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.