning for a lead, then committed two errors in the third to lose it.”

So we watched the Twins lose, and we watched the reporters in the press box too. Some of the reporters talked on the phones which were set on the tables in front of them. Mark Vancil once had two phones going at the same time, one on each ear, just like in the movies. All he needed was a checkered suit and a fedora with a press card sticking out. “You moron!” he shouted once, slamming the right phone down. Maybe he was trying to return my call.

In the seventh inning, Glenn nudged me and said, “Look who’s here.” I looked to my left. No mistaking, it was my old hero, Sid Hartman.

“Would you look at the nose on that guy?” Glenn said in some awe. It’s true, Sid has a nose like a large bird of prey. And he swooped slowly through the press box like an eagle too, smiling at some, sneering at others, and looking right through us.

It was a good night, even if the Twins lost. Sitting in the press box and watching the reporters was almost as fun as watching the game. Maybe that’s why I’m still a beat reporter for the Askov American.

A fever to cure all ills ~ June 20, 1991

David Heiller

 It’s hard NOT to have baseball fever these days, the way the Twins are playing. The Twins have won 15 straight as I write this on Sunday evening.

Even fair-weather fans are paying attention, except for a few purists like Steve Popowitz. I saw him on Friday and told him I was going to stay home and work and listen to the Twins game on the radio that night.

Steve gave me a blank look, as if there might possibly be more exciting things to do on a Friday night. “How are they doing?” he still as­ked politely. Steve does not like baseball, but at least he has good manners. He knows I’m a fan.

“Great,” I answered. “They won their 12th straight last night!” I had been to that game, and was still a foot off the ground.

“Now, is that good?” Steve asked again, in complete sincerity. “Baseball teams don’t always win 12 straight?”

“The best they’ve ever done,” I answered with a smile. I remembered that Steve fell asleep in the seventh game of the 1987 World Series, and figured it was time to change the subject.

But the subject around our house these days is baseball. The game is always on the radio. George Will states in his excellent book, Men at Work, that baseball is one sport which is ar­guably better to listen to than see in person.

Noah's Kirby Puckett
baseball card.
Check out those biceps!

That’s partly because you can visualize the ac­tion so well. You can see Puckett fielding the hit on one hop, taking a step on the run and rifling the ball home IN THE AIR, see Brian Harper catch the ball as the runner barrels into him like a man diving head-first into a pile of scrap metal. You can see Harper hold up the ball with a big grin, and see the runner limp to the dugout as 30,000 fans come to their feet to cheer the most exciting play in baseball, throwing out a runner at home.

With the radio and a good imagination, you can see that while you are playing catch with your kids, or working in the garden, or changing the oil in your car, or whatever you like to do. I can work non-stop, no matter how tired I am, with a ball game on the radio.

It’s fun to TALK baseball too. At that game last Thursday, my brother Glenn and I talked about the Twins till the fourth inning. We hadn’t seen each other for three months, yet we just talked baseball. Not about our kids or our wives or gardens or work or politics. I feel a bit guilty when that happens, like I’m irresponsible or childish or drunk. Shouldn’t we discuss per­sonal things, or important topics? My wife laughs about it. “I love watching you talk baseball,” she’ll say with a gentle smile. Then I don’t feel guilty anymore.

She also knows that Glenn is a bigger baseball fan than I am, mainly because he’s had 10 more years to work at it. Heck, he can tell you the starting line-up of the 1957 Milwaukee Braves, who he followed faithfully on the radio as a 14-year-old kid.

As we left the Dome after they won last Thursday, Glenn said, ^“Boy, the Twins are really a Juggernaut.” Anyone who can use the word “Juggernaut” in a sentence is a bigger baseball fan than me. Whenever Cindy gets fed up with me listening to a Twins game, I tell her, “It could be worse, I could be Glenn,” and she changes the subject.

(By the way, “Juggernaut” is defined by the Random House College Dictionary as “Any large, overpowering destructive force or object, as a giant battleship, a powerful football team, etc.” That fits the Twins, all right.)

The kids have a bit of baseball fever too. Mol­lie has learned the Twins theme song, just like Noah did when he was six. It must be part of cognitive development, learning your baseball team’s theme song. She still has a few glitches on it though:

“We’re going to win Twins, we’re going to score. We’re going to win Twins, knock that baseball sore. Let’s hear it now for the Twins that came to play. Cheer for the Minnesota Twins today.”

And Noah has Kirby Puckett’s biceps to pon­der. Eight-year-old boys love biceps. He’ll wake up in the morning and have me feel his biceps. “Nice little bicycle tire,” I’ll say. Then at noon he’ll have me feel them again, and tell me that they’ve gotten bigger during the day, to which I agree.

Mollie and I gave Noah a set of 1991 Twins baseball cards for his birthday last week. Noah looked through them, then stopped at Kirby Puckett’s. “Wow, look at those biceps!” Noah said with laughing wonder in his voice. Noah likes Kirby anyway. Who doesn’t? But to see those arms sealed Noah’s adoration.

I had to agree. His arms were the size of 20-pound hams. I guess that’s how he throws out those runners at home.

Harmon Killebrew at bat. 

Then I remembered thinking that same thing about Harmon Killebrew when I was eight, looking at those slabs of muscle. Back then, baseball players didn’t pose with their biceps bulging. It was not the era of showing flesh, like today. You could catch a peek of Killebrew’s biceps, but mostly you just knew they were there by that classic swing of his, as he followed through on one of his 573 homeruns, head down, wrists extended, arm and back muscles bulging like a bull. That was good enough for us.

Yup, baseball fever is here all right. Enjoy it while you have it. It’s the one sickness that’s good for you.

It’s only a game ~ October 31, 1991

David Heiller

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1991, 4:30 P.M. The importance of knowing how to lose comes home every so often, especially with children. It hit in our home on Wednesday evening, October 23, in the World Series.

My son, Noah, and I had been watching the game together for the first seven innings, just as we had watched all the other games together. Then I had to leave the living, room, as some friends came over to help move me move in a refrigerator

 A circumspect Noah.

I kept a transistor radio nearby as we struggled with the appliance. I swore as Hrbek struck out to end the eighth inning. I had to say no to Noah when he begged me to throw him the ball between innings, to bring the Twins good luck on defense. Finally, I had to hear the disappointing end on the radio, when Atlanta scored the winning run on a very close play at the plate in the bottom of the ninth.

I dashed into the living room as soon as I could, and saw the replay at the plate, saw that it was a good call. Then I saw Noah sitting very still, crying.

I said something very fatherly, like: “It was a good game. It was a good call at the plate. It’s too bad, but someone has to win and someone has to lose.” Noah trudged silently past me to bed. He didn’t believe in those words any more than I did when I was eight.

A bit later, when the fridge was in place and the house was still, I went up to Noah. He was lying quietly, half asleep. “Too bad the Twins lost, huh?” I said.

“Yeah, and it makes me sad,” he answered.

“Me too,” I said, and hugged him goodnight.

There’s no great moral to this slice of life. It didn’t change Noah’s future. He mulled it over for a short while, maybe 10 minutes, then went to sleep, and woke up groggy from another late night of baseball, and went to school, and didn’t say another word about it.

But it reminds me of at least a small moral: losing is important. It puts things in perspective.

Don’t get me wrong: It’s great fun to win. The exhilaration can be unforgettable, like with Kirby Puckett hitting that homerun in game six, last night, Saturday night. A lot of baseball fans will never forget that moment. I’ll take winning over losing any day.

But losing helps you keep an even keel. Clarence Sandberg reminded me of that on Sunday morning. Clarence is a friendly old man who lives north of Malmo. He processes wild rice for a sideline, and I stopped in to pick up some of the chaff for compost.

Clarence gave me some wheat with his chaff, in a figurative sense. I had never met him before, so I started talking about the great Twins’ game on Saturday night. Clarence admitted that it was a super game, but he quickly reminded me of how poorly the Twins had played Thursday night in Atlanta, losing 14-5.

“School boys could have played better,” I think is how he phrased it.

“That’s true,” I had to admit, feeling a bit deflated. “I wonder how they’ll do tonight.”

“It will be fun to watch,” he said. “But you know, it’s only a game.”

Clarence had never met me before. He didn’t know what a baseball nut I am. But he knew how to keep the game in perspective and keep an even keel. There was a lot of wisdom in his old eyes, and in those old words. It’s only a game.

MONDAY, OCT. 28, 1991, 12:15 p.m. Tom Kelly came up with the most memorable quote of an unforgettable night last night. He wanted to take Jack Morris out of the game in the tenth inning. Morris said he was fine. They argued back and forth, something a player and coach aren’t supposed to do. Finally Dick Such, the pitching coach, came along and backed Jack by saying, “I think he’s fine.”

Tom Kelly’s response: “Oh what the hell, it’s only a game.” Morris went out to pitch, and the. Twins went on to win.

Tom Kelly must have been reading my column again. Baseball is only a game. And win or lose, what a game it was in 1991!

Cheer for the Minnesota Turtles ~ August 8, 1991

David Heiller

It was a weekend to remember, what with the Twins and the Turtle.

FIRST THE TWINS: I’ve got a hunch that any Twins fan who was listening to last Saturday’s game will remember it for years and years. It will be one of those baseball memories that gets etched firmly into a certain time and place, where you’ll remember who you were with, what you were doing.

I can still remember a dramatic Harmon Killebrew home run against the hated Yankees in 1965. A bunch of us kids were playing on the rocks in downtown Brownsville, and someone had a transistor radio going. The Killer was up with two outs, two on, and the Twins down by two. It was almost like Casey at the Bat, only this time it was Killebrew, Mr. Clutch, who clouted a three run homer to win the game. Someone started yelling, “The Twins won, the Twins won!” It seemed like the whole town exploded. We jumped off the rocks and danced and yelled all the way home. I can still remember that.

Saturday was like that too. Noah and I were playing bat and ball, listening to Oakland slowly pull ahead of the Twins, 4-0, all on solo home runs  “The Twins are lucky they are still in this game,” I told Noah. “They could still rally.” (It ain’t over till it’s over, you know.) By the time I started re-siding house, Canseco had hit another one, and it was 5-0.

Connie with Noah and his turtle, Shane Mack,
 and Malika with her Beanie Baby.

Then, in the eighth inning, the Twins rallied, and suddenly it was 5-4, with two men on and Brian Harper at the plate.

I was standing at the top of the stepladder, Noah was standing below me, both of us frozen, listening to the announcer. Then we heard Herb Carneal’s voice rise in a mixture of excitement and disbelief: “There’s a long ball to left field. If it stays fair, it’s gone.” We knew it would stay fair, and it did.

I jumped down from the top of the ladder, and shook Noah’s hand, both of us hopping and cheering. We called into the house to Cindy, and she started cheering, and yelled for Noah to run around the outside of the house. I have no idea why she told him to do that, but he did it, and I raced behind him. He beat me. It was pure exhilaration.

The Twins went on to win, 8-6. All the Baseball Analysts said afterward what a pivotal win it was. Very significant. I don’t know about that, but it sure was unforgettable for Noah and me.

Noah really liked his net.

NOW THE TURTLE: Other than having Twins fever, Noah has had Turtle fever lately. He goes through stages, where he fixes on certain things, like snakes, or antlers, or dinosaurs. Lately it’s all turtles, specifically hard-shell snappers. He has a book showing an alligator snapper that weighs up to 200 pounds. That’s the one he really wants, but he would have settled for one like the soft-shell that his friend, Jake, has in a swimming pool in his backyard.

So on Sunday we headed to a friend’s house to visit their lake and follow up on a report of a snapping turtle sighting. It was a beautiful August day, temperature in the low 70s, sun shining, a little breeze keeping the

mosquitoes away. I sat on the dock and caught a few small sunnies, while Malika swung on a rope swing up on the bank.

Noah had come prepared with a big net, with a walking stick jammed into the handle to give it an extra five feet of reach. He walked the bank, and walked the dock, and puzzled over the bubbles that came from the mud of Elbow Lake. But nary a turtle did we see.

We finally conceded defeat and left after an hour and a half. And wouldn’t you know it; as we neared our house, guess what was crossing the road? Yup, a turtle. It wasn’t a 200-pound alligator snapper (thank goodness). It wasn’t a snapper at all, just a painted turtle the size of a muffin. But it looked pretty darn good to us.

We brought it home, and fixed up a cozy spot in a wash tub with two rocks and some water in it, where it sits right now, eating our fishing worms. Noah has named it Shane, after Shane Mack of the Minnesota Twins, of course.

You knew I’d get back to the Twins, didn’t you? In fact, a Turtle Analyst would say it was ironic that we looked so hard for a turtle at Elbow Lake, then when all hope seemed lost, we found one quite by accident on the way home. A Baseball/Turtle Analyst would even point to the similarities between finding the turtle like that and the Twins winning that game on Saturday in such a dramatic fashion, when all hope had been lost. That’s pretty significant, I guess.

At least it sure was a fun weekend.

Among the heroes at the Metrodome ~ June 25, 1987

David Heiller

Two years ago I went to the Metrodome to do an interview with Kent Hrbek. His parents are from Willow River, and his grandmother, Evelyn Kiminski, still lives west of Rutledge. The local angle looked good for a write-up in the American.

But Kent had other things on his mind as he sat in the dugout before that 1985 game. He grunted at me, in Clan of the Cave Bear dialogue. I didn’t understand it, but wrote it up anyway.

So I tried again last Sunday, with the help of a press pass from the Twins. My brother, Glenn, came along to take pictures. We arrived about an hour before game time, so we would have plenty of time for an interview and pictures. First we went into the press box, where I said hello to Charlie Crepeau, an old Twins fan from Finlayson who I interviewed last year.

“Hello Charlie, remember me, I’m David Heiller, Askov American.”

“Who?” He looked at me blankly.

“David Heiller, Askov American. I did a story on you last year.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, remember, I sent you a copy.”

Charlie’s eyes finally lit up, and he reached to shake my hand. “Oh, yeah, thank you, very nice, very nice.”

We stood in the press box, looking over the long tables of newspaper writers. A man from Chicago was typing on a portable computer. Other men from papers like the St. Paul Pioneer Press and Minneapolis Star sat in front of their nameplates, talking.

“Where’s the spot for the Askov American?” my brother asked. Luckily no one heard him.

Delicious smells filled the press box too, from a rotisserie that held a couple dozen hot dogs and bratwursts. We filled a couple glasses with pop, grabbed some hotdogs, then headed down to the field.

Our hero, Kent Hrbek, stood at the side of the artificial turf, casting a fishing plug as part of a Berkely fishing promotion. He and Tim Laudner and Ron Schara from the Minneapolis paper were having a contest to see who could cast their plug into an oil pan 50 feet away the most times.

Above us, leaning over the railing, stood about a dozen kids, holding balls and gloves. “Kent, how about an autograph.” “Kent, sign my glove.” “Hey Kent, hit one out today.” The kids chattered non-stop. Tony Oliva sat in a chair off to one side and looked a little disappointed. When I was those kids’ age, we asked for Tony’s autograph, or Harmon Killebrew’s. Now, Kent is the hero.

Kent glanced at me, then suddenly broke away from his group and walked ward me. I froze.

“Can I borrow your pen?” he asked.

“Sure, no problem, I answered with relief. I thought maybe he remembered the last column I wrote about him.

He signed a baseball and tossed it up to a kid. He handled back the pen. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I answered.

That was the end of the interview, I thought. What the heck, he spoke to me this time. Last time all I got was spit on my shoe.

Still we stood around; while Kent, Tim, and Ron tossed their plugs. Laudner lost out first, then Ron beat our hero two throws to one in the oil pan. I was glad to see Schara win, because I figured Kent could beat him in a home run contest.

After they shook hands and the crowd cheered, Kent pulled up a chair by the dugout. He sat out of sight of the crowd of kids, whose voices seemed to follow him everywhere. “Hey Kent, sign my glove.” “Kent, Kent, look up so I can take your picture.”

I walked up to Kent and introduced myself, showing him my business card. I didn’t think the Askov American would be weekly reading for him.

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen your paper,” he said. I held my breath. He didn’t mention that last column.

“Do you get up to Willow River much to fish?” I asked.

“No,” he answered. “Hunting, if I do anything. Cut wood.”

“Did you fish there as a kid?” I asked.

“My summers, I spent a lot of summers up there, helping Grandpa with hay and stuff,” he answered.

Mike Smithson turned his tall frame around in his chair ahead of us and looked at Kent with a smile that said, “Exciting interview, huh?” Gary Gaetti walked out of the clubhouse. “How’d you do in the fishing thing?” he asked.

“Schara beat me two to one,” Kent answered.

“Two to one?” Gaetti asked in mock disbelief.

I stood there, a mere mortal among giants and heroes. I tried to think of another dumb question that had something to do with Willow River and fishing. My mind drew a blank.

“Well, thanks a lot, Kent,” I said.

“Sure,” he answered.

My brother and I walked back upstairs, through the press box to our seats. “I saw you talking with Hrbek,” he said. “Did you have a good interview?”

“Yeah, real good,” I said, and smiled. Then we settled into our seats and watched the Twins win another one.

A little interview with the Big Guy, Kent Hrbek ~ August 1, 1985

David Heiller

I went to a Minnesota Twins game last week, with the help of the power of the press, which got me and photographer David Landwehr into the press gate for free. My goal was twofold: 1. Get an interview with local-boy-made-good Kent Hrbek. 2. Enjoy the game.

David wrote: "Ace Reporter met Ace Baseball Star 
for a brief interview at the Dome last week. 
Mr. Reporter wanted to ask Mr. Baseball Star some 
Willow River-type questions, but infield practice got in the way."

One out of two wasn’t bad. Interviewing Kent Hrbek didn’t go so well. Dave and I got onto the field at 6:40 p.m. after showing our press passes to three ushers and two policemen in the press box and bowels of the Metrodome. We walked over to the Twins’ dugout. Some of the players were tossing the ball in front of the dugout, others were just standing around talking, waiting to take their infield practice. I recognized some of the players, but couldn’t see Kent. A big guy with short, dark hair came out of the clubhouse, walking past me.

“Kent,” I said in a loud voice.

He turned to me. It was Dave Engle. “Nope, not me. Try the clubhouse.”

I figured Kent would be coming out any second, so I waited, trying to build up my confidence after Blunder Number One. “There^’s Kirby Puckett,” I said to Dave, trying to remind myself that I was an avid Twins fan. “And that’s Roy Smalley, Ron Washington, he’s that short guy next to Puckett.”

I glanced at the bench in the dugout. Hrbek had snuck out of the clubhouse and slouched there, next to John Butcher and Gary Gaetti.

“Hey, Kent,” I said in a loud voice, walking up to him. He was sprawled on the bench, trying to relax.

Our conversation went something like this: “Kent, I’m Dave Heiller. I work for the Askov American would you mind if I asked you a few questions.” I said it so fast, there were no pauses in the sentence.

Kent rolled his eyes at Gaetti, then up at me. I could tell he didn’t subscribe to the Askov American. He spit on the floor of the dugout.

“No, not now, I don’t have time right now.” His voice was rough, like a Kennedy transmission that hadn’t been repaired.

“This will just take a couple minutes,” I persisted.

Kent spit again, a white glob. No tobacco chewing for our hero. “No, I got infield practice in a second.”

He was looking at the field.

“I cover the Willow River area quite a bit in the American,” I kept on. “In fact, I did a story on your grandma last year.” (Mrs. Evelyn Kiminski, rural Rutledge was featured in the September 13, 1984 American. Kent’s mother, Tina (Kiminski) and his father, Ed, also grew up in Willow River.)

Kent’s eyes lift off the field, looked at me again. Was there a flicker of recognition, of friendliness? “Oh yeah.” He spit. “My grandma.” “Come on Kent, let’s throw the ball around,” Gaetti said from the end of the bench. The tone of his voice said, “Let’s clear out from this Podunk reporter.”

Kent stood up. “I’ll talk to you after infield practice,” he said.

Dave and I relaxed on the bench, sitting next to John Butcher. He stuck his hand out, introduced himself. Tony Oliva took a seat next to him, nodded and waved at us. This big-league reporting was all right. “Well, we’ll talk to Kent in a minute,” I said confidently to Dave.

Then a large guy dressed in street clothes approached us. “Sorry, you guys have to leave the dugout,” he said.

“No, we’re waiting for Kent,” I said. “He said we could talk to him after infield.”

“Sorry, rules say all press leaves after infield practice starts.” He stood over us, looking more like a football player than a baseball player.

We stood up and left the dugout, walking past manager Ray Miller. He looked at us like, “Boy, Kent sure snuck one by you guys.”

We went back upstairs, through a door by_, the Tiger dugout, past the two policemen and three ushers in red jackets As we left the pressbox, an older usher pulled me aside. He was dressed in a red blazer, with a name tag: Charlie Crepeau.

“You’re from Askov,” he said, pointing to my press card. “Is Hjalmar Petersen still alive?”

I looked at him in amazement. “No, he died about 20 years ago.”

“I used to work in the printing plate business,” he explained. “I knew Hjalmar quite well. In fact, I lived in Finlayson for a while, from 1920 to 1927. I wonder if anyone in Finlayson still remembers me?” I told him I’d ask.

The game began, and we enjoyed it from the fifth row above the Twins’ dugout. The Twins lost 7-2, but how can two country hicks not enjoy a trip to the Dome? So goal number two was met.

Next time though, I think I’ll do a story on Mr. Crepeau, and leave the Big Guy to the Big Time.